by Eloisa James
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
The 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.
She pressed even closer, and when Patrick’s hand left her head and started a seductive caress up her leg she made no protest. Her eyes stayed shut and her head fell back as he whispered something down her neck, a tongue like liquid fire pausing at the base of her throat.
And then his hand stopped. Sophie’s eyes flew open. Was he horrified? Somehow she found that without even noticing, she had been moved and was now half lying on Patrick’s desk, crushing a pile of papers under her. Her husband was leaning over her, his white shirt falling open in front—had she undone his collar?—showing muscles almost hidden in a mist of black curling hair. Irresistibly Sophie spread her hand flat on his chest, her fingers delicately rolling over the muscled ridges, curling in the tangles of chest hair.
Patrick looked down at his wife thoughtfully as his hand continued its caress. Where was the small ruffled band under which he normally slipped his fingers?
Sophie tipped back her head again, another small cry erupting from her as he continued his languid dance.
“No drawers?”
Sophie gulped and opened her eyes, staring at him half blinded. How could he sound so calm while he … he … Her body involuntarily twisted under his hand.
“No.” Her voice quavered.
“Why not?” Patrick prided himself on his reasonable tone. Of course he knew why not. Today was Thursday; today was Braddon’s day. Bloody hell, Sophie probably never wore drawers on Thursday. His hand stilled again, and something about the fierce silence which descended on the room made Sophie suddenly alert, like a fawn that hears a strange noise approaching, the unknown but dangerous sound of belling hounds. She gulped.
Patrick stared down at his wife, his beautiful wife. His! His, his, his: The word pounded against his ears, a drumbeat in his blood, a fire in his veins. Not his.
His wife sat up and wound her arms around his waist, hiding her face as her lips skimmed the hard ridges of his chest.
“When I was still in the nursery, I heard my nurse talking to one of the maids who was about to be married. I wasn’t supposed to be listening, but I was. And my nurse told her that if she wanted to … to enchant her husband, she should sometimes neglect to put on her undergarments.”
Her voice dropped even lower. “So this morning, well, you probably don’t remember it, but in the middle of the night you were caressing me. You were asleep,” she added hastily. “Anyway, this morning I thought I would neglect my drawers, but then of course Simone was dressing me and I couldn’t not put them on.”
Patrick was painfully aware of Sophie’s soft lips moving over his chest, punctuating her breathless words
with kisses, her breath tickling his hair.
“So I waited until she went downstairs,” Sophie continued, “and then I took my drawers off and I folded them exactly as she does, and I replaced them in the drawer. So that she wouldn’t know,” Sophie added reasonably. “But during luncheon I remembered that Simone almost always undresses me at night, and what would she think if I had somehow lost my drawers?”
Patrick felt a rush of feeling wash down his spine, a glorious relaxation of tension. This was his own silly Sophie. She was French enough to wear drawers in the first place—they were still considered fast by many Englishwomen—but she was English enough to quail at her maid’s reaction if she left them off.
“So,” Sophie’s voice was very breathless now, “so I came in to see what you were doing—”
Her voice broke off as Patrick pulled her sweet bottom up toward him, her legs instinctively going around his hips. He walked in three huge strides to the divan and put her down, going on his knees next to his startled wife. A soundless joy had grasped him, a yearning, delicious longing for possession of his wife’s body.
“Patrick!”
Patrick didn’t answer, just looked down at Sophie, his devil-black eyes laughing. Then he swooped down and pressed each eye closed with a kiss, at the same time as his hand pushed her gown up to her waist.
She was swollen, sweetly soft, softer than anything he’d ever felt before, and every touch of his was met by a gasping, pleading breath. Patrick grinned, deliberately taming the raging fire that threatened to take over his body. His lady wife waltzed in here without drawers … he’d be damned if he’d let the moment pass too quickly.
He turned the key in the door, and wrenched off his clothing. Then he eased his weight on top of Sophie, but that was all … he teased her, and teased her, enjoying the whimpering cries, and then the moment when her eyes snapped open and she said fiercely, “Patrick!”
He bent his head and ran a lazy tongue over Sophie’s lips, enticing her mouth to open, rubbing himself against her at the same time, carefully avoiding the arching demand of her hips.
