by Eloisa James
“Oh yes,” Sophie murmured. She allowed him to lead her out to the terrace, where they were joined by the majority of the dancers. But when Patrick solicitously led Daphne Boch onto the terrace, Sophie turned away.
“Come along, Braddon,” she said briskly.
Braddon looked at her in a rather startled fashion. His betrothed had never addressed him by his first name before. And there she was, picking her way around the large pots lining the terrace and heading down a garden path.
“Oh, I say—” Braddon plunged after her.
Sophie paused just outside the circle of light cast by the torches.
“You are quite right, my dear sir,” Sophie said encouragingly, patting Braddon’s arm. “There can be no negative attention given to us, considering our status.” They walked a little way down one of the brick-lined paths.
“It’s rather dark out here,” Braddon said. He was feeling a bit nonplussed. What were they doing out in the garden? What would people think? It looked peculiar, to his mind.
Sophie stopped and leaned against a tree. In the soft dark, her dress had a faint golden gleam, a faint golden echo of the moon.
“Would you like to kiss me?”
Braddon looked down at her and opened his mouth before he thought. “No.”
“No?”
“That is, of course, naturally,” Braddon scrambled, well aware that the expression of shock on Sophie’s face boded ill for marital peace. “I just don’t think of you in those terms,” he added rashly, digging himself in deeper.
“You don’t think of me in those terms?”
To his relief, Sophie seemed not to be the hysterical type. In fact, she looked rather thoughtful, and really quite lovely. He much preferred a woman with some meat on her bones, but still, Sophie York would make a very pretty countess, to Braddon’s mind.
“You’re very beautiful.” His tone was hopeful, a peace offering.
“Thank you, Braddon.” Sophie sighed. “I think we had better rejoin the party now.”
Her mind was racing with humiliation and confusion. She was marrying a man who didn’t think of her in terms of kissing, and the man whom she thought of (in terms of kissing) was completely ignoring her.
Just then Alex appeared in the tall French door, smiling genially. “Lady Sophie, may I borrow your beloved for a minute?”
With a huffing bow and a tug at his waistcoat, Braddon happily followed Alex into the house, leaving Sophie stranded on the terrace. She drifted to the right—she couldn’t drift left, as he was over there.
Lucien Boch greeted her smilingly. Lucien was one of her favorite beaux. Even so, Sophie looked at him with guarded coolness. After all, it was Lucien’s sister who was making a peagoose of herself by hanging on Patrick’s arm.
“Woe is me!” Lucien said, his black eyes snapping with charm. “Somehow I have fallen into the bad graces of my favorite Englishwoman. Tell me it is not due to your up-coming marriage, Lady Sophie! My heart will always be at your feet … marriage or no.”
Despite herself, Sophie found she was smiling at his nonsense.
Lucien leaned closer, his French accent making his words whimsically seductive. “I must tell you, Lady Sophie, that a true Frenchman would never allow a paltry thing like marriage lines to prevent him from laying his heart at his true love’s door. No indeed.”
“I am sure you would not,” Sophie replied with a laugh. “But we who are only half-French … alas, we find ourselves bound by convention.”
“What a loss,” Lucien said mournfully. “At the very least, my dear lady, you must promise that I may remain your chevalier after you become a countess. I shall—” Whatever extravagant gesture Lucien was about to promise was interrupted by Charlotte, who clapped her hands sharply.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” she said gaily. “Let’s have an old-fashioned game before we finish the evening, shall we? I suggest that we play one game of hide-and-seek, or shall we play blindman’s buff?”
“Hide-and-seek!” cried the young ladies.
“Hide-and-seek it is,” Charlotte said. She opened her hand to show a long scarf of silky purple. “Lady Sophie is ‘it,’ since this party is in her honor. Whoever finds Lady Sophie may take the scarf, and then that person becomes ‘it.’ The only rule is that you must answer honestly if someone asks you whether you have the scarf.”
There were only a few objections and questions, and Charlotte had to reexplain the new twist in the rules—the addition of the scarf—but she could tell that eyes were brightening. The possibilities for dalliance during this game were endless, as anyone could tell. At Charlotte’s quick instruction, footmen picked up the lighted torches and deposited them around the winding paths of the garden, making it look like a twinkling starry patch of night.
Before Sophie had time to think, Charlotte swooped down on her and wound the scarf around her neck. “Go to the summerhouse!” Charlotte whispered, and gave Sophie a push toward the edge of the terrace. Sophie ran mindlessly down a garden path.
She felt miserable, really miserable. What if Charlotte was right to insist that marrying Braddon was a bad idea? Sophie found the summerhouse and sank onto a white bench, grateful for the moment of silence. In the distance she could faintly hear Charlotte’s high, clear voice counting to one hundred.
No, marrying Braddon was the right thing to do. Because if she was clear-headed about the evening, it was not Braddon’s disinclination to kiss her—who really cared anyway?—but Patrick’s flirtation with Daphne Boch that was making her stomach twist into miserable knots. And burning jealousy was precisely the emotion that she planned to avoid by marrying Braddon.
Sophie leaned her head back on the latticed frame of the summerhouse and closed her eyes. Her mind was clearing, the anguish draining out of her. What I should do is hasten my marriage to Braddon, she thought. Because once I really am Braddon’s wife, I shall stop hankering after the greatest rake of them all, Patrick Foakes.
Her eyes snapped open as there was a light tug on the scarf around her neck.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you come up the walk,” she said lamely.
“Hmm.” Patrick Foakes increased his tug on the scarf and Sophie obediently bent her neck as the silky band slipped from her neck. She felt suddenly shy, meeting Patrick’s eyes.
“Thinking about the delights of marriage?” His tone was soft, unthreatening.
Sophie stood up. She had no illusions about where this conversation might lead her. She took a step forward, but Patrick was standing in the doorway of the summerhouse, one knee up and braced against the top step. He didn’t move back as she approached.
A pulse of excitement started in Sophie’s spine, a weakening tremor of electricity that drifted down her legs.
“The delights of marriage,” she repeated meditatively—wickedly. A smile trembled at the corner of her mouth. “Are they very sweet?” She cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive robin.
“I believe so.” Patrick’s face was impassive. She was an unbelievable tease, Sophie York. Damned if he’d ever met anyone as alluring in his life. Where her hair had fallen to the side, the moonlight painted her neck as white as a lily.
He stepped up and into the summerhouse. His large hand captured the fall of her hair, tugging her head to the side.
“What are you doing?” Sophie wasn’t very worried; if she was honest with herself, she’d waited for this moment all night. His large body was so close to her that she could feel its heat through the flimsy material of her gown.
“Do you know a poem with a line like this: ‘Your lips are red, soft and sweet’?” Patrick’s voice was husky. She felt his fingers running down the silken currents of her curls. “Do you know that poem, Sophie?”
“No,” she said a little shakily. He tugged on her hair again, her head tilting once more, as his right hand swept her against his muscled body. Her tiny gasp lingered on the air as warm lips caressed the sweep of her exposed throat.
“ ‘Your cherry lip, re
d, soft and sweet, proclaims such fruit for taste is meet,’ “ Patrick said lazily, punctuating his words with kisses.
“Is this one of the ‘delights of marriage’?” Sophie was desperately trying to be rational in the face of a whirlwind of sensations.
“One of ‘em,” Patrick agreed. He was holding her against him with both hands, hands that were wandering all over her small body, now touching the arch of her bottom, the tender curve where her leg began (Sophie gasped), and finally the generous curve of her breast, so easily released from Madame Carême’s tiny bodice.
“I don’t know if …”
Sophie’s voice trailed off as Patrick’s mouth closed over hers, a commanding, silencing promise of unnamed delights. Unbidden, she opened her mouth and welcomed his invasion, her arms creeping up to tangle in the curls of his hair.
When Patrick pulled away and cocked his ear toward Sheffield House, her body naturally swayed back toward him, her mouth raised.
“You’re a treasure.” Patrick’s voice had a husky helplessness to it. “Sophie.”
Sophie smiled, emboldened by the heady freedom of the shadowy summerhouse. “If I am a treasure, do you have the key?”
An answering smile lit Patrick’s eyes as he pulled her against him, almost roughly.
“Odd.” His voice was deep velvet. “They seem to be playing even though we have the scarf.” Sure enough, Sophie dimly heard the excited calls of players in the distance.
The sound brought her back to her senses. “No! We might be seen!”
Patrick stopped immediately, lifting his lips from hers. “That’s the only thing that bothers you, isn’t it?” His mouth twisted. “If someone discovered us, you would have to marry me rather than your earl.”
Sophie didn’t grasp his meaning. Patrick’s face was caught in a beam of moonlight that stroked down through the lattice roof of the summerhouse. It caught the planes and angles of his bones, emphasizing the rough beauty of his cheekbones and the dark shadow cast by his eyelashes.
Unthinkingly she raised her fingers to his cheek. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
But Patrick pulled back from her touch. “I’m very much afraid, Lady Sophie, that your betrothed will be missing your presence.” His tone was courteous, but his jaw was set.
Sophie opened her mouth—and then stopped. He was right.
Patrick’s expression hardened at the heartbeat of silence between them. Briskly he wound the purple scarf around his arm. “It was lovely to see you, Countess. As always.”
Sophie shuddered, standing there in the warm darkness. Two tears snaked their way down her cheeks.
Oh God, she’d done it. Without getting married, she’d managed to ruin her life by falling in love with a rake. Two more tears followed the first ones.
Then Sophie straightened her back in an unconscious imitation of her mother’s ramrod-straight spine. At least he would never know … and the world would never know. She would make certain, absolutely certain, from that moment forward, that all of London thought she was desperately in love with Braddon. If they even suspected what she felt for Patrick, the humiliation would be unending. Sophie shuddered again.
Walking from the garden, Sophie fell into the company of two young ladies who were chattering feverishly about scarves and stolen kisses. Together they flung themselves through the doors to the house, Sophie’s giggle sounding hollow to her ears.
In its inimitable way, the English weather had suddenly decided to stop imitating a southern clime. Wispy rain hissed into the garden torches, and footmen promptly pulled the doors shut behind the girls.
Braddon was sitting next to his mother and looked up gratefully when Sophie approached. “My lord.” She gave him a blinding smile.
Braddon bowed. “Lady Sophie, I believe that they are calling for a dance. Will you do me the honor?”
As they moved rather ponderously into a boulanger, Sophie had a moment’s qualm. A lifetime of labored dancing lay ahead of her. Nothing in her experience of the world led her to believe that Braddon’s waistline would lessen after marriage; in fact, he looked as if he might attain the girth of his deceased papa.
But when they reached the bottom of the room, she looked up to find Braddon’s friendly blue eyes twinkling down at her. “Did you have a good time in the garden, Lady Sophie? Some infernal game Lady Sheffield thought up, what? I had the scarf myself for a bit,” he confided, “but then Patrick Foakes wandered up, bold as brass, and he had another one, just like mine. So it looks as if she was playing a bit of ducks and drakes with us, don’t you know.”
Sophie thought about that and wondered. Ducks and drakes was right. Two scarves—and how had Patrick found her so quickly?
“Braddon,” she said, “shall we sit comfortably for a moment or two? I should dearly love to discuss something with you.”
Braddon looked slightly alarmed. Ladies who announced the wish to converse with a person normally didn’t have a very pleasant topic in mind, in his experience.
Sure enough, a moment later he was shocked to the backbone.
“But—but—Lady Sophie!”
“I simply can’t wait. My feelings for you are so strong.” Sophie’s eyes were sweetly anguished, looking up at Braddon’s face.
She saw immediately that there was no point in insisting that she wished to elope due to love. The concept wasn’t in Braddon’s emotional vocabulary. She lowered her voice.
“It’s my mother. She’s driving me to the brink. You and I”—she put her hand on Braddon’s arm—”are adults, for goodness’ sake.”
“Absolutely.” Braddon was still uncertain, but he felt a sympathetic glow when Sophie mentioned her mama. Now there they really had something in common. “I know just what you mean,” he confided. “My mama has … well, you know her.”
“Then let’s elope!” Sophie looked up into Braddon’s face hopefully.
“Can’t do it, m’dear.” Braddon was shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be proper. Plus, my mother would never forget it, and I would hear about it the rest of my life. Do you know, she’s still talking about the time I disobeyed her and ran off to see a cockfight? I was all of twelve years old.”
Sophie leaned in toward Braddon, consciously making her expression as beguiling as she could. She pouted slightly.
“Oh, Braddon, you aren’t afraid of your mother, are you?”
“Naturally,” Braddon retorted. “My mother’s a terrifying old bird, you ask anyone. Besides”—and he looked suspicious—”isn’t this all because of you being afraid of your mama?”
Sophie was just marshaling her arguments for a new attack when a stern voice broke into their conversation. Sophie’s mother, the marchioness, was standing before them, the jut of her bosom indicating the utmost distaste.
“This party,” she said, her tone dripping with rancor, “is a disgrace.”
Automatically Sophie looked about for her father. There he was, seated quite properly next to Sylvester Bredbeck. In fact, George had acted with propriety all evening, at least at those points at which she had glimpsed him.
Braddon hastily rose and offered the marchioness his chair.
Eloise sat down, although she was clearly longing to call for her coach. “Miss Daphne Boch cannot be located,” she remarked in glacial tones, “and neither can our host’s brother, Patrick Foakes.” She leveled a basilisk stare at her daughter. “It appears that they were last seen heading into the garden. Miss Daphne’s brother can’t seem to find her.”
Braddon gulped. “I’m sure they will reappear very quickly,” he said, all too aware of the stories that had circulated about Sophie and Patrick.
Sophie stared down at her lap. Somehow her fingers had laced themselves so tightly around one another that they didn’t look as if they’d ever undo.
“I doubt that young lady will be foolish enough to reject Foakes’s hand.” Eloise dealt her daughter another enraged look. It galled Eloise to the quick that her daughter had made a fool of herself w
ith a man who clearly made a hobby of compromising young ladies. Foakes must be desperate for marriage or some such.
Sophie felt Braddon’s shoulder press comfortingly against hers as he drew up a chair. His voice was soothing. “Patrick told me that Lady Sophie rejected his suit, and I can say only that I consider it a stroke of the greatest good fortune that she was still available to accept my hand.”
Braddon picked up Sophie’s knotted hands and gave them a brisk shake, pulling them apart. Then he romantically raised the limp hand he held, pressing a kiss on its back.
The marchioness looked at Braddon approvingly. Here was a young man with proper sentiment, and a pretty way of saying things too. In fact, he quite reminded Eloise of the bucks who used to court her in her youth.
Sophie’s heart was racing. Patrick was going to be married, going to be married, married to that French tart Daphne.
“Maman,” she said, raising her head for the first time. “I seem to have quite a headache coming on. May Lord Slaslow escort me back to our house?”
Eloise bent a stern eye on her daughter. Was she going to wreck her engagement by some rash, impudent behavior that would make the earl take a disgust for her? No. In fact, Sophie looked a bit pinched and rather pale. A motherly frown crossed Eloise’s face.
“Of course,” she responded. “I shall rouse your father and make our farewells as soon as possible. And I shall give your apologies and those of Lord Slaslow to our host and hostess, as soon as they can be located.” She cast a sharp look around the garden room but neither Alex nor Charlotte was to be seen.
“Do go home immediately, Sophie, and ask Simone to have Cook make you a posset. There’s nothing like one of Cook’s possets for a nervous headache.”
Sophie smiled at her mother and rose, clutching Braddon’s velvet coat with bloodless fingers. Braddon was such an accommodating person, she thought gratefully, as he whisked her out of the room full of chattering couples. No one was talking about anything but the disappearance of Daphne Boch, Patrick Foakes, and Daphne’s brother, Lucien. The general consensus was that Lucien had challenged Patrick and they were at this very moment exchanging the names of their seconds.
