Midnight Pleasures (42 page)

“I hate snuff, Sophie!”

“It doesn’t matter.” She laughed. “All proper dukes have a mixture prominently displayed in the shops, which no one else is allowed to buy.”

“I think the problem is really with the duchess,” Patrick said, running his hand down Sophie’s body. She shivered.

“I’ve heard that the duchess is a master at etiquette,” Sophie whispered. “I heard she made a horse trainer’s daughter into a countess.”

“The problem is that the duchess has been fibbing to the duke,” Patrick said.

There was just a hint of seriousness in his eyes, enough to make Sophie suddenly alert. She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you about Madeleine, Patrick.”

“It’s not that,” he said, sitting up and running a hand through his hair until it stood straight up. “Do you remember telling me about Kotzebue’s travels in Siberia, Sophie?”

Her eyes remained puzzled as she propped herself up on both elbows.

“That afternoon in my study,” he prompted her.

Sophie blushed. “Oh yes.”

“I went to Water’s Bookstore and asked for a copy of Kotzebue’s travels.”

Sophie’s eyes grew instantly wary.

“That’s right, oh my wife,” Patrick said, nodding. “The only book they could offer me was
Merkwürdigste Jahr Meines Lebens
.”

Sophie turned a bit pink. “I think a man named Reverend Beresford is working on a translation,” she said in a small, guilty voice.

“You can give it to me for Christmas,” Patrick said. He was smiling, although he tried to keep his voice stern. “And I received a letter from Lord Breksby yesterday, Sophie. Bayrak Mustafa was no Turk, although it seems his mother might have been Turkish. But to all intents and purposes, Mustafa was an illiterate Englishman more commonly known as Mole.”

Sophie’s eyes grew wide. “Why did they bring us that inkwell?”

“Monsieur Foucault and Mr. Mole were in the pay of Emperor Napoleon,” Patrick said comfortably. “In fact, they planned to blow Selim III sky high.”

“The inkwell!” Sophie gasped.

“Exactly so, my dear wife.” Patrick ran his finger down Sophie’s uptilted nose. “Exactly so. Apparently, Napoleon reasoned that an explosion would cause Selim—if he survived—to declare war on England. Except that his henchmen were foiled by the intelligence of my wife.”

Patrick leaned over Sophie, looking straight into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me, Sophie?”

“My mother,” Sophie said in a stifled voice. “My mother said you would take a dislike of me if you knew I was a bluestocking. She said that no man wants to think that his wife knows more languages than he does.”

“A bluestocking!” For a moment Patrick was silent, looking down at his petite, gorgeous wife. Even having taken a nap, and picnicked in the open, she looked like a plate from
La Belle Assemblée
.

“I was so proud when I realized you were able to read German,” Patrick said. “I doubt any other man in London has a wife who is able to speak French, Welsh, Turkish, and German!”

There was a moment’s silence, like the hushed pause before a stone, dropped into a well, hits the water far below.

“Oh Lord,” Patrick said. “I’m a nodcock, aren’t I? How many languages can the Duchess of Gisle speak?”

Sophie turned even pinker. “Well, Italian doesn’t even count, really, because it’s so close to French.”

“I should have guessed that,” Patrick said in a resigned tone, a smile gleaming in his eye. “I should have nobbled it the moment you knew the proper word for Leghorn, shouldn’t I?”

Sophie grinned at him.

“Any more?” Patrick gave his voice a mock-grim tone.

“I know a little Portuguese and a little Dutch,” she said in a rush.

“A little?” He bent down and planted a hard kiss on her lips. “Does that mean you are a fluent speaker?”

“No,” Sophie said hastily. “We couldn’t find an appropriate woman with whom I could practice my Dutch….”

“Is
that
the end?”

“Are you angry?” Her eyes searched her husband’s anxiously.

He looked genuinely surprised. “Why should I be angry, Sophie my love? I love to travel; you are brilliant at speaking foreign languages. You are a marvel and I consider myself damned lucky. I’m particularly glad you speak Turkish!”

Sophie looked at him, her eyes huge with an unspoken question.

“Didn’t you know that I would take you with me?”

She shook her head.

“I’m not happy away from you,” Patrick said, his eyes truly serious now. “I don’t want to ever sleep alone again. And that means that we are traveling to the Ottoman Empire next month … together.”

“Oh, Patrick,” Sophie said “That will be wonderful.”

“Good,” he replied, rather absentmindedly. His hands were wandering up and down her body in a very disturbing fashion.

Sophie grabbed his wrists. “You don’t mind that I … I speak all these languages and you don’t?”

Patrick’s eyes were making sinful promises. He bent over and licked the corner of her mouth with tantalizing slowness.

“You have the sweetest lips,” he said huskily. And then: “I don’t care what language you speak to me, Sophie mine. As long—”

“As long?” she said teasingly.

“As long as you let me have my way with you morning, noon, and night.”

“That’s all?”

“And you have to love me forever.”

“I suppose so.” She laughed.

“And you have to forgive me for not explaining my silences.”

She propped herself up on one elbow. “I didn’t speak to you either. I was afraid. I thought it was worth anything to avoid the kind of bitter fights my parents had. But perhaps a civilized silence is just as bad.”

Patrick nodded. “The minute you start tearing off on one of those weekly jaunts with Braddon, you will find just how noisy I can be.”

Sophie’s eyes were half solemn, half merry. “And if you don’t come home until four in the morning, I shall turn into a termagant and throw the chamber pot at you.”

“I have one more requirement,” Patrick whispered. “You have to give me at least five children.”

For an instant she couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled with tears. “Do you really mean it, Patrick?”

“I’m going to be terrified,” Patrick said frankly. “I shall probably behave like a regular hellion, Sophie. But I … I loved little Frances the moment I saw her. I think we should have another child.

“Silly wife,” he muttered as Sophie’s tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks. His eyes took on a wicked glint. “I suppose I should try to take your mind off your troubles.” Gently he kissed away her tears, but his hand took an altogether less innocent path, running up the softness of her inner leg.

Far above, the sky was azure blue, marked only by a few clouds drifting on a lazy breeze. Somewhere close to them bees were building a hive, their warm buzz adding to the afternoon’s small sounds of crickets and birdsong. After a minute she closed her eyes and simply let her hands do the looking: wandering their way over the smooth muscled expanses of Patrick’s bare skin, feeling the little shivers that followed in the wake of her hands, the gravelly roughness of the hair on his chest.

Afterword

December 1807

S
ophie woke with a start and propped herself up on one elbow. It was the middle of the night, and the only light in the room was the glow cast by firelight. For a moment Sophie drowsily watched the dancing shadows cast on her bedroom walls. The room was warm, even though it was an unusually chilly December.

Then she heard it again: a low, rippling gurgle, followed by a deep chuckle. Sleepily, Sophie narrowed her eyes and squinted at the back of the high rocking chair next to the fire. Sure enough, it was tipping cozily forward and back.

“Patrick?”

“We’re here.”

Sophie smiled and propped her pillows up against the high mahogany back of the master bed. She and Patrick had seen the bed in the royal suite of a Turkish palace, and Patrick had bargained fiercely, finally buying it from the pasha who owned it. When they returned home, he kept to his promise and had the bed in Sophie’s chamber removed.

“This is the
only
bed that the Duchess of Gisle and her devoted husband have to sleep in,” he had said, winding his arms around Sophie and pulling her backward on the silk counterpane. “If you are angry enough to banish me, you will have to contemplate my sleeping outside the door on the bare boards.”

Sophie had laughed, and since then the duke and duchess had shared a bed that was, in truth, built for a king.

Another trill of chortling syllables rang out from the rocking chair.

“Oh, Patrick, you shouldn’t,” Sophie said. It was hard to be severe when a baby’s laughter filled the room. “She’ll never go to sleep after playing with you.”

“Yes, she will,” Patrick said lovingly. “You’ll go to sleep, won’t you, sweetheart? Won’t you sleep for your mama? Yes, you will.”

The baby gave a little squawk in return, and then a trilling, laughing string of syllables.

“Time to eat?” Patrick said thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose we might.”

He rose and turned toward the bed, carrying a snugly wrapped bundle. All Sophie could see was one happily waving fist.

Patrick walked slowly, rubbing noses with his daughter as he came. “Ouch!” The fist had closed on his hair.

“Katherine?”

“ ‘Tis a wise mother who knows her own child,” Patrick said with mock severity, as he settled the baby into the crook of her mother’s arm. “This little jester is Ella, of course.”

Ella lost her happy look and took on a more serious expression, turning her face expectantly toward her mother.

“Here, sweetheart …” Sophie rearranged her night-clothing.

Her husband plopped down on the bed and was watching with frank enjoyment. “Katherine is sleeping the sleep of the righteous. When Nanny brought Ella, she said she was hoping that Katherine would sleep until the morning.”

“She’s an optimist.”

“A good thing in a nanny,” Patrick observed. “But you notice that even our optimistic nanny doesn’t think that Ella will be sleeping through the night anytime soon.”

Sophie looked down at little Ella, rapturously drinking milk. “She’s a piglet,” she said affectionately. “She wouldn’t want to sleep too much in case she missed a meal.”

“Or a laugh,” her father said loyally. “She always likes to play, even when she’s hungry.”

“I think she eats more frequently because she was smaller than Katherine at first,” Sophie said.

“Well, she’s spent the past three months catching up,” her husband replied. “Look at this stomach!” He gently poked Ella’s round tummy with one finger.

“We had a message, after you retired to bed,” Patrick said teasingly.

Sophie’s eyes shone. “Is it Mama?”

“That’s it. Your mama’s a mama again. Mother and baby are doing well. And George’s message said the birth took all of four hours, so I gather your mother takes after you, sweetheart.”

Patrick’s eyes twinkled lovingly at his wife. After all his fears, which had become acute as Sophie grew as unwieldy as a ship, the twins had been born so fast that Dr. Lambeth barely got there in time, and he hadn’t had time to order Patrick from the room. So Patrick was holding Katherine when Lambeth broke into a surprised laugh and caught the head of Ella as she rushed into the world to join her sister. Patrick’s heart thudded with happiness even to think of that moment.

“Do I have a sister or a brother?”

“They had a little boy, so I imagine your father is in seventh heaven.”

“He never cared overmuch about the title.” It was Sophie’s turn to be loyal.

“Well, now he has a male heir. Alexander George is the future marquis.”

Sophie looked at Patrick curiously. “Does hearing about Alexander cause you to want a male heir?”

“No,” Patrick replied. “Although I have to admit that since giving birth to the girls was so easy for you, sometimes I think about a son. Not an heir, just a son.”

Sophie laughed for pure happiness. In truth, the only tense moment during the birth of the twins had been when Dr. Lambeth observed that the duchess had the hips of a peasant, to which comment Patrick took violent exception.

But she shook her head teasingly. “I don’t know, Patrick. Now that Charlotte has a third daughter, and we had Frances and the twins, you and your brother have produced six girls. Perhaps girls are your lot in life.”

Patrick only laughed and kissed his wife lightly. “Practice makes perfect,” he whispered against her lips.

Ella gave a little grunt, and when her parents looked down at her, she was fast asleep.

“I’ll take her back to the nursery.” Patrick reached out and deftly took his little daughter in his arms.

“I could ring for Betsy,” Sophie said, smiling up at her husband as he tucked Ella’s blanket around her chubby form.

“I like to fetch and carry my daughters. When I was little I told my father I wanted to be a footman. I liked their livery.”

Sophie grinned. “What did he say?”

“I can’t remember. Most likely he was outraged. He had a great sense of his own consequence, which didn’t include footmen for sons.”

Just as Sophie was drifting back to sleep again, the door to the master bedroom opened and Patrick walked back in.

“Oh Lord,” Sophie moaned. Now he had
two
flannel-wrapped bundles, one on each arm.

“This one’s for you,” her husband said with obscene cheerfulness. He handed over a squirming, red-cheeked baby.

“Katherine, I presume?” Sophie murmured, reaching out her arms.

“Katherine it is,” Patrick agreed. He kicked off his slippers and lay down on the bed next to Sophie, Ella still sleeping in the crook of his arm. When Katherine had settled in for a midnight snack, Sophie looked at Patrick enquiringly, nodding toward Ella.

Patrick smiled a bit guiltily. “Nanny was asleep in the chair when I got to the nursery, and Betsy was asleep on the cot. In fact, Katherine was the only one awake. She was kicking about and just starting to think about howling. So I scooped her up and brought them both back here.”

“Ella should be in her bed,” Sophie said with mock severity.

Patrick didn’t bother to answer. He was looking down at Ella’s little face.

“She’s going to be a great beauty, Sophie. I’ll have to beat off gentlemen with a stick.”

Thoughtfully, Sophie looked at the little girl she was holding. The twins were as alike as peas in a pod; both had inherited a dizzying combination of arching eyebrows (from their papa) and silky, golden reddish curls (from their mama).

Just for a second, Sophie wondered whether their first daughter, little Frances, would have been as beautiful, had she lived.

Patrick’s shoulder bumped hers, and a kiss landed on her ear. “She was very beautiful, sweetheart, but in a different way. She had your eyebrows.”

Sophie’s eyes got a little sheen of tears. She leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder as he wound his free arm about her.

“Don’t cry, Sophie,” he whispered tenderly.

Sophie looked up, and their eyes met, both touched with sorrow for the daughter they would never stop loving. In the space of a heartbeat, it was all there between them: their grief and the healing balm of love, those small threads of life that meshed them together closer than the weave of a wedding dress.

“I am very lucky to have a husband who always knows what I’m thinking.” Sophie rubbed her head against Patrick’s shoulder like a grateful cat.

Patrick grinned a bit smugly. In the three years since they married, he had learned to judge the darkening of Sophie’s eyes to an inch. Now she even frowned at him occasionally, having found that she couldn’t hide her feelings anyway.

Patrick dropped a kiss on his wife’s eyebrow. “A good wife always knows what her husband is thinking. Do you?”

“Are you thinking about breakfast?”

“No.”

Katherine burped loudly and her body relaxed back on Sophie’s arm. Rosebud lips puckered and a tiny snore sounded in the room.

Patrick sighed. “I’d better take them both back to the nursery, I suppose.” He was gone for a few moments and returned to find Sophie still awake.

He stopped for a moment and looked at his delectable wife, propped against the pillows, looking tired but beautiful.

“Have you decided what I’m thinking about?”

“Perhaps …” she said teasingly. “I know! You’re thinking about the
Sophie
!” Patrick’s newest ship was named after his wife.

Patrick propped himself up on one side, facing her. “The
Sophie
is due to dock tomorrow after her trip to China,” he said, his eyes wicked. “I am looking forward to boarding her.”

The neckline of Sophie’s lacy white night rail was still disarranged from nursing the girls. Patrick tugged it gently, exposing one of his wife’s pink-tipped breasts. She shivered as he ran his hand around the bottom of her breast and then left it there, dark strength against creamy whiteness.

“So tell me, O my love, what am I thinking?” One eyebrow sent her a seductive message.

Sophie searched his beloved face, the strong planes of his cheeks, shadowed now from waking up every night, the fierce desire in his face, the fierce love there too.

“If you are thinking about boarding the
Sophie
,” she said a bit shakily, moving closer to him and curling an arm around his neck, “I think she just docked.”

The master of the
Sophie
rolled over and captured his wife’s mouth with hungry force.

Behind them the last log in the fireplace succumbed and fell into two, sending a tiny blizzard of sparks up the chimney. Dying firelight danced a final minuet on the ceiling above the matrimonial bed, but no one noticed. The log crackled and squeaked as it burned down, but no one added another log from the basket next to the fireplace.

The only sounds from the bed were inarticulate ones: sounds of desire, sounds of pleasure, finally of ecstasy. Gasped, at the moment of greatest bliss, words of love.

The great master bed fell into silence again. Even the fire was silent now, reduced to a sultry heap of embers, glowing a deep carmine red in the depths of the fireplace.

The silence was broken only by a deep voice. “
Être avec toi, c’est toujours comme retourner à la maison
, Sophie. Being with you is always like coming home.”

Sophie reached up and caressed her husband’s cheek, love shining in her eyes. “You are my home, Patrick.” And again, as he buried his face in her hair, holding her so close that his large body seemed imprinted on hers: “With you, I am home.”