Midnight Pleasures (31 page)

Even as Patrick kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, Sophie was wriggling out of his arms. And then, as he watched, Sophie pulled apart the tapes at her neck and waist, ruthlessly ignoring hooks and buttons as she pulled her gown over her head.

There she was … the woman he dreamed of every night.

With a deep masculine groan, Patrick lunged toward her in a surge that carried them straight onto the bed. Sophie’s arms didn’t wind around his neck. They went to his waist, meeting his hands in an effort to pull open the buttons on his breeches. Roughly Patrick freed himself and, without bothering to remove his garments, grabbed his wife’s hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed, burying himself in her wet welcome. Sophie screamed and arched her back; Patrick groaned and drove forward again.

Later Sophie woke to find her husband’s hand languorously cupping her bottom, pulling her to him. And when dawn stole into the room, it was Patrick who opened his eyes to find that a creamy white body, streaked with rosy light, was hovering just above him. He met the speculative blue eyes looking down into his with an answering smile and pulled that body down, down onto him.

Patrick’s man of business arrived punctually at eleven o’clock and dawdled around the library for a half-hour before a poker-faced butler told him that the master was unavailable. Madame Carême waited in vain for Lady Sophie to appear for a second fitting of a lovely
costume parisien
.

The Foakeses did not meet for breakfast. They did not accidentally encounter each other in the hallway, nor did they attend the revival of
The Taming of the Shrew
, currently playing at the Covent Garden Theater. They did not meet because they never parted. The craving that had tormented Patrick was assuaged only by hours of wanton play and languorous touches. The despair that had plagued Sophie was soothed by a husband who gorged himself again and again on her body.

They did not speak of serious matters, but the world had righted itself again. Without words, they were back in the intimate world of the
Lark
. Sophie knew without asking that Patrick would not be going out that night. Patrick wondered at his own stupidity in ever thinking that Sophie didn’t care whether he joined her in bed. He’d had his share of lustful mistresses, but none had the thirsty, joyful desire of his own wife. So he apologized silently, without words, and was accepted ecstatically in the same way.

Chapter 21

T
he next morning Patrick and Sophie went to their own chambers after one last kiss. Down in the servants’ quarters, two bells chimed simultaneously.

“It’s for you, Keating,” bellowed Clemens in a cockney twang he never used once he passed the bronze door that separated the house from the downstairs. “And you too, Simone.”

Simone rolled her eyes, pushing away her half-eaten roll. “The master must have finally let her out of that bed. I hope she can walk.”

Keating gave her a slanting frown. “Don’t you talk that way about the master,” he growled.

Simone wrinkled her nose at his back as he dashed up the servants’ stairs. “Regular hoity-toity, he is,” she muttered to herself. “Just what does he think his beloved master was doing in bed all day yesterday? Playing chess?”

Sophie greeted Simone with a blissful smile. “Will you ring for my bath, please? I shall wear the green riding costume.”

Simone concealed a grin. Just what the master and mistress had been up to needed no explanation, to her mind. Just look how happy Lady Sophie was!

She did wonder whether the mistress had told him yet about the baby. Simone had guessed long ago, but the master seemed to have no idea. She looked around the room. He was sure to give Lady Sophie a piece of jewelry, or some such, when he heard the news. Diamonds, maybe. Everyone knew the master was a nabob.

For her part, Sophie was so happy that she floated into Braddon’s carriage when he arrived. She and Madeleine were planning to address the intricacies of table manners.

They had included Braddon in the afternoon lesson. For the most part Braddon had to be banished from their lessons because he spent all his time staring at Madeleine or, worse, trying to angle his way around the room so that he ended up sitting next to her.

“Men,” Madeleine had explained in delightful shorthand, “think only of kissing women, all the time. This I learned from my papa. He never let me meet any of the gallants who frequent the stables, because he said they would all try to steal kisses.”

“Then how did you ever meet Braddon?”

“Oh, Braddon.” Madeleine’s little laugh erupted. “One day the stables were not yet open, and I was taking care of my favorite mare, Gracie. I remember I had made her a mixture of warm oats. She’s getting a bit old,” she explained, “and I like to give her a treat now and then. Well, I looked up and here was a blond giant looking down at me. It was Braddon. He had lost his cane the day before and came to find it.”

She giggled. “Papa was right. Men do try to kiss you every chance they get.”

In fact, Braddon was now serving as a perfect example of why Madeleine’s father had protected her from the London gentlemen who visited his stables. He constantly looked at Madeleine as if she were a truffle he longed to devour.

“Braddon,” Sophie said severely. “If you cannot behave, we shall have to ask you to leave us.”

Braddon’s blue eyes took on a wounded innocence. “I wasn’t doing anything,” he said, quickly pulling his arm from around Madeleine’s waist.

Sophie laughed. Today everything was delightful. “Madeleine needs her wits about her,” she said with a stern look. “Now, let’s be seated.”

The three of them sat down at the Garniers’ square dining-room table. The table was laid with a rough white cloth, but on it were three place settings of the finest china, each surrounded by some fourteen pieces of silverware. Braddon had bought them on Piccadilly Street.

“My butler keeps a stern eye on the silver,” he had explained. “Couldn’t have him thinking there was a thief in the house.”

Sophie looked over the silverware. “Very good, Madeleine. You’ve laid the table perfectly.”

Braddon frowned. “She doesn’t need to learn such things, Sophie. For goodness’ sake, I’ve got fourteen or fifteen footmen who don’t have a thing to do all day—”

“It’s not footmen who set the table,” Madeleine broke in. “One of the under housemaids will lay the table, supervised by the butler.”

“The mistress of the house must know everything that her servants are doing,” Sophie explained to Braddon. “Otherwise how will she know if something is wrong?”

“Humph,” Braddon said, clearly unconvinced. He sat down next to Madeleine, and Sophie sat opposite.

“We are in the midst of a formal dinner,” Sophie dictated. “A footman is standing at your left shoulder, Madeleine, holding a plate with collared pig.”

Madeleine politely gave the imaginary footman a smile and a tiny nod, indicating her willingness to taste the pork. Then she picked up the appropriate fork.

“Damme, but I’ve never seen so much silver in my life,” Braddon complained. “Don’t you think you’re being a mite finical, Sophie?”

“No,” Sophie said implacably. “What if Madeleine is invited to eat at St. James’s?”

“That isn’t all that likely,” Braddon grumbled. “I’m not letting any of those randy royal dukes near Madeleine.”

“If I were dining with you, Madeleine, I should be forced to give Braddon a severe set-down at this point,” Sophie observed. “He’s speaking to me across the table, a breach of manners. A lady speaks only to those on her right and on her left.” Her eyes sharpened as she caught Braddon’s movement. “And she never,
never
allows a gentleman to push his leg against hers. Pick up your fan, Madeleine.”

Madeleine looked about confusedly. “I thought I gave it to the footman, along with my wrap.”

“Oh no, a lady is never without her fan. Now, if the gentleman has merely offended your sensibilities, perhaps by making an objectionable jest, you can simply express your displeasure and turn to your partner on the other side.”

Madeleine glared at Braddon, then snapped her head to the left.

“No, no! That’s much too fierce. He’s beneath your notice.”

Madeleine looked down her nose at Braddon and turned the upper half of her body, with quelling indifference, to the left.

“That’s it!” Sophie clapped.

Braddon’s response was less moderate. He grabbed his betrothed by the shoulders and forcibly turned her toward him. “I don’t like that sort of look from you,” he complained.

“Think about how you’ll feel if an old
roué
makes a suggestive comment to Madeleine,” Sophie suggested.

Braddon’s eyes brightened. “She’s right, Maddie. Do it again!”

Madeleine giggled. “That’s exactly how my
maman
used to look at an impertinent servant,” she said.

Sophie frowned. “Servant? What servant?”

Madeleine’s face looked comically surprised. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just saw the look in my head, and copied it.”

“If your father was in charge of the Flammarions’ stables, your mother may have worked in the household before they married,” Sophie suggested.

Madeleine nodded.

“Now let’s pretend that Braddon has done something truly inexcusable,” Sophie continued, “such as pressing his leg against yours.”

Madeleine picked up her fan and whacked Braddon smartly on the knuckles.

“Ow!” Braddon pulled back his hand. “Maddie, you’ve broken my finger!”

“Don’t be a wet blanket, Braddon,” Sophie said. “Try again, Madeleine.” She demonstrated the gesture. “Just tap his hand. The tap should not be violent, so that if anyone is looking, you could simply be flirting. You want to scold the gentleman for his presumption, but at the same time, you don’t want anyone to see. If they know that he dared to put his leg against yours, they’ll blame you.”

“That’s true,” Braddon chipped in. “The old birds, like Sophie’s mother and mine, always think the girl brought it on. Here goes,” he said happily, pressing his leg against Madeleine’s, under the table.

Madeleine pulled back her leg, gave Braddon a quelling glance, and rapped him lightly on the knuckles. “Oh, do forgive me,” she crooned, her eyes hard. “Your hand must have strayed toward my plate.”

“Lord,” Braddon said, awed. “Damme if you don’t look as cold as Sophie’s mama ever did, Maddie. And she’s got the nastiest eye in the
ton
.”

Madeleine looked delighted.

“To pass Madeleine off as the daughter of a marquis,” Sophie reminded them, “she has to be more chilly than my mother. There can’t be a whisper about her manners. Now, let’s say that the footman appears with an Italian cream.”

A few weeks later, Patrick scowled fiercely at the tangle of papers lying on his rosewood desk. Interceding between the loading bills and letters from his managers abroad was a vision of what he had left when he slipped out of bed that morning—the soft white hand he had gently unclenched from his elbow. Sophie sighed and turned over in bed, the delicate cotton of her nightdress falling open at the neck. He had had to force himself to leave.

Suddenly the library door opened and Patrick looked up in annoyance. The staff had strict instructions not to interrupt him during the day. But it wasn’t his secretary or an apologetic-looking footman. Instead, his wife slipped around the heavy door and closed it behind her.

Sophie walked soundlessly across the thick rug to Patrick’s desk. He looked rather startled to see her, and she almost quailed, but kept walking. She stopped next to his chair, reaching out to put her hands on his bare arm. He had taken off his cuff links and pushed up his sleeves, to avoid ink, and her fingers irresistibly curled around his muscled arm.

“Don’t you have an appointment with Braddon?” Patrick had been conscious all day that it was Thursday, and Sophie almost always spent the day with Braddon. Braddon’s day, he had taken to silently labeling it.

“I canceled it,” Sophie replied. “What work are you engaged in?” she asked.

“Just work,” Patrick answered.

Then, as she looked at him with one eyebrow delicately raised, he cast a glance at the table. “I’m looking over the loading bills from the last Russian shipment.”

“What do you do with them?” Sophie was genuinely curious. She leaned over slightly to read down the list of crabbed figures.

“What does this stand for?” A rosy-tipped finger stopped at what looked like 14.40SL.

“That’s—” Patrick squinted. “Samovars. We delivered forty—no, fourteen—samovars to a merchant in the East End who requested them.”

Sophie sighed. “How I would love to travel to Russia.”

“You would?”

Sophie’s eyes glowed. “Have you read Kotzebue’s account of his travels in Siberia?”

“No,” Patrick replied. He balanced his quill on its stand. Then he leaned back, looking speculatively at his young wife. In his experience, properly bred English ladies viewed a trip to Bath as a fearsome distance.

Sophie looked like the most proper of proper English ladies this morning. She was wearing a muslin morning gown, white, with a delicate key pattern along the hem. It was beautifully made, but neither startling nor outrageously sexual. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Sophie seemed to have changed her style a bit since they married. Not that he was complaining. He felt a growing heat in his groin from the mere hint of pink leg visible through layers of white muslin.

Abruptly Patrick leaned forward, interrupting Sophie’s enthusiastic description of Mr. Kotzebue’s adventures. He picked up his wife and effortlessly deposited her on his lap.

Sophie giggled but showed no inclination to jump off his legs. Instead she looked up at him, her eyes darkening to a violet blue that Patrick considered a very good sign indeed. He lowered his head, ruthlessly capturing her cherry-sweet lips before she had a chance to protest.

But there was no protest. Sophie’s lips opened to his as if marital intimacy was old hat to her, as if the burning flood that rushed down her limbs was something to which she had become accustomed. A strong hand pressed her head closer, ruthlessly pulling out hairpins and scattering them on the carpet, pulling until locks of honey-blond curls suddenly tumbled over Patrick’s brown hand, whispering their softness against his arm.

He pulled her still closer, his mouth ravaging hers, tongue demanding the small cries which broke from her as his hand pushed down the gathered neckline of her bodice, freeing her breast. His thumb ran roughly over her nipple and Sophie’s body went liquid, her hands fiercely clenched behind Patrick’s neck, his mouth the center of her reality. The world dissolved into a spinning collection of senses, her body aching.