Midnight Pleasures

by Eloisa James

  “I am quite certain that Patrick and I will have no disagreements over the matter,” Sophie replied. “I doubt he will express any interest in my whereabouts during the afternoons, but if he does, I will inform him that I am visiting the children’s section of Bridewell.”

  “Bridewell! Patrick would never let you go to Bridewell,” Braddon exclaimed, thinking of the hospital for the poor, which was located in a highly disreputable area.

  Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to browbeat Madeleine like this?” she asked sweetly. “Because you might wish to know that ladies visit Bridewell regularly and play with the foundling orphans. We are welcomed by the hospital staff.”

  “Oh Lord,” Braddon said, flustered. “Are you sure, Sophie? Why not simply tell Patrick, and then things will be so much easier?”

  “I won’t. And if you tell him, I won’t lift a finger to help your Madeleine.”

  “Of all the stupid crotchets!”

  Sophie’s frayed temper mounted. “If it’s a stupid crotchet, then you can find someone else to help you, can’t you!”

  Braddon cast her an appalled look. Trust a woman to start screeching just as a fellow had to transfer the reins to his whip hand.

  “Don’t give it another thought,” Braddon said, once he had made the delicate maneuver and his horses were gently trotting through the archway and into St. James’s Park. “I’m sure you’re right. Now I think on it, Patrick wasn’t at all nice about my last scheme.”

  In fact, the more Braddon thought about Patrick’s reaction to his “broken leg,” the gladder he was that Patrick would never know about his newest scheme. The expression on Patrick’s face when Braddon started smashing his adhesive plaster was not to be forgotten, but neither was the lecture he read him afterward. Fairly made his ears peal, it did.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Braddon said with sudden vigor. “The fewer people who know the truth, the better. You, Madeleine’s father, and I are more than enough.”

  Just then Sophie leaned over, waving her gloved hand. “Oh, do stop, Braddon. Look, there’s Charlotte and Alex!”

  Braddon drew up and Sophie watched eagerly as Alex drew their two-wheeler parallel to Braddon’s landaulet.

  “Nice rig you have there,” Braddon said to Alex. He was a friend of Patrick’s, rather than of Alex’s, and he remained a little in awe of Patrick’s twin brother. Patrick had a ready temper an’ all, but Alex had a steely glint in his eye that always made Braddon feel like squirming.

  “Where’s Patrick?” Charlotte called cheerfully from the far side of the two-wheeler.

  Sophie squirmed. If only it weren’t an egregious break in decorum for a woman to dash out of a carriage and run across the grass to another vehicle. She just shook her head, trusting that silence would tell Charlotte that something was wrong.

  Her friend’s response was immediate: “Will you join us for a light supper tonight, Sophie?”

  Sophie leaned forward, trying to see around Braddon’s considerable bulk. “I would be happy to do so, Charlotte. I’m not quite sure what Patrick’s plans are, however. We arrived in London only yesterday.”

  “It’s early days in the marriage,” Alex said. “I’m sure Patrick will trail after you. At any rate, we must return to the house, Charlotte.” He winked at Sophie. “Some people are henpecked by their wives, but we are henpecked by our nanny. It’s time for Sarah and Pippa to pay a visit to the drawing room.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Poor dears. Pippa appears all starched and miserable, and must act like a true lady for a brutal half-hour. Shall we see you at eight o’clock?”

  Sophie nodded.

  When Patrick had not returned by eight o’clock, Sophie left a neutrally worded note with the butler, Clemens, said good night to Henri, and directed the carriage to her brother-in-law’s house.

  When she arrived, Sophie surprised herself by not blurting out all the details of their quarrel. She had been longing to tell Charlotte … but did she really want Charlotte to know that her husband had forthrightly admitted to marrying her for lust? One had to maintain a corner of dignity, somewhere, somehow.

  Dinner passed in chatter about baby Sarah’s new tooth and the French soldiers rehabilitating in Wales. So it wasn’t until Alex retreated to his study that Sophie met with a challenge.

  Charlotte didn’t bother with niceties. “Where on earth is he, Sophie? Have you quarreled?”

  Sophie sat down on a low settee, constriction burning in her chest. “Oh, Charlotte,” she said, trying not to sound pitiful, “I have the devil of a temper, you know that.”

  Charlotte’s grave eyes looked straight past the light comment and into Sophie’s eyes. “Sophie,” she said ominously, her voice a command.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Sophie said. Then she braced her shoulders. “I suppose he might be spending the evening with his mistress.”

  “Pooh!” Charlotte retorted. “He hasn’t a mistress, and you’re a nitwit if you think Patrick has eyes for anyone but you.”

  “We quarreled over Braddon,” Sophie said.

  “Braddon!” Whatever Charlotte had expected, it wasn’t that. “What on earth is there to quarrel about?”

  “Braddon invited me for a drive and Patrick refused to allow me to go.”

  “Goodness,” Charlotte replied faintly. “He must be jealous. How very odd.” She met Sophie’s eyes and a smile irresistibly grew between them. “Jealous of Braddon! Goodness, how absurd men are! Well, it’s not as if you have the inclination to spend much time with Braddon.” She giggled. “Oh yes, Braddon the gay lothario, stealing Patrick’s beautiful new wife!

  “If jealousy is making Patrick quarrelsome,” Charlotte added, “avoiding Braddon should do the trick.”

  Since Sophie had promised Braddon to tell no one about her plan to teach Madeleine the rigors of ladyhood, all she could do was nod in agreement to Charlotte’s undoubtedly sage advice.

  Back home, Clemens took Sophie’s pelisse and asked whether she would like some refreshment. As she declined, he handed her the note she had left for Patrick. “Given that his lordship has not returned,” Clemens intoned, bowing as his mistress climbed the stairs.

  Sophie looked at the delicate clock in her chamber. It was eleven-thirty at night. She had stayed at Charlotte’s house until the last possible moment, hoping against hope that Patrick would arrive home before she did.

  Well, Sophie thought, unpinning her bonnet and tossing it onto a chair, Mama and Papa’s marital bliss survived precisely two months, but we are rather less successful. She counted on her fingers. My husband has vacated my bed in a mere seven weeks … obviously, my charms are eclipsed by my mama’s. All those verses about the “heavenly fair” Eloise must have been true.

  Or perhaps, Sophie thought bitterly, Papa thought he was in love when they got married and only found out later that he had married for lust. Whereas my clearheaded husband never considered love as a reason for marriage.

  Sophie finally went to bed at one o’clock, but she didn’t sleep. Neither did she cry. She lay, dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling above her bed and straining her ears to hear a noise in the adjoining chamber. But none came. At six o’clock she heard Patrick’s man, Keating, enter the room and open the drapes. Perhaps Keating will think he slept in this room, Sophie thought drearily. It hardly matters.

  At eight o’clock in the morning, Sophie finally heard brisk boots walking into the chamber next door and a jovial voice said, “Lord yes, man. Look at my face! I need a shave and a bath.” She heard the rustle and thud of clothing being removed.

  Sophie felt as if someone had placed a huge boulder on her chest. But still she didn’t cry. At last the sounds of splashing next door quieted. When her own door opened again, Sophie waved out her maid and finally went to sleep.

  Patrick wandered around the house all morning waiting for Sophie to rise, until he realized that she must be keeping to her room in order to avoid seeing him. He summoned Simone and cast
a gimlet eye on her when she insisted that her mistress was, indeed, asleep. At three in the afternoon he finally lost patience when Braddon appeared on the doorstep.

  “ ‘Lo, Patrick,” Braddon said cheerily. “Where’s your wife? I’m here to take her for a drive.”

  “She isn’t up yet,” Patrick drawled.

  Sophie had, in fact, just emerged from her room, but she paused at the top of the stairs when she heard Patrick’s voice.

  “Didn’t you go out for a drive with Sophie yesterday?”

  “That’s it,” Braddon said. “Takin’ her out again today, too. So, how is married life?” Braddon was in a mood akin to bliss. Madeleine was going to be his wife and all was right with the world.

  Patrick glanced at him, and spoke with icy carelessness. “If I had to be leg-shackled, it’s not bad.”

  “Leg-shackled!”

  For a man who was trying to seduce his wife from under his own nose, Patrick thought, Braddon had no right to look so shocked.

  “You’re married to one of the most beautiful women in the ton, probably the most beautiful, and you call it leg-shackled?”

  “Could be worse,” Patrick said laconically. “Given her lack of siblings, likely I won’t have a lot of brats underfoot.”

  Sophie felt as if each word were an arrow burning its way into her chest.

  “That’s a bit raw, isn’t it, old fellow?” Braddon began patting his pockets, looking for his snuff case. “I say, Patrick, have you tried my new mixture? It has rose hips in it … somewhere here.”

  Patrick spoke through his clenched teeth. “I don’t like essence of roses in snuff,” he said.

  Braddon comfortably helped himself. “Do you suppose Sophie will be much longer? My horses are standing in the street.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Patrick replied.

  Braddon cocked an eyebrow at him. “I must say, Patrick, you don’t sound like a merry bridegroom.”

  “I’m merry. I’m merry.” Patrick felt indescribably drained. He had worked in the warehouse half the night, and then had come home only to fall asleep in his own library, clutching a brandy.

  “Are you still planning to set up your mistress in a house in Mayfair?” Patrick asked casually.

  “No,” Braddon replied. “As a matter of fact, we went our separate ways.” He avoided looking at Patrick, who had a discomfitting way of knowing when Braddon was fibbing.

  Patrick raised a sardonic eyebrow at Braddon’s downcast face. Ashamed, was he? Damn well should be, given that he had apparently ditched his mistress in order to set up Sophie in her place.

  Both men turned around as Sophie, exquisitely groomed and wearing a shimmering pale rose gown, walked down the stairs. Her eyes surveyed her husband with perfect friendliness.

  “I hope you are having a good day.”

  Try as he might, Patrick could sense no bite in Sophie’s mild words.

  She took Braddon’s outstretched arm and gave her husband a charming smile. “Perhaps I shall see you later?”

  Patrick shook his head, not because he had plans to eat elsewhere, but just to see whether he could shake her calm. Apparently not.

  “I’ll wish you good night, in that case,” Sophie said pleasantly. She and Braddon walked out the door.

  “Damme,” Patrick said. He turned and walked back into the library, where he had spent the night.

  Sophie swallowed hard as she climbed into Braddon’s carriage, biting back the wish to retreat to her bedchamber. But, in fact, the afternoon turned out to be a delight. When Sophie considered whether or not to grant Braddon’s request, she didn’t give a second thought to the woman he had fallen in love with. A horse trainer’s daughter? Impossible. But Madeleine was wonderful: French, practical, and very funny.

  She and Sophie found themselves in gales of laughter, discussing the intricacies of proper behavior. Aspects of manners that Sophie had simply taken for granted, Madeleine found ridiculous.

  “But why must I fib if someone spills his soup on me?”

  “Because you must,” Sophie said lamely. “Perhaps one day a drunken duchess will splatter meat juice all over your face. It happens; I’ve seen it. Even as you wipe your face, you must deny that the accident happened.”

  “Poppycock!” Madeleine had a laugh that burst out of her like small fireworks.

  Teaching her to be a lady wasn’t going to be as difficult as Charlotte had thought. Madeleine had an innate, natural grace that simplified their lessons. Sophie taught her a court curtsy, la révérence en arrière. By the end of the afternoon, Madeleine had it to perfection. She sank back with exquisite grace, her back foot sliding on the toes so that only her heels touched.

  Sophie’s mouth fell open. “It took me weeks of practice to achieve that, Madeleine!”

  Madeleine grinned. “I shall curtsy to each horse in the morning.” And they turned to the art of formal introduction.

  Chapter 18

  I could do it,” Mole urged. “Be the work of a moment, it would. The boy is around the stables at all hours.” Monsieur Foucault said nothing, and Mole couldn’t tell whether or not he appreciated this fine opportunity.

  “I’m telling you, sir, the lad is in the palm of me hand. I told him I know of a horse that can count to five. I’ll get him to meet me outside the house, and toss him in a carriage, and there we are!”

  Monsieur Foucault raised his eyebrows. “Where are we?”

  “Well, we’d have the young lad of the house,” Mole blustered, with the uneasy feeling that sand was draining away under his feet.

  “If by ‘lad’ you are implying that young Henri is Foakes’s son,” Foucault said languidly, “he is not. The boy is a French guttersnipe, picked up Lord knows where.”

  “But they like the boy, don’t they? News is that he’s having a tutor next week, and he told me himself that he’s being sent off to one of them fancy schools in the spring. We’d need to move fast, but I’ve got him in me palm,” Mole repeated. “An’ if they like him enough to hire him a tutor, then they’ll pay a pretty ransom for him. I’m thinking he’s a by-blow of Foakes’s, that’s what.”

  “But we don’t need a ransom,” Foucault said, the first signs of irritation appearing in his face. “Did you learn nothing of importance while you were entertaining all and sundry in the stables?”

  “They’re at the outs,” Mole said promptly. “The honeymoon is over, they say. He’s off every night, staying in his offices till all hours, never comes to her room at all, and she goes driving all the time with a great swell. They’re telling, in the stables, how she wanted to marry this swell but then something happened and she gave him the mitten.”

  “Interesting but not useful,” Foucault murmured. “Has François visited your humble abode, my dear Mole?” And, at his nod, “In that case, I shall request the pleasure of your company on Tuesday fortnight. We shall call on Patrick Foakes. You will be one Bayrak Mustafa, and I fancy that you speak no English. Will that be quite acceptable?”

  And without waiting for a response, Monsieur Foucault rubbed a fleck of dust off his knee-high boots and strolled from the room.

  Patrick stretched out his legs in the back of his box at Drury Lane and looked at his wife, who was sitting at the front of the box. If Lady Sophie York, the beautiful daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg, had been a social success, Lady Sophie Foakes, the delectable wife of the Honorable Patrick Foakes, was clearly going to be a leader of the ton. At the moment Sophie was surrounded by gentlemen. Marriageable girls were all very well in their own way, but young matrons acquired a group of admirers who were afraid of being pushed into wedlock if they paid special attention to a young girl, and who delighted in witticisms considered too bold for the ears of maidens.

  Patrick curled his lip as Sophie’s chuckling laughter erupted again. Her admirers bent toward her like willow trees in a storm. Trying to see down her gown, he thought sourly. Sophie was wearing an opera dress of deep gold, dipping low over her breasts.

&
nbsp; “Isn’t that dress rather formal for the theater?” Patrick had asked when she appeared in the foyer of their house, smoothing elbow-high gloves.

  Sophie had looked at him flirtatiously from under her lashes. “I like overdressing at times. It makes people think of undressing.”

  Patrick couldn’t think of a response. Even glancing at the smooth, creamy expanse of her breasts, almost completely exposed in that gown, made his groin tighten. He had quickly swathed Sophie in a velvet wrap and whisked her outside, afraid that his wife might see the evidence of his lust.

  What in the hell was he doing? She was his wife. Sophie showed no signs of being angry with him for their quarrel. But Patrick had spent the last few weeks walking the back streets of London, instead of ravishing his own wife, in his own bed, where he should be.

  Patrick took a deep breath. He was sitting behind the cluster of gallants who formed Sophie’s court, but even from where he sat he could see the way her breasts formed sweet, plump curves, thrust forward by her gown. He crossed his legs. It must be almost time for the damn play, A Christian Turned Turk, to start again. The Christian in question was lamentably slow at turning Turk, leaving Patrick far too much time to think about Sophie’s body. At least the end of intermission would mean the clodpoles who were hanging about his wife would leave their box. Naturally Braddon was part of the group. Patrick was developing a positive hatred for his old school friend.

  Sophie, in the front of the box, was aware of every restless move her husband made, although she studiously avoided looking at him. At the moment she was laughing and tapping Lucien Boch on the wrist with her fan. He was a particular favorite of hers, given that he excelled at the kind of light witticisms that didn’t seem too pointed.

  Lucien had captured her hand. He raised it to his lips. “I find myself a slave to your eyes, fair lady.”

  “God save you, then, because I won’t,” Sophie said impishly.

  “No one but you can save me…. You are a goddess!”