Midnight Pleasures (6 page)

Bess tripped on the way out but managed to close the door.

“Now, Lady Sophie.”

As Marie approached, Sophie stood up. First Marie briskly dampened Sophie’s all-but-invisible chemise, making the fine lawn cling to her legs. Then she threw the gown up over Sophie’s head, carefully protecting her hair.

The dress rustled sweetly over Sophie’s shoulders, smelling of orange blossoms and, faintly, a hot iron. As it fell down to her feet the silk twisted in the breeze of its own fall, barely glazing her limbs.

“There,” Marie said with satisfaction, after hooking up the back of Sophie’s gown. “If you would give me a minute while I pin up the last of my lady’s braids, I will refurbish your curls.”

“That is a lovely gown,” Charlotte said to Sophie, as Marie nimbly pinned up a few stray curls.

“Thank you,” Sophie replied. “I had it sent from Madame Carême.”

Marie ruthlessly stuck a few extra pins in the coils of Charlotte’s hair, and Charlotte rose, feeling awkwardly top-heavy. She crossed the room to stand before Marie, who had clambered onto a stool and was waiting to slip a crimson evening gown over her head. One of the disadvantages of being so tall was that her lady’s maid had to stand on a stool to put on a dress, or to undo buttons for that matter.

There was a light knock on the door. Marie rushed over and then shut the door smartly in the speaker’s face.

“That was Keating, my lady. The Heppleworths have arrived.”

Charlotte held out her wrist as Marie fastened the clasp of a slim band of rubies. Sophie came over curiously.

“What a beautiful bracelet, Charlotte.” The glowing burgundy of the rubies picked up the sheen of Charlotte’s gown and set off her dark hair.

“A birthday gift from my doting husband,” Charlotte said impishly. “To celebrate our placid life.”

“More likely you threw a chamber pot at him and this was his ploy to reenter the bedroom,” Sophie teased.

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Shall we go down and excite the assembled men … all of them?”

Sophie cast a look at herself in the mirror and then deliberately pulled down her tiny bodice, arranging the dress so that the silky gold material just barely skimmed her nipples.

Charlotte chuckled. “You couldn’t possibly look more enticing, Sophie.”

“Yes, well.” Sophie’s eyes were alight with deep excitement. “I see no reason not to make everyone at the dinner party a little interested, no? I am only an engaged woman; I’m not dead!”

“Oh, Sophie! Sometimes you are
so
French!”

“I like being French in the evening,” Sophie retorted. “One can be English all day, especially when riding a horse, but then one can dress—and think—French after six o’clock.”

Charlotte thought about this a bit doubtfully as they walked down the hallway together. “How French will you be once you’re married?” Charlotte asked.

Sophie cast her friend a laughing look. “Are you trying to find out whether I will be faithful to my husband, Charlotte?”

“Yes.”

“I shall be,” Sophie replied. “Because it is too much trouble to become involved in liaisons and such. I shall flirt, naturally, and I shall take on a cicisbeo, of course. A married woman must have admirers. But no, I will not allow anyone into my bedroom. Why should I?” She gave a charming little shrug.

That shrug was purely French, Charlotte thought. But Sophie’s lack of knowledge about the delights of the bedroom was purely English. Charlotte couldn’t help smiling. If Patrick was anything like his twin, her husband, Alex, he would make sure that Sophie knew exactly what she was giving up by putting Braddon’s ring on her finger.

They walked down the marble stairs together. Charlotte moved toward the Yellow Drawing Room, where the party was assembling.

“Splendid,” Sophie whispered to Charlotte when she saw in which direction they were heading. “This room is a perfect accompaniment to my gown.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes at Sophie. The Yellow Drawing Room had curtains and upholstery of a pale amber and an elaborate Axminster carpet of a slightly darker color. Sophie was right. As she drifted into the room, the saffron-brown tones made her dress glow with a pale gold sheen.

Patrick had not yet arrived. Sophie had developed a sixth sense about him. Without even looking about she knew whether he was in a room.

Braddon bustled toward her and she paused, sweeping him a curtsy. Braddon grinned and bowed. As he straightened he automatically yanked at the bottom of his waistcoat, hauling it back down over his bulging tummy. Sophie lowered her eyes politely.

Braddon bowed again, to Charlotte, before taking Sophie’s arm importantly. This evening his future bride would be formally introduced to his family, and he had thought out the hierarchy of the whole occasion carefully.

“My mother first,” he whispered, steering Sophie toward the far end of the drawing room, “and then my sisters, and finally my godmother because she can be such an infernal nuisance, and also she is a duchess, so …”

Braddon’s family was known far and wide, and only the kindly referred to them as “difficult.” The average gentleman was more likely to label the Countess of Slaslow a hell-born virago. But Sophie had survived nearly twenty years of her own mother’s scathing comments. No amount of rudeness could shake her calm.

Braddon stopped in front of his mother, hovering slightly on the tips of his toes, as if poised to fly to the other side of the room. To Sophie’s mind, Prudence Chatwin looked surprisingly young for one with so fierce a reputation. Her face was deceptively unlined, given that she must be (Sophie calculated swiftly) at least fifty.

Sophie sank into a deep curtsy, bowing her head submissively.

The countess rose to her feet. “Lady Sophie,” she said, her voice as sweet as syrup and clear enough to carry straight across the long room. “How grateful we are to you for rescuing our poor son from the throes of bachelorhood.” She turned a dragon’s eye on Braddon, who was already quailing. “Why, do you know that more than three young ladies turned him down? What can they have been thinking of? But they were
very
young; it obviously took a more mature eye to see the shining light of dear Braddon’s virtues.”

Quite good, Sophie thought appreciatively. In one stroke she had made Braddon into a slacker and Sophie herself into an aging and desperate spinster.

“Just so,” Sophie murmured. The last thing she wanted was to cross swords with Braddon’s mother.

“And how is your dear, dear mother?” The question was accompanied by a poisonous smile.

“Mama is quite well, thank you. She will be here any moment, I am sure.”

“Poor dear,” the countess said kindly. “We all know what a burden she struggles under. Your father … Well, well, mum for that!”

Sophie ducked her head again, biting her lip.

“Must introduce you to m’sisters,” Braddon broke in. “Our excuses, ma’am.” He tried to pull Sophie hastily to the other side of the room.

But Sophie walked slowly. She needed to collect herself before meeting Braddon’s sisters.

“She can’t help it,” Braddon said dismally. “Mama just says whatever thing comes to her mind, and—”

“And everything that comes to mind is unpleasant,” Sophie finished.

“Yes,” Braddon admitted. He awkwardly patted Sophie’s arm. “Doesn’t mean she’s not glad that you’re marrying me, because she
is
. Must have told me a hundred times in the last week that she never thought I’d do half so well. It’s just that she doesn’t notice what she says, or she doesn’t know what the effect is, or something like that.

“And I haven’t been turned down by more than three ladies,” he added with some indignation. “There were only two, before you, and you accepted me.”

Sophie smiled at Braddon’s tangled speech. “My own mother is not very tolerant.” Although, she thought silently, Mama is not a patch on that old dragon!

It was when she was curtsying to the second of Braddon’s sisters that Sophie sensed Patrick’s arrival. There was a little flurry of giggles from a group of three young women standing close to the door. Sophie stiffened her back. She would not look around. She smiled pleasantly at the freckled woman before her. Margaret had obviously tried to smooth her hair into a semblance of a chignon, but it looked disheveled, wisps falling around her ears.

“Lady Sophie,” Margaret almost hissed at her, “how many children do you intend to bear to the head of our family?”

Sophie drew back, slightly alarmed.

“Ah, I’m not sure,” she said. Then she added, thinking fast, “We must leave it to God’s will.”

Margaret’s eyes kindled with approval. “Children are God’s greatest gift, Lady Sophie. And as the head of the family, the Earl of Slaslow
must
have at least five and possibly six children. One cannot be too certain.” She stood back a little. “Of course, I have seen you dancing and such, but I never considered you in this light before.” Her eyes scanned Sophie’s middle section. Sophie turned her head, looking up at her betrothed questioningly. Braddon avoided her eyes.

“Your hips look ample,” Margaret pronounced briskly. “Of course, you’ll need to begin producing children as soon as possible. Do you have any idea whether your own mother had some impediment? She seems to have produced only one child, unless you have deceased siblings?” Margaret paused expectantly.

“Not that I am aware of.”

Margaret pursed her lips. “We must hope for the best.” A fleeting frown crossed her face. “Your father’s title will become extinct when he dies, Lady Sophie. So I am sure you are aware of the importance of this question.”

“In fact, the title will pass to my cousin,” Sophie felt bound to answer.

Margaret curled her lip. “A cousin is not the same as a
son
, Lady Sophie. I am sure that your father considers his title dead.”

To Sophie’s mind, her father thought very little about his title. If he’d really wanted a son he would have visited her mother’s bed after the first two months of their marriage, at least according to her mother’s version of events.

“The important thing,” Margaret continued, “is that you start as soon as possible. You are no longer a young girl, and childbearing is not easy for older women.”

Sophie started to feel a slow burn in her spine. “I am not yet twenty years old,” she said a bit stiffly. “I feel sure that I can provide his lordship with eight or nine bundles of joy.” She gave Braddon a cloying if slightly wild smile.

“That is an excellent attitude.” Margaret unbent a trifle, seeing that her brother’s future wife had a bit more substance to her than she had previously thought. “I myself granted my husband his first child a mere nine months after we married, and I pride myself on the fact that seven infants have followed, in almost as many years.”

“Goodness,” Sophie said faintly.

A voice broke in, a darkly amused voice. “Lady Sophie could hardly do better than to model herself on you, Mrs. Windcastle. I feel sure that Lady Sophie will be a most, ah, fertile partner for old Braddon here.”

Braddon cast his old friend an accusing look.

“Forgive me, forgive me,” Patrick murmured, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Perhaps ‘fertile’ harks too much of the stable.”

“Not at all.” Margaret Windcastle was unwilling to drop the subject dearest to her heart. “I see no reason why the subject of children does not belong in every lady’s drawing room. Far too many gentlewomen quail at the thought of children—and what happens? Their husbands’ lines die. Their titles expire.” Her voice dropped dramatically:
“Imagine if there were no more Earls of Slaslow!”

Patrick replied in a honeyed voice, “Why, Lady Sophie might be quite opposed to the idea of having children! That would be a disaster for the future Earls of Slaslow.”

Braddon tugged down his waistcoat again, glancing down at Sophie. She seemed to be trying not to giggle. “We’d better go meet m’godmother.”

Margaret smiled brightly. “Actually, Lady Sophie has just announced her intention to have eight or nine children.”

“Eight or nine?” The teasing note in Patrick’s voice compelled Sophie to meet his eyes. “My goodness, and here I was in danger of thinking that Lady Sophie was nothing but a frippery society miss.”

Despite herself, the corner of Sophie’s mouth quirked up. “Not at all,” she said, repeating Margaret’s phrase. “While I have always had the ambition to have ten children—such a nice, well-rounded number—I realize that at my advanced age I may have to settle for a smaller sum.”

“Excellent,” Patrick exclaimed. “I do love a woman who has no fear of getting old, don’t you, Braddon?”

Braddon was staring in fascinated horror at his future bride. Had she really said
ten
children? Had he inadvertently promised to marry a broodmare like his sister?

“I look forward to old age,” Sophie rejoined sweetly. “Male attention can be so … tiresome, don’t you think, Margaret? I may call you Margaret, mayn’t I, since we are to be sisters?”

Margaret smiled. “Of course, dearest Sophie.”

“Yes, men can be quite dreary,” Sophie continued. “The way they plead and implore.”

Patrick’s raffish eyes glinted at her. “Plead and implore, hmm?”

“Exactly,” Sophie assured him. “Plead
and
implore.”

Braddon gulped. “Time to meet m’godmother,” he blurted, drawing Sophie’s hand into the crook of his arm. “Excuse us, please, Margaret. Your servant, Foakes.”

Sophie couldn’t resist. She smiled at the fruitful Mrs. Windcastle, and then she flicked a glance at Patrick … a teasing, flirtatious look from under her lashes.

Devil-bright eyes looked back at her with a glance that was more of a command than a request, and which certainly had naught a drop of imploring, pleading emotion in it. It shivered her bones, the promise in his eyes; his glance skated from her face to her breasts and down her body. Warmth trailed down her legs, warming and weakening the back of her knees.

As she and Braddon walked away, Sophie reflexively looked down at her bodice. She had the sudden impression that her dress had fallen off, leaving her breasts tinglingly exposed to the air. But all was well. Madame Carême’s cleverly constructed bodices were proof against the most rakish of rakish glances.