by Eloisa James
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.”
“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?�
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“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
Sophie 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.
&nbs
p; “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?”
