Midnight Pleasures (5 page)

Braddon jumped to his feet, taking a few agitated steps. “Then why are you so angry at me? What do you care whether I set up a mistress, if you’ve never even seen Madeleine before?”

Patrick blinked. He was conscious of his brother’s interested gaze from his right. What a mess.

“I care,” he said, picking his words carefully, “how you treat Sophie York.”

“You
are
a dog in the manger!” Braddon burst out, his eyes bulging a little with anger. “I know you didn’t offer for her! I heard all about you groping Sophie in an empty room, and then you didn’t think she was good enough for you! Well, I don’t have your standards, Patrick Foakes. Sophie’s good enough for me.”

Even Braddon’s foolish long face could gain a bit of dignity in a pinch, Alex thought cheerfully, crossing his legs.

Patrick came to his feet in an instant. “You blithering idiot!” he shouted back. “I offered for her, you ass. I offered for her!”

There was a moment of silence. Braddon blinked at him, biting his lower lip. Which only increased his likeness to a bulldog, in Alex’s uncharitable opinion.

“You offered for her?
You?
And she wouldn’t have you?”

Patrick grinned suddenly. Who could stay angry with a dunderhead like Braddon? He sat down again.

“That’s right. I marched up to the front door the next morning at ten o’clock, only slightly fortified with brandy. Got the question out pat with her father. But it didn’t fly with her.”

Patrick felt a curious rush of protectiveness, remembering Sophie’s large uncertain eyes. She hadn’t expected him to come, that was clear. Which didn’t say much for his reputation. But there he was declaring his intentions. And she’d said no. He didn’t really want to discuss why she refused him.

“I can’t believe it,” Braddon said in a numbed voice. “I—I, Braddon Chatwin, took a woman from one of the Foakeses? I mean, I don’t count Arabella. Remember!” he said, rounding on Alex, who was grinning away in his armchair. “Remember when you came back from Italy and I told you about the most beautiful woman in London, the one I wanted to marry, and damned if two weeks later you weren’t engaged to her?”

Alex laughed. “My wife,” he said, bowing his head ironically. “I owe it all to you, Braddon.”

“Sophie York turned you down and accepted me?” Braddon asked Patrick.

Patrick rolled his eyes. For a minute he thought his friend was going to cut a caper.

Alex came to his feet. “Gentlemen, I regret to say that, fascinating though this conversation is, I must go home.”

Patrick looked up at him. “Henpecked?” he asked.

His twin smiled at him unashamedly. “Charlotte worries if I’m out too late. Sarah is still occasionally waking up to nurse at night—”

“Ugh!” Braddon broke in. “I can’t fathom why you have allowed your wife to nurse the child herself, Alex. It’s disgusting.” His lower lip jutted out, a sure sign of deep thought. “I shan’t allow Madeleine to do anything of the sort, I warrant you. A good wet nurse, that’s the ticket. I won’t have Madeleine turn herself into a milk cow.”

“I shall ignore the implication that my wife is a cow,” Alex murmured. His eyes met Patrick’s. “Will I see you at dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course he’s coming,” Braddon broke in. “He’s my best man, isn’t he? He has to come to the engagement dinner!”

Patrick rolled his shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I? I want to see those little calves of yours, brother.”

“Ugh,” Braddon repeated, with emphasis. Then he looked alarmed. “You don’t suppose that Sophie will pick up this nursing business from your wife, do you, Alex? Because I won’t have it. Not in my house. It’s disgusting.”

Alex looked at his twin warningly.

Anger was burning a hole in Patrick’s backbone. But he took silent note of Alex’s unspoken opinion. Sophie York, and the way Braddon talked about Sophie York, was not his business.

“Well.” Braddon pulled down his embroidered waistcoat cheerfully. “Would you like to go around and say hello to Arabella, Patrick? You know she’s appearing at the Duke’s Theater in Dorset Garden these days, and I’m sure she’d like to see you. She’s playing Juliet, a pretty good role for her, eh? Although Bella’s no Juliet to die for love. Do you know that when I broke off our attachment she wrote me a note, as cool as you please, saying that I was her life and joy, or some such nonsense, and since my passion for her had decayed, she felt the need for security—and the upshot of it all is that she wants me to give her a house. Vixen.”

Patrick was striding ahead of him, out of the ballroom. “And are you?” he tossed over his shoulder.

There was a pause. Patrick threw Braddon an amused glance. “You’re an easy target, aren’t you?” He fell back a pace and walked next to his friend. “You tell me when she’s found a house and I’ll plunk down the blunt for half,” he said as their boots clattered through the empty marble halls. Viscount and Viscountess Dewland had long ago retired to bed and only a weary-eyed butler bade them good night.

“I can sport the blunt,” Braddon said, his tone defensive.

“Well, I can buy and sell you,” Patrick drawled, “and I’d like to contribute to Arabella’s house.”

Braddon looked at him, his light blue eyes unenvious but curious. “So did you really come back from India as rich as a nabob, then?”

Patrick shrugged, tossing his hair back from his eyes. “M’father sent me out East by myself, you know. Not much fun raising hell without Alex. It seemed to come naturally.”

And it had. His mercurial, mocking nature took infinite pleasure in the delicate rhythms of Indian negotiation and export.

Designing trade routes, finding rare spices, loading the holds of ships with delicate gold bird cages, rippling silk so delicate that it tore at the touch of a fingernail, and casks of peacock feathers, pleased him. He took great risks and received greater rewards. At the moment, his fortune was to be rivaled in England only, perhaps, by those of his brother and a few others. Those London gentlemen like Braddon who limited their financial ambition to training a horse for the next Ascot were a dying breed.

Alex stepped into his carriage with a wave. Patrick shrugged off Braddon’s plan to visit the back door of the Duke’s Theater and then, in a sudden decision, waved off his own coachman as well. He stood in the deserted street, watching his well-slung carriage disappear around a corner.

A light rain had begun to fall. London was ripe with the smell of settling dust and horse manure. Patrick settled his cloak and started down the street, his legs eating up the pavement. As he walked, tension uncurled from his leg muscles and his stomach lost a knot he hadn’t been aware of. His scalp eased.

Patrick had walked the hot breathless alleys of Whampao Reach, Canton, strolled under the delicate arches of Baghdad, tramped the byways of mountain villages in Tibet. It was when he was ambling along a small back street in Lhasa that he’d heard a chorus of avadavats singing: the small black and red songbirds that he had later exported to England, and that had become the rage in London.

He wasn’t much of a sleeper at the best of times. It was while walking that ideas floated into his mind, unbeckoned. But now Patrick brooded rather than thought. Even the memory of the sweet curves of Sophie York’s breasts—exposed to the whole world in that ridiculous gown she was wearing!—made his loins tighten. And so he strode on, telling himself to cut Sophie from his mind.

For God’s sake, he had had a mistress in Arabia, what was her name? Perliss. Until a pasha took a liking to Perliss, and she to him, and within a few hours his mistress became an honored wife, the twenty-fourth, or was it twenty-fifth? He hadn’t turned a hair, although he missed Perliss’s undoubted skills and graceful long legs for a few days.

But now! He’d kissed the chit only a few times, for God’s sake. Held Sophie in his arms once before kissing her, but that was when his sister-in-law was almost dying in the next room. Even then he’d been conscious of what he held, although he knew that Sophie had no awareness of him whatsoever. She was grieving for Charlotte’s death. Except that Charlotte, of course, hadn’t died.

Patrick had bided his time. Sophie returned to her family the day after Charlotte’s child was safely born. Patrick was no stranger to the hunt. He deliberately didn’t follow her. Instead, he waited until the gentry began returning to London, in late November.

But then, when he had awakened her, turned a sleeping beauty into a flushed, silently begging woman who had pressed herself into his arms, she had turned him down. Not that he really wanted to marry, of course, but given the circumstances …

Weeks had passed since his proposal of marriage. He’d hadn’t been with a woman since and he hadn’t stopped thinking about Sophie’s body. Obviously it was frustration. Simple sexual frustration, and if he had any brains he’d walk himself over to the Duke’s Theater and see if Arabella would take him to her bed for old times’ sake.

But his feet didn’t listen. They headed home, ignoring the tigerish frustration that pulsed up and down his muscled limbs. He’d be damned if he’d let Sophie marry Braddon. Patrick’s eyes narrowed as an image flashed across his mind, unbidden: Braddon punctiliously removing his embroidered waistcoat and preparing to do his duty—but only until he got an heir.

What was Sophie supposed to do after Braddon had his heir? Become one of those shallow, bored society matrons who took on lovers from the
ton
or, worse, slept with their gardeners?

Patrick found himself in front of his house. The walk hadn’t done its magic tonight. His heart was pounding and his hands were clenched.

The engagement party. He slowly climbed the stairs, his grateful butler almost running toward the servants’ quarters and his own bed. Patrick walked into his bedroom unseeingly, dismissing his sleepy-eyed valet with a wave.

The dinner that Charlotte was giving for Sophie.

I’ll talk to her, Patrick thought. Talk, my ass! His thumbs itched to rub themselves over the tender arch of her nipples. He longed to pull Sophie against his hard body, an intoxicating encounter of muscle and yielding softness, bumps and curves that were made to be linked together.

I’ll talk to her, Patrick decided. I’ll talk to her, that’s all.

Lord Breksby went to his bed that night in a glow of self-satisfaction. He lay back, hands tucked behind his head, which was trimly covered in a nightcap.

“I tell you, m’dear,” he told his sleepy wife, “sometimes I fancy myself a genius. I really do.”

Lady Breksby had no complaints with that assessment—in fact, she merely grunted—so after a moment Lord Breksby composed himself for sleep.

He dreamed of ruby scepters; she dreamed of roses.

Patrick dreamed that he was dancing with Sophie York while wearing a huge insignia proclaiming that he was a Duke of the Realm. Lady Sophie dreamed that she was kissing her future husband, Braddon Chatwin, when he suddenly turned into a lop-eared rabbit and hopped away, somewhat to her relief.

Only Alex had no dreams that night. Baby Sarah was teething and cried half the night. “We should be glad that she has sound lungs,” his wife observed sleepily at three in the morning. Alex merely sighed and turned to walk back to the nursery. If the Earl of Sheffield and Downes daydreamed of sailing to the Ottoman Empire with his brother, far from the damp and wailing child in his arms, who would blame him?

Chapter 5

B
y the time Sophie had been bathed, gowned, coiffured, and placed in a carriage tooling its way to her engagement dinner, she was feeling a burst of happiness. She was alone. The carriage would drop her at Sheffield House an hour early so that she could visit with Charlotte. She leaned back comfortably on the salmon-pink velvet.

Her mother, the marchioness, invariably sat forward, her back stiffened as if by a steel rod, her gloved hand clenched on a wall strap. Whereas, Sophie decided, my back naturally curves into seats.

She felt recklessly sensual, the prickling call of nerve points making her heart dance, reminding her that the source of this giddy happiness was the slim, paltry, ridiculous fact that Patrick Foakes would be at the dinner party. She would see him and perhaps, if there was informal dancing afterward…. She rather fancied there would be. Then he might, would, hold her in his arms. After all, Charlotte loved to dance. And Charlotte was more than a little interested in Sophie and Patrick’s future. Not that I have a future with Patrick Foakes, Sophie quickly reminded herself.

The carriage rattled on. It clattered over rounded paving stones and swung around a corner altogether too fast. Sophie had to make a quick grab for the strap, and even so she was thrown against the padded wall. It was the pity of being so small. She couldn’t brace herself against the corner the way men could. André was driving too fast again. He thought of himself as a cross between a coachman and a courtier, and he had even adapted the trick of a Corinthian: He caught his whip as it coiled back through the air.

The horses trotted on and the carriage resumed its normal creaking rattle and sway. Sophie stuck out a foot in front of her, thoughtfully regarding her slipper. She was wearing a gown the color of bronzed gold—which was the closest she ever came to white. She
never
wore white. White was her mother’s preference. White was the preference of virtually every other unmarried girl in London. White, for innocence, engagements, and virginity. Sophie dropped her foot in exasperation.

Gold was not innocent. What was the name of the play she’d seen last week?
Eros Undoubted
? That didn’t sound right.
Cupid Defeated
? No, it wasn’t Cupid, it was Eros. Cupid was the god of love, but Eros was the god of desire. At any rate, Eros had been wearing a little toga of pale gold as he trotted around the stage shooting people with his gilt arrows. The play itself was terrible, one of those tragedies in which a pious young woman fell in love with a scoundrel (thanks to Eros). In the end she threw herself—in a remarkably unconvincing manner, to Sophie’s mind—off a bridge.

That’s what I need, Sophie thought. One little god in a toga to match my gown, and could he please plant a big fat arrow in Patrick Foakes’s back? Although now that she thought of it, Eros had done just that to the scoundrel in the play—and then the man had blithely left the heroine with a small child.

A secret smile tipped the corners of Sophie’s red lips. She had little fear that Patrick lacked
desire
for her. She could read it in the way his eyes darkened when he saw her. So what she needed was not Eros but Cupid…. That’s right. Cupid, wearing a pure white virginal nightshirt, to shoot Patrick Foakes with one of
his
arrows. Because if there was one certainty in life, it was that rakes never fall in love, especially with their wives, and if they do, it isn’t for long.

The thought calmed Sophie. She took a deep breath. The dream that Patrick Foakes might fall in love with her was just that, a dream. Whatever he wanted from her, it wasn’t marriage. Yes, she would see him tonight. But it was a dinner celebrating her engagement to another man.

Still … her heart danced. Even the hair falling down her back, spilling in precisely ordered curls, felt airy, silky, about to be touched.

The carriage jolted sharply as André drew up the horses before Sheffield House. The team reared into the air in tandem, settling back to earth with an irritable jangle of their harnesses and a petulant stamping of feet.

“Best not let his lordship see that trick with the hoasses, Andy,” one of the footmen called saucily. He hopped down from his perch and nipped around to open the door. Everyone knew that the young lady wouldn’t never complain about the rough ride, but Lord a’mercy, the markessa, or whatever her title was, she could give a rare trimming when she put her mind to it.

If the truth be told, Sophie was feeling slightly battered. First her shoulder had crashed into the corner of the coach, and then when the coach finally stopped she had been propelled sharply forward and landed on her knees in the center well between the seats.

“Philippe,” she said, accepting her footman’s assistance stepping out of the coach, “would you tell André that I feel like a tub of cream which Cook is determined to churn into butter?”

Philippe ducked his head to hide a grin. “Yes, my lady, I will convey the message,” he said, his voice half muffled by his high cravat.

Sophie ran lightly up the marble steps to Sheffield House and paused to smile at the portly butler who stood with the door opened.

“How are you, McDougal?”

“Ach, Lady Sophie, it’s beautiful that you look tonight,” McDougal said, pushing the door backward as he spoke. Sophie handed him her velvet pelisse.

When she crooked an eyebrow at him inquiringly, McDougal winked. “You’ll find the countess in her rooms.”

As Sophie disappeared around the curve of the great marble staircase that led to the upper regions of Sheffield House, McDougal smiled to himself. That was a bonny lass, Lady Sophie. Small as a bonnet bee, she was, and light as a fairy, but her smile—it could warm the moon, it could.

When Sophie entered the master suite, Charlotte swung about from a stool before her dressing table, her face lighting up.

“Sophie! How lovely to see you early.”

“No, don’t stand up, sweetheart.” Sophie nimbly bent to kiss Charlotte’s cheek. “I see that Marie is planning something very complicated.” Charlotte’s maid was combing her mistress’s hair, preparatory to fashioning an elaborate nest of braids, satin ribbons, and flowers.

“
Bonsoir
, Marie.”

“
Mon dieu!
“ Marie squeaked in response. “Look at that gown!”

Sophie looked down obediently. Sure enough, the front of her dress was creased where she had fallen on the carriage floor.

Marie darted across the room and yanked on the bellpull. “I’ll have someone come up immediately, Lady Sophie, and attend to it. Please, slip out of the gown. Here”—she snatched up a flowing peignoir—“you might wear this until your dress is pressed.”

Sophie obediently bent down as Marie eased the delicate silk over her head. Then she sat on the bed.

“Don’t forget that I dampen my chemise, Marie,” she said mischievously.

“
Mais oui
, my lady,
naturellement
,” Marie breathed, gently handing Sophie’s gown to the curtsying maid who had appeared at the door. Sophie wrapped the peignoir around herself, pushing up the sleeves.

“How are the girls, Charlotte?”

“They’re very well, except that Pippa has taken to ordering everyone to do her bidding. She’s a tiny despot.”

“She always had that potential.” Sophie laughed. “Remember how she used to drive nannies out of the house, one after another—and then she was only a year old! Now she’s what? Two or three? Wait until she’s sixteen!”

“True enough,” Charlotte admitted ruefully.

“Look at this, Charlotte. You’re a veritable giant compared to me!” The slippery lace of the peignoir’s arms wouldn’t stay up and cascaded past Sophie’s hands.

Charlotte grimaced at Sophie, looking at her in the mirror. “In truth, I feel like a giant when I walk next to you.”

“Pooh! You look like a princess and I look like your page,” Sophie said impudently. Her smoky blue eyes were shining with amusement.

“Hurrah!” Charlotte exclaimed. “You’re back!”

Sophie knit her brows. “What on earth do you mean?”

“You look happy again,” Charlotte said. “You’ve had a fragile look the past few weeks….”

“Like a moth singed by the candle?”

“That’s not the analogy I would have chosen,” Charlotte replied. “Like a person who has made a difficult decision and wonders if she made the right one.”

“You’re blunt,” said Sophie, meeting Charlotte’s eyes again in the mirror.

Charlotte twisted about on the stool, heedless of Marie’s muttered reproach as she dropped hairpins on the floor.

“Are you
sure
, Sophie? Absolutely sure?”

Sophie nodded, her eyes meeting Charlotte’s without flinching.

“Because …” Charlotte’s voice trailed off. “Well, Braddon is a nice person, of course, but he’s not very—”

“Handsome? Interesting? Intelligent?” Sophie suggested, her mouth twisting wryly.

“How can you marry him!” Charlotte flashed back. “Can’t you see how much better it is to marry someone handsome and intelligent?”

“I don’t want to marry your brother-in-law, Charlotte,” Sophie said patiently. “You have to allow me to know what’s best for myself. I don’t want to marry a rake.”

“But Braddon
is
a rake,” Charlotte insisted. “Why, I distinctly remember you telling me that Braddon had more mistresses depending on him than a lawyer has cases!”

A flash of amusement lighted Sophie’s eyes. “The point is not that Braddon is or isn’t a rake, it’s that I
like
Braddon. He’s trustworthy. He doesn’t have deep emotions, and he will be very discreet with his mistresses. He assured me of it himself.”

“You mean you have discussed his mistresses?” Charlotte was horrified and fascinated, both at once.

“He brought it up. I have to admit, I was a little surprised myself.” Sophie tried hard to keep any doubt out of her voice. “That’s the kind of marriage we’re going to have, Charlotte: a calm, reasoned, and friendly alliance. I want a placid marriage. You did not want that particular kind of relationship, and so you and Alex are happy together. But I want the kind of marriage where neither person is blinded by passion. Remember how Alex behaved toward you?” Sophie hesitated and then plunged on. “When you had to travel to Scotland?”

“You don’t have to be so delicate,” Charlotte said wryly. “Alex behaved like a royal devil, that’s true. But we worked it out, and now—” She looked at herself in the mirror. Half of her hair still spilled over her ears and the other half garlanded her head. Marie’s hands were busy plaiting a crimson ribbon into her hair, preparing to tuck the braid in among the rest. Even the thought of her husband stained her cheeks a faint echo of the ribbon.

“I know what you mean.” Sophie’s voice was somewhere between dispassion and despair. “But the
grand amour
is not going to work for me, Charlotte. I know that you wish for me to find the same happiness that you have. But we all find happiness in different ways. For me, the anxiety of marrying a man whom I loved so passionately, the way you care for Alex, could never be worth it.
Your
parents are happy; mine are not.”

Ignoring Charlotte’s open mouth, she rushed on: “I certainly don’t mean to pry into the circumstances of your parents’ marriage. My point was only that the circumstances of
my
parents’ marriage are known far and wide. It’s a rare month when my father doesn’t surface in
The Morning Post
under some pseudonym or other. My mother won’t hire a Frenchwoman under the age of seventy; it means we’ve likely pensioned off more servants than your mother has hired in her entire married life!”

Charlotte sighed. Sophie’s logic was impeccable. It was just that she was talking nonsense.

“I don’t see what your parents have to do with whether you marry Braddon or Patrick.”

“I like Braddon,” Sophie insisted. “I will never fall passionately in love with him, and therefore I won’t become bitter, as my mother has, if Braddon takes more notice of his mistresses than of me. With Patrick … it’s different.”

“You know that Patrick is coming tonight?”

Sophie’s head swung up. She had been restlessly watching her pale gold slipper swing back and forth, hitting the tasseled edge of Charlotte’s counterpane.

“Yes.”

In the secret depths of Sophie’s eyes Charlotte saw an aching confusion, a languorous question that made an answering smile curl the corners of her mouth. Perhaps all Sophie’s rhetoric wouldn’t matter—much. Perhaps, if she found some way to throw Sophie and Patrick together tonight …

There was a brisk knock at the door and a maid half ran into the room, carrying Sophie’s gold dress draped across her outstretched arms as if it were an altar cloth being offered to a pagan deity.

“My lady,” she stammered, curtsying while holding her arms stiffly outstretched.

“My goodness, Bess,” Marie said, scolding her with the freedom of a valued member of the household—more than a valued member, one who ranked only just below the earl’s own manservant, and he only just below the butler. “You will have to learn to be more graceful if you ever want to become a lady’s maid. Go along downstairs, do.”