Midnight Pleasures (28 page)

“I don’t know where he is,” Sophie said. Then she braced her shoulders. “I suppose he might be spending the evening with his mistress.”

“Pooh!” Charlotte retorted. “He hasn’t a mistress, and you’re a nitwit if you think Patrick has eyes for anyone but you.”

“We quarreled over Braddon,” Sophie said.

“Braddon!” Whatever Charlotte had expected, it wasn’t that. “What on earth is there to quarrel
about
?”

“Braddon invited me for a drive and Patrick refused to allow me to go.”

“Goodness,” Charlotte replied faintly. “He must be jealous. How very odd.” She met Sophie’s eyes and a smile irresistibly grew between them. “Jealous of Braddon! Goodness, how
absurd
men are! Well, it’s not as if you have the inclination to spend much time with Braddon.” She giggled. “Oh yes, Braddon the gay lothario, stealing Patrick’s beautiful new wife!

“If jealousy is making Patrick quarrelsome,” Charlotte added, “avoiding Braddon should do the trick.”

Since Sophie had promised Braddon to tell no one about her plan to teach Madeleine the rigors of ladyhood, all she could do was nod in agreement to Charlotte’s undoubtedly sage advice.

Back home, Clemens took Sophie’s pelisse and asked whether she would like some refreshment. As she declined, he handed her the note she had left for Patrick. “Given that his lordship has not returned,” Clemens intoned, bowing as his mistress climbed the stairs.

Sophie looked at the delicate clock in her chamber. It was eleven-thirty at night. She had stayed at Charlotte’s house until the last possible moment, hoping against hope that Patrick would arrive home before she did.

Well, Sophie thought, unpinning her bonnet and tossing it onto a chair, Mama and Papa’s marital bliss survived precisely two months, but we are rather less successful. She counted on her fingers. My husband has vacated my bed in a mere seven weeks … obviously, my charms are eclipsed by my mama’s. All those verses about the “heavenly fair” Eloise must have been true.

Or perhaps, Sophie thought bitterly, Papa thought he was in love when they got married and only found out later that he had married for lust. Whereas my clearheaded husband never considered love as a reason for marriage.

Sophie finally went to bed at one o’clock, but she didn’t sleep. Neither did she cry. She lay, dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling above her bed and straining her ears to hear a noise in the adjoining chamber. But none came. At six o’clock she heard Patrick’s man, Keating, enter the room and open the drapes. Perhaps Keating will think he slept in this room, Sophie thought drearily. It hardly matters.

At eight o’clock in the morning, Sophie finally heard brisk boots walking into the chamber next door and a jovial voice said, “Lord yes, man. Look at my face! I need a shave and a bath.” She heard the rustle and thud of clothing being removed.

Sophie felt as if someone had placed a huge boulder on her chest. But still she didn’t cry. At last the sounds of splashing next door quieted. When her own door opened again, Sophie waved out her maid and finally went to sleep.

Patrick wandered around the house all morning waiting for Sophie to rise, until he realized that she must be keeping to her room in order to avoid seeing him. He summoned Simone and cast a gimlet eye on her when she insisted that her mistress was, indeed, asleep. At three in the afternoon he finally lost patience when Braddon appeared on the doorstep.

“ ‘Lo, Patrick,” Braddon said cheerily. “Where’s your wife? I’m here to take her for a drive.”

“She isn’t up yet,” Patrick drawled.

Sophie had, in fact, just emerged from her room, but she paused at the top of the stairs when she heard Patrick’s voice.

“Didn’t you go out for a drive with Sophie yesterday?”

“That’s it,” Braddon said. “Takin’ her out again today, too. So, how is married life?” Braddon was in a mood akin to bliss. Madeleine was going to be his wife and all was right with the world.

Patrick glanced at him, and spoke with icy carelessness. “If I had to be leg-shackled, it’s not bad.”

“Leg-shackled!”

For a man who was trying to seduce his wife from under his own nose, Patrick thought, Braddon had no right to look so shocked.

“You’re married to one of the most beautiful women in the
ton
, probably the most beautiful, and you call it leg-shackled?”

“Could be worse,” Patrick said laconically. “Given her lack of siblings, likely I won’t have a lot of brats underfoot.”

Sophie felt as if each word were an arrow burning its way into her chest.

“That’s a bit raw, isn’t it, old fellow?” Braddon began patting his pockets, looking for his snuff case. “I say, Patrick, have you tried my new mixture? It has rose hips in it … somewhere here.”

Patrick spoke through his clenched teeth. “I don’t like essence of roses in snuff,” he said.

Braddon comfortably helped himself. “Do you suppose Sophie will be much longer? My horses are standing in the street.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Patrick replied.

Braddon cocked an eyebrow at him. “I must say, Patrick, you don’t sound like a merry bridegroom.”

“I’m merry. I’m merry.” Patrick felt indescribably drained. He had worked in the warehouse half the night, and then had come home only to fall asleep in his own library, clutching a brandy.

“Are you still planning to set up your mistress in a house in Mayfair?” Patrick asked casually.

“No,” Braddon replied. “As a matter of fact, we went our separate ways.” He avoided looking at Patrick, who had a discomfitting way of knowing when Braddon was fibbing.

Patrick raised a sardonic eyebrow at Braddon’s downcast face. Ashamed, was he? Damn well should be, given that he had apparently ditched his mistress in order to set up Sophie in her place.

Both men turned around as Sophie, exquisitely groomed and wearing a shimmering pale rose gown, walked down the stairs. Her eyes surveyed her husband with perfect friendliness.

“I hope you are having a good day.”

Try as he might, Patrick could sense no bite in Sophie’s mild words.

She took Braddon’s outstretched arm and gave her husband a charming smile. “Perhaps I shall see you later?”

Patrick shook his head, not because he had plans to eat elsewhere, but just to see whether he could shake her calm. Apparently not.

“I’ll wish you good night, in that case,” Sophie said pleasantly. She and Braddon walked out the door.

“Damme,” Patrick said. He turned and walked back into the library, where he had spent the night.

Sophie swallowed hard as she climbed into Braddon’s carriage, biting back the wish to retreat to her bedchamber. But, in fact, the afternoon turned out to be a delight. When Sophie considered whether or not to grant Braddon’s request, she didn’t give a second thought to the woman he had fallen in love with. A horse trainer’s daughter? Impossible. But Madeleine was wonderful: French, practical, and very funny.

She and Sophie found themselves in gales of laughter, discussing the intricacies of proper behavior. Aspects of manners that Sophie had simply taken for granted, Madeleine found ridiculous.

“But
why
must I fib if someone spills his soup on me?”

“Because you must,” Sophie said lamely. “Perhaps one day a drunken duchess will splatter meat juice all over your face. It happens; I’ve seen it. Even as you wipe your face, you must deny that the accident happened.”

“Poppycock!” Madeleine had a laugh that burst out of her like small fireworks.

Teaching her to be a lady wasn’t going to be as difficult as Charlotte had thought. Madeleine had an innate, natural grace that simplified their lessons. Sophie taught her a court curtsy,
la révérence en arrière
. By the end of the afternoon, Madeleine had it to perfection. She sank back with exquisite grace, her back foot sliding on the toes so that only her heels touched.

Sophie’s mouth fell open. “It took me weeks of practice to achieve that, Madeleine!”

Madeleine grinned. “I shall curtsy to each horse in the morning.” And they turned to the art of formal introduction.

Chapter 18

I
could do it,” Mole urged. “Be the work of a moment, it would. The boy is around the stables at all hours.” Monsieur Foucault said nothing, and Mole couldn’t tell whether or not he appreciated this fine opportunity.

“I’m telling you, sir, the lad is in the palm of me hand. I told him I know of a horse that can count to five. I’ll get him to meet me outside the house, and toss him in a carriage, and there we are!”

Monsieur Foucault raised his eyebrows. “
Where
are we?”

“Well, we’d have the young lad of the house,” Mole blustered, with the uneasy feeling that sand was draining away under his feet.

“If by ‘lad’ you are implying that young Henri is Foakes’s son,” Foucault said languidly, “he is not. The boy is a French guttersnipe, picked up Lord knows where.”

“But they like the boy, don’t they? News is that he’s having a tutor next week, and he told me himself that he’s being sent off to one of them fancy schools in the spring. We’d need to move fast, but I’ve got him in me palm,” Mole repeated. “An’ if they like him enough to hire him a tutor, then they’ll pay a pretty ransom for him. I’m thinking he’s a by-blow of Foakes’s, that’s what.”

“But we don’t need a ransom,” Foucault said, the first signs of irritation appearing in his face. “Did you learn nothing of importance while you were entertaining all and sundry in the stables?”

“They’re at the outs,” Mole said promptly. “The honeymoon is over, they say. He’s off every night, staying in his offices till all hours, never comes to her room at all, and she goes driving all the time with a great swell. They’re telling, in the stables, how she wanted to marry this swell but then something happened and she gave him the mitten.”

“Interesting but not useful,” Foucault murmured. “Has François visited your humble abode, my dear Mole?” And, at his nod, “In that case, I shall request the pleasure of your company on Tuesday fortnight. We shall call on Patrick Foakes. You will be one Bayrak Mustafa, and I fancy that you speak no English. Will that be quite acceptable?”

And without waiting for a response, Monsieur Foucault rubbed a fleck of dust off his knee-high boots and strolled from the room.

Patrick stretched out his legs in the back of his box at Drury Lane and looked at his wife, who was sitting at the front of the box. If Lady Sophie York, the beautiful daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg, had been a social success, Lady Sophie Foakes, the delectable wife of the Honorable Patrick Foakes, was clearly going to be a leader of the
ton
. At the moment Sophie was surrounded by gentlemen. Marriageable girls were all very well in their own way, but young matrons acquired a group of admirers who were afraid of being pushed into wedlock if they paid special attention to a young girl, and who delighted in witticisms considered too bold for the ears of maidens.

Patrick curled his lip as Sophie’s chuckling laughter erupted again. Her admirers bent toward her like willow trees in a storm. Trying to see down her gown, he thought sourly. Sophie was wearing an opera dress of deep gold, dipping low over her breasts.

“Isn’t that dress rather formal for the theater?” Patrick had asked when she appeared in the foyer of their house, smoothing elbow-high gloves.

Sophie had looked at him flirtatiously from under her lashes. “I like overdressing at times. It makes people think of undressing.”

Patrick couldn’t think of a response. Even glancing at the smooth, creamy expanse of her breasts, almost completely exposed in that gown, made his groin tighten. He had quickly swathed Sophie in a velvet wrap and whisked her outside, afraid that his wife might see the evidence of his lust.

What in the hell was he doing? She
was
his wife. Sophie showed no signs of being angry with him for their quarrel. But Patrick had spent the last few weeks walking the back streets of London, instead of ravishing his own wife, in his own bed, where he should be.

Patrick took a deep breath. He was sitting behind the cluster of gallants who formed Sophie’s court, but even from where he sat he could see the way her breasts formed sweet, plump curves, thrust forward by her gown. He crossed his legs. It must be almost time for the damn play,
A Christian Turned Turk
, to start again. The Christian in question was lamentably slow at turning Turk, leaving Patrick far too much time to think about Sophie’s body. At least the end of intermission would mean the clodpoles who were hanging about his wife would leave their box. Naturally Braddon was part of the group. Patrick was developing a positive hatred for his old school friend.

Sophie, in the front of the box, was aware of every restless move her husband made, although she studiously avoided looking at him. At the moment she was laughing and tapping Lucien Boch on the wrist with her fan. He was a particular favorite of hers, given that he excelled at the kind of light witticisms that didn’t seem
too
pointed.

Lucien had captured her hand. He raised it to his lips. “I find myself a slave to your eyes, fair lady.”

“God save you, then, because I won’t,” Sophie said impishly.

“No one but you can save me…. You are a goddess!”

“Then I order you to return to your own seat.”

“Alack, I cannot.” Lucien thumped his chest theatrically. “I am an apostle to your beauty, Lady Sophie. I fear for my life if I stray from the source of my bliss.”

“Fustian!” Sophie giggled. “You lie!”

“I would you did, within my bedcurtains.” Lucien laughed back.

Sophie involuntarily glanced at Patrick, who was frowning at his program. She was not yet accustomed to the level of suggestiveness common in conversation with married women. It was disconcerting to find herself embarrassed. Before she married Patrick, she had a reputation for racy language. But that was when she was a mere girl and didn’t, she realized now, have any real idea what she was talking
about
most of the time.

And, to be honest, she wasn’t concentrating on Lucien’s flirtation. Every particle of her being was focused on her husband—although Patrick seemed not even to notice the way other men looked at her with desire.

Lucien gently took her wrist in his hand. “I spoke only in jest, Lady Sophie.” His eyes met hers. “I flatter and flirt because it is the mode. But I do not wish to shock your sensibilities.”

Sophie smiled. “You are saying that you would show this kindness to any lady, are you?”

“Precisely,” Lucien confirmed. “I like you too much to offer you Spanish coin, my lady. And your blush reveals that you are still new to this kind of game.”

Sophie’s blush deepened.

Patrick happened to look up just then. He scowled. Knowing what he did about Sophie’s predilection for being seduced in French, he didn’t trust Lucien. Bloody hell, he groaned inside. If I don’t watch it, I’m going to end up like Sophie’s mother, allowing only elderly and decrepit Frenchmen in the house.

Sophie was whispering sweetly with Lucien. Just stay sensible, Patrick thought to himself. Everyone knows that Lucien is faithful to his dead wife, so he is only amusing Sophie with a flirtation.

Irritably Patrick got up and strode out of the box. Why should I sit around and watch other men make love to my wife? I am possessed, he thought, walking quickly down the theater corridor … possessed by irrationality and jealousy. For example, where did Sophie go yesterday afternoon? Braddon had picked her up at precisely two o’clock and hadn’t returned her to the house until seven o’clock, barely in time to dress for the musicale they attended together. And the same thing had happened on Friday of the week before.

Striding down the dirty alley that ran beside the Drury Lane theater, Patrick’s heart raced with anger. He felt unable to demand what his wife was doing all afternoon with her old beau.

Sophie, Patrick kept reminding himself, is like a drop of water: clear, honest, true. Her response to his lovemaking, for example, was unashamedly delighted. She had not erupted with false declarations of love, based on desire alone. Although Patrick had to admit that he didn’t particularly care for that aspect of her truthful nature.

The worst of it was that Patrick had wound himself into such a tangled inner mess that he couldn’t bring himself to enter his wife’s bedroom, couldn’t gather her into his arms … his own small, sweetly scented wife was lying alone at night.

If only Sophie showed some anger, or distress, or recognition of his absence from her bed, it would be easier to broach the subject. But she was ever pleasant, ever friendly.

“Doesn’t give a damn whether I’m in her bed or not,” Patrick mumbled to himself. He turned around to retrace his steps to the theater. It was bad enough that he was out roaming the streets of London at night or staying in his offices until the wee hours of the morning; Sophie shouldn’t sit alone in the theater while her husband walked about, looking for a calm he never seemed to find.

Patrick emerged from the heavy velvet drapes lining the back of the box to find it empty but for Sophie and Braddon. The Christian must finally have turned Turk, since there was an enthusiastic swordplay going on, and the ex-Christian was using a scimitar.

Braddon and Sophie made a good-looking couple, Patrick had to admit. Sophie’s curls were almost exactly the same color as Braddon’s. They had a comfortable air of companionship, of old friendship, that Patrick did not like.

Patrick strode forward and sat down to the right of Sophie. Braddon looked up, saw him, and rose. For a moment he loomed behind Patrick’s chair, giving him a friendly cuff on the shoulder.

“I’ll be off, then, Patrick. M’mother is waiting for me.”

Sure enough, Patrick saw the Countess of Slaslow, who was sitting in a box directly across from theirs, give her son a piercing glance.

“She’s as angry as a bear because I haven’t found a wife,” Braddon said glumly. Before Patrick remembered how much he disliked Braddon, he gave him a sympathetic grimace.

As the play continued, with much clanking of tin swords, yet another fragment of rational thought trickled into Patrick’s consciousness. Braddon never was any good at keeping secrets. If nothing else, Braddon’s utterly un-self-conscious attitude suggested that his relationship with Sophie did not include improprieties. But that realization brought Patrick no closer to understanding Sophie’s blithe attitude toward his desertion of her bed.

What the devil were Sophie and Braddon doing on their long drives, if they were not conducting an affair? Patrick’s stomach twisted. No man and woman spent that quantity of time together without … And Sophie had such a
contented
air about her.

Later that week, Patrick looked up from his shipping accounts to see his twin standing before him.

“Alex!”

If Alex was a little surprised to have his normally undemonstrative brother almost knock over the table in order to give him a hug, he said nothing.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Patrick said lamely.

Alex arched an eyebrow, a smile hovering around his mouth. “Let me guess … you’ve bollixed up your marriage, in the style of a Foakes male, and now you would like me to help you sort it out.”