Midnight Pleasures (41 page)

“But I would love to have children with you,” Patrick whispered, his voice roughly tender. “We’ll have another babe, Sophie. I’m not saying that I will stop fearing for you, but we can have as many as you want—three or four, even ten.” His voice took on a teasing lilt, remembering Sophie’s vow to Braddon that she wanted ten children.

Sophie pressed silent kisses into his neck. She was afraid to speak, afraid that she’d blurt out hysterical vows of love. Patrick had said he lusted for her, and he didn’t want to sleep with other women. He’d said that he wanted to have children. That was enough; that was
enough
.

“I love you,” she whispered, unable to stop herself from saying the words. “I love you.”

Patrick drew back a little and raised her chin. “You don’t have to say that, Sophie. I know how you feel. We’ll have more babies.”

Startled and ashamed, Sophie’s eyes slipped from his. He knew how she felt? After all the pretending and masquerading, he’d known all along that she was in love with him? She felt a sickening pulse of humiliation, but then she bit her bottom lip and sank back against his shoulder. What else could she do? She did love him. She was frantically, hopelessly in love with her husband.

For his part, Patrick felt as if daggers were piercing his heart. After all the time he had thought he wanted to hear those words, he found he didn’t want to hear them after all. He didn’t want love that was really gratitude, based on his promise to father another child. He didn’t want the tenderness that had blossomed between them since the babe was lost—or at least, he didn’t want that labeled “love.” He wanted her to feel the same fierce burning love as he felt, the raging certitude that he would go mad if anything ever happened to her.

“Sophie,” he said into her hair, his throat suddenly tight again. Sophie waited, but Patrick didn’t say anything else, just kept kissing her hair and her ear. When he finally spoke, it was on an entirely different subject.

“Do you still want to leave for Downes today?”

Sophie glanced at the window. Miraculously, even though she felt as if they’d been talking for hours and hours, the sun was still shining. She took a deep breath.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll make arrangements,” Patrick said quietly. There was a moment’s pause. “May I come in a few days, Sophie?” Patrick’s voice was humble.

Sophie buried her face in his neck. “Come now, Patrick.” Her voice trembled. “Come with me.”

Patrick couldn’t stop himself from capturing her soft lips again. “I’ll come with you. I’ll always come, anywhere you ask me to.”

When Sophie woke up a few days later, tucked in a large bed at Downes Manor, she felt as if a breath of grace had poured healing balm over her heart. Her baby—their baby—was gone, but there
would
be other babies. And there was her husband, sprawled next to her on top of the covers. He was wearing a silly lace-trimmed nightshirt that his brother insisted he wear, for some unknown reason. Patrick’s face looked lean and exhausted, and stubble darkened his chin. She thought he’d never looked more beautiful in his life.

Chapter 28

S
omeone was tickling her nose. With a flower, Sophie found as she opened her eyes. Then she smiled drowsily.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Around an hour,” her husband said, leaning over her, his smoky eyes caressing her face.

Sophie stretched, feeling the prickling grass under her shoulder blades. Patrick’s eyes dropped to her breasts as they strained against the soft cotton of her gown. The daisy left her cheek and stroked its way down her throat and paused at her breasts.

“This dress needs ornamentation,” Patrick said, his voice slightly hoarse. Nimble brown fingers turned the daisy into a shower of silky white petals that drifted over her bodice.

Sophie shivered instinctively and looked up at her husband.

Patrick’s hair was standing in wild disorder. He must have napped as well. They had eaten a light picnic … elegant trifles and a bottle of lightly sparkling wine.

It had been two long months since Patrick and Sophie arrived from London, sick at heart.

They found their child’s grave and chose a simple white tombstone for her. They had her name, Frances, and one other word engraved on it: “Beloved.” One day Charlotte and Sophie went to the family cemetery and planted dozens and dozens of snowdrops on the grave while Charlotte’s gardener hovered, scandalized at the idea of ladies getting their hands dirty. But still Patrick and Sophie didn’t go back to London.

The thought of their town house, with its memories of speechless days and chilly nights, was not a happy one. They settled into one of Downes Manor’s huge bedrooms like two slightly wounded birds.

It was a healing time. Charlotte and Alex were a comforting, laughing presence. Indeed, Downes Manor was no longer the empty cavernous place that Patrick had hated as a child. The summer term at Harrow ended and Henri arrived, to Pippa’s delight. Now the manor’s hallways rang with children’s laughter and grown-ups’ chuckles.

But, more important, wherever Sophie turned, Patrick was there. He helped her out of chairs. He wouldn’t let her carry anything larger than an embroidery hoop. In the evening he delighted in dismissing Simone and brushing Sophie’s hair with slow, seductive strokes.

At night they slept in a sweet heap together, Patrick’s face buried in Sophie’s neck. If she rolled away in the night, she would wake to find his arms pulling her back. Even in his dreams, Patrick wouldn’t let her go.

That evening, guests were due to arrive at the manor for a small house party. Seeing the confusion generated by the preparation of some ten or twelve bedchambers, Patrick had seized Sophie and almost flung her and a picnic basket into the carriage.

“Where’s the coachman?” Sophie said lazily. Looking about, she could see the blanket Patrick had spread on the grass, and the assorted remains of their lunch, but she didn’t see the carriage.

Patrick didn’t look up. He was intent on his daisy caresses. “I sent him home,” he said absently.

“Home? How will we get home ourselves?” Sophie asked. It was so beautiful by the river, basking in the idle, warm sunshine, that she didn’t feel much interest in the response.

Patrick didn’t answer. He had discovered a new game. Their rosy blanket lay in the shade of a honeysuckle hedge, and Patrick was pulling small tendrils of honeysuckle off the hedge and tucking them into his wife’s bright curls.

“Patrick?” Sophie smiled lazily and stretched again, enjoying the way her husband’s eyes turned coal black.

“Yes?”

“My nurse used to pull the petals off daisies, the way you do,” she teased.

“Why?”

“You can tell whether someone is in love with you,” she said. Feeling suddenly a bit shy, she sat up. Curls and honeysuckle blossoms hid her face. But a strong hand silently presented her with a perfectly formed daisy.

“He loves me,” she said slowly, pulling off a petal. Tender fingers pushed away the curtain of tawny curls that sheltered Sophie’s face.

“He loves me not,” she said. Teeth nipped her ear. Sophie trembled as she chose another petal.

“He loves me.” In a sudden movement, Patrick slipped behind her, pulling her onto his lap.

“He loves me not.”

“He loves me.” Strong arms encircled her, and Sophie relaxed back against Patrick’s chest. Whisper-smooth lips caressed her forehead. Petals fell gently from her fingers.

“He loves me not.”

And: “He loves me.” The last petal drifted to the ground.

“He loves you,” Patrick said, his deep voice unquestioning, strong, there for her life and beyond.

“Do you know how much
I
love you, Patrick Foakes? I’m in love with you.”

Sophie’s soft words sank slowly into Patrick’s brain. There was a moment’s pause, as if the whole warm lazy afternoon held its breath. For a second Patrick didn’t hear the chirping burr of crickets and the singing hum of bees. The world narrowed to his wife’s vivid blue eyes.

He didn’t want to speak, to disturb the moment.

“You do?” His voice came out hoarse, disjointed. “You are?”

Sophie’s face had turned a rosy pink, color stealing up from the creamy bodice of her dress.

She twisted about, placing her hands on his face. “Of course I do.” And then: “Why do you look so surprised? I thought you knew. You said you knew.”

“I thought …” Patrick’s voice was still a little hoarse. “I thought you were in love with Braddon.”

“Braddon!” Sophie’s eyes were sharp,
shocked
, Patrick thought dizzily. “How could I be in love with Braddon? He’s in love with Madeleine!”

“It doesn’t follow that you couldn’t be in love with him,” Patrick insisted. It was time they straightened all this out.

Sophie’s hands fell from his face. “How on earth did you get such an odd idea?”

“Odd idea?” her husband said, an ironic note in his voice. “Braddon said you were madly in love with him, and you seemed to be. You insisted on eloping with him, for God’s sake. And then when he announced his engagement to Madeleine, you cried.”

“I cried?”

Sophie tried desperately to remember. “Well, I can’t have been crying over Braddon’s engagement,” she said practically, “because to be honest I don’t give a hang whom Braddon marries, and I never have.”

There was a second’s pause. “Braddon told you that I was
madly in love with him
?”

Patrick nodded.

Sophie’s eyes turned a fierce, midnight blue. “That pompous, egotistical worm! Me! In love with
him
!”

Patrick pulled her back onto his lap. Happiness was beginning to sing in his chest. “Let me see,” he said teasingly, “if I’ve got this right, he said that you adored him madly.”

“I’ll have his skin,” Sophie shrieked. Then she laughed. “I’ll tell Maddie to take revenge on him. As soon as they return from their wedding trip.”

“I like Madeleine,” Patrick said. “Where did you say you first met her?”

“Oh,” Sophie said weakly, “I think it must have been at the Cumberland ball.”

Patrick shook his head. “It can’t have been. She told me that her first ball was the one Lady Commonweal gave in honor of Sissy’s engagement, and you had Madeleine to dinner long before that.”

He looked at Sophie but she had turned her head. Her mind was in a jumble. It was hateful, lying to Patrick.

Finally she settled for a half-lie. “I think Braddon must have introduced me to her, but I can’t quite remember where.”

“Braddon!” Patrick was silent for an instant.

He had an unerring memory, which he’d found useful in negotiating the intricacies of international shipping. At that moment a sentence dropped like a netted herring into his mind, a sentence of Braddon’s. “Madeleine is different: she’s going to be mine forever.” Braddon’s new mistress—the mistress who replaced Arabella. He wanted her to live in Mayfair, Patrick thought; he wanted to be near her at all times….

Then, like a lightning flash: Oh Lord, Braddon involved Sophie in one of his schemes. And
this
was a dangerous one, socially, at least.

And finally, like a benediction: Sophie was with Braddon’s mistress on Thursdays. Madeleine. Madeleine was Braddon’s mistress.

“You taught that girl how to wear gloves and when to curtsy, didn’t you?”

Sophie giggled, a guilty giggle. “Madeleine didn’t need much instruction.”

Patrick took a deep breath. “I thought you were with Braddon on those long drives.”

“Well, I was,” Sophie said, half absently. She was still thinking about Madeleine. “But most of the time we couldn’t let him stay with us because Braddon was like a puppy dog. He couldn’t stay away from Maddie.”

Patrick’s arms tightened around his wife. What an infernal ass he was.

“You didn’t … You did! You were jealous,” Sophie accused, looking up and meeting his eyes.

For a wild moment Patrick wanted to deny it. But they had promised to be honest with each other from now on.

“I was savagely jealous,” he admitted, lowering his lips so that they just touched Sophie’s. “I used to writhe with jealousy.”

“But you—I thought
you
had a mistress!”

“I mean to ask you about that,” Patrick said, with some curiosity. “Who was that black-haired woman you fancied I was spending my time with?”

Sophie was still giggling over Patrick’s irrational jealousy. “Charlotte suggested you were jealous of Braddon, but I couldn’t credit it.” Then her eyes widened. “Charlotte! Oh, Patrick, your mistress must have been Charlotte!”

Patrick laughed. “Not that I noticed.” He pulled his wife’s delicious self back onto his lap.

“You see, Henri saw you with a beautiful black-haired woman—”

“And Henri never had a chance to meet Alex before he went off to school, so he didn’t know that I have a twin brother,” Patrick finished. “That will teach you to mistrust your husband!”

He took a deep breath and leaned his forehead against hers. “We’re a pair of idiots, Sophie. Why didn’t we talk?”

Sophie sweetly rubbed her nose against his. “I couldn’t,” she said simply. “I thought you were behaving like my father, and so what was the point of discussing it? I was grateful that you didn’t flaunt the woman in the ballroom, in front of me. So what right did I have to complain?”

“What right to complain!” Patrick was aghast. “You had every right to complain! You’re my wife, for God’s sake.”

“You didn’t complain about my excursions with Braddon,” Sophie reminded him softly. “Braddon worried that you would get angry, but I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

“I couldn’t,” Patrick said. “How could I complain if you wanted to see Braddon? If it hadn’t been for my insufferable behavior, you would have been happily married to Braddon!”

Even the thought of it wrenched his heart. “Sophie,” he said suddenly, “are you sure that you love me? Alex says that Braddon is very lovable.”

“Braddon
is
lovable,” Sophie replied. She cupped his face in her hands, brushing her lips across his. “You, sir, are not lovable. You are argumentative and you come to ridiculous conclusions. You ignore me and then insist that you were actually thinking about me.” Her voice dropped. “You make me want you in my bed, and then you leave me, without telling me why. You are made into a Duke of the Realm, and forget to tell me about it. I can’t understand the way you think. And I certainly don’t know why I love you so much.”

To his horror, Patrick felt his eyes fill with tears. Ruthlessly he toppled his wife backward, his mouth taking hers with a savage ferocity. As always, passion flared between them, melting Sophie’s bones, turning her legs to water. Patrick gentled his mouth.

“It’s not hard to know why I love you, Sophie. You
are
lovable.”

“Mmmm,” his wife replied. She ran her hands through his wild curls and then arched up to kiss him again.

Their eyes met with a silent promise. “I’m sorry, Sophie,” Patrick said, his voice husky. “I was jealous … and then when you became pregnant, I was so afraid—and I’m not used to being afraid. I was furious at you, and terrified for you. All I could think of was to stay away from you.”

Sophie kissed him, her lips a silent pardon. For a moment they just stayed there, Patrick’s large hands cupping his wife’s delicate face as he stared down at her.

“I’ll never stay away from you again, Sophie.” The most important vow of Patrick’s life arose from the deepest part of his heart. “Not in my body—or spirit.”

Sophie’s lips were whisper soft on his. “If you do I’ll scream at you like a fishwife. How’s that for a bargain?”

Patrick nipped her lip. “I’ll risk it,” he said. “Although I happen to know that you are entirely too intelligent to make a comfortable wife.”

Sophie grinned up at him. “Jealous of my success with Madeleine, are you? My next project,” she whispered against his lips, “is to make the Duke of Gisle into a proper duke.”

“Oh yes?” Patrick kissed her again. “What’s the matter with the Duke of Gisle?”

“He has no sense of his own countenance,” Sophie said decisively. “His carriage is lined with simple blue silk, without a blazon to be seen. He is rarely rude to his underlings, and he doesn’t even have a personal snuff mixture.”