Midnight Pleasures (18 page)

As they drew apart, husband and wife looked at each other for a moment. Patrick was shocked, his breath coming fast, his body urgently aware of every facet of Sophie’s body. Sophie was aware only of the wanton way she had pressed against Patrick. Had anyone been able to see her knees buckle?

There was a little rustle in the chapel. Members of the
ton
were used to couples who turned briskly and trotted down the aisle together to the sound of trumpets, couples who wasted little time looking at each other.

“Oh my, I could almost think that it
was
a love match,” Lady Penelope Luster said to her best friend. “Just look at the way he’s looking at her! It’s enough to make me swoon, I do declare.”

“Oh, don’t be such a widgeon, Penelope,” her companion replied, in a whistling half-shriek. “That’s the same look he was giving her when I found them together at my ball a month or so ago, and let me tell you, that look has nothing to do with love!
You
wouldn’t know, since you were never married.”

Penelope shot her friend a look of near hatred. What did Sarah Prestlefield know of “looks”? She was a stout dowager of fifty-some and Penelope would eat her hat if Lord Prestlefield had ever looked at Sarah the way in which Patrick Foakes had just looked at his new wife. “I don’t care what you say, Sarah,” Penelope stated. “They appear the most romantic couple in the world to me.”

Lady Prestlefield turned up her nose in a gesture of patent disbelief.

“I’ll tell you something, Sarah,” Penelope persisted. “Only a slow-top would think that any woman in her right mind would choose Slaslow over Patrick Foakes.”

Sarah cast her another long-suffering look. “You’re a fool, Penelope,” she said shortly. “Slaslow is an
earl
. No woman in her right mind would turn him down for a younger brother, no matter how rich Foakes is.”

The newly married couple was nearing their pew, and the way in which Patrick Foakes had folded his wife’s arm into his, making her walk very close to him down the aisle, only strengthened Penelope’s belief in the love match.

Besides, the Earl of Slaslow was walking directly behind his former betrothed, and his mild resemblance to a bulldog made her shudder. To Penelope’s mind, Patrick’s sooty eyes had distinct precedence over Braddon’s plump amiability. Wealth and titles had nothing to do with this … this air of sensuality that breathed from Patrick Foakes.

“Look at that,” Lady Prestlefield said. “Erskine Dewland is walking again. I thought the doctors said he would never walk.”

Penelope watched Erskine—Quill, as he was known to his friends—make his way down the aisle with disinterest. Then she twisted about to watch the newlyweds leave. The great doors stood open and the Foakeses were standing at the top of the marble steps with their backs to the chapel. A ray of lazy sunshine caught them there, turning Sophie into a slim golden flame and Patrick into a dusky winter god next to her summer glow. As Penelope watched, Patrick bent over to kiss his bride again.

“You can say what you like,” Penelope Luster said fiercely to her closest friend. “But I shall always maintain that this is a love match! And I don’t intend to entertain anyone else’s opinions on the subject.”

Sarah cast a sideways glance at Penelope’s tightly closed lips. Penelope was a mild woman most of the time, but when she took a notion, she clung to it like a cur.

“All right, Penelope, all right,” she whispered. Sarah patted Penelope’s hand. “I’ll agree with you, of course. And you know that Maria loves a romance. Look at her—she’s sniffing into a handkerchief.” The Countess Maria Sefton was one of the most influential ladies of the London
ton
.

And so it was that Patrick Foakes was able to sweep away the reigning beauty of London, steal her from his own best friend, marry her out of hand, and escape with impunity. Rather than turning up their noses or whispering cruel commentary out of the corners of their mouths, the London
ton
glowed with consciousness of their own generosity. Such sweet, beautiful children, Patrick and Sophie! Lovers will be lovers, people reminded themselves.

Braddon manfully did his best, swallowing his resentment at losing yet another perfectly good woman to the Foakes brothers.

“It was like Romeo and Juliet,” he said carelessly, as Lord Winkle sidled his way over to him at the ball following the wedding and asked how it felt, having his closest friend steal his betrothed. “Couldn’t stand in their way, could I? Like Tristan and …” He felt a bit uncertain. What were the names of all those confounded lovers they had to learn about in school?

“Tristan and Isolde?” Miss Cecilia Commonweal, commonly known as Sissy, said helpfully.

“Yes, exactly.” Braddon smiled at her in a grateful sort of way.

“Although,” Sissy added punctiliously, “Tristan was Isolde’s uncle, so that example is not quite as romantic as Romeo and Juliet. Abelard and Eloise were another famous pair of lovers you might consider, except I believe that something quite
unfortunate
happened to Abelard, so that wouldn’t be a proper example either.”

Braddon’s eyes glazed over. Sissy wasn’t a bad girl, except that she was getting a little long in the tooth, and spoke in the oddest, breathless fashion. A week ago he might have considered her for a bride. But all that searching was over.

When Braddon didn’t respond, Sissy continued. “As a matter of fact, Romeo and Juliet make a rather melancholy exemplar, wouldn’t you think, Lord Slaslow? Given the fact that he poisoned himself?”

Braddon smiled at Sissy again and cast a haunted look about the room. Where was his mother? Or rather, was she in this room, in which case he had better flee?

His mother had taken the news of his broken engagement badly, fainting onto a couch and calling for restoratives. But when Braddon tried to steal away, leaving her to the ministrations of his sisters, she had bounded to her feet and unleashed a flood of speech designed to impress upon him his duty to marry immediately.

Well, he was going to marry. Just not the kind of girl his mother had in mind. Thank goodness he’d never invited any of his friends to meet Madeleine! Now he needed to have a quick talk with Sophie before he could gracefully bow out of the ball. He’d done everything possible to convince all of London that Sophie and Patrick had married for love. Trouble was that the town was very empty of news lately, and with nearly a dozen gossip columns published every day, they all needed something to talk about.

Suddenly Braddon stiffened like a hound on the scent. He had caught sight of something alarming.

“Miss Commonweal.” Braddon bowed deeply. He had been trained by an expert (his mama), and his bows were so low as to be positively alarming. Sissy watched with some interest as the bald spot on his head fell and rose.

She laid a gloved hand on his arm, cutting off his excuses. “Will you escort me to my mother, my lord?” Sissy had no more wish to marry Braddon than he did her, but she loathed being deserted in the middle of a ballroom.

Braddon involuntarily bit the inside of his lip. “I can’t do that, Miss Commonweal,” he finally said, realizing that she was staring at him in surprise. “Your mama’s talkin’ to my mama, and …”

Sissy gave him a wry smile. She knew all about irate mothers. In fact, she doubted that the mother of a late-marrying son was half as angry as the mother of a late-marrying daughter.

Braddon’s eyes brightened. “Would you like to speak with the bride and groom for a moment? They just entered the room.”

“I would be very pleased to do so, my lord,” Sissy said, relieved.

Braddon wound his way through the crowd and before she knew it Sissy had been planted in front of Patrick Foakes, a man she scarcely knew.

“Excuse us for a moment, won’t you, Patrick?” Braddon whisked Lady Sophie around to the far side of a large pillar.

Sissy felt consumed with embarrassment. What on earth was Braddon speaking to the bride about? And what would Sophie’s husband think about it?

Patrick Foakes had the trick of turning his face coldly expressionless when he wished to, but Sissy felt that she wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of this particular man. She peered up at him anxiously.

“I understand that you are taking a wedding trip? I trust you are not going to the Continent, given the inclement political situation.”

Patrick smiled at the girl before him. What was her name? Sissy, wasn’t it? Why on earth was she wearing those ridiculous plumes on her head, long after every woman in London had discarded them?

“We are merely sailing down the coast—leaving tonight,” he replied.

Sissy frowned. “Tonight? I was under the impression that boats could leave only on the turning of the tide. And surely the tide has already turned, given that
The Times
…”

Patrick let her voice fade out of his consciousness. Why on earth is Braddon ranting at my new wife? he wondered.

My
wife
, Patrick thought with a sense of giddy ferocity. It had a nice, plummy sound,
wife
. His eyes lazily drifted over Sophie’s slim white arm, which was all he could see around the pillar. Sissy Commonweal went on and on about tides.

Patrick felt ripe with self-congratulation. He’d done the whole rigmarole just right. Taken his wife’s virginity before the wedding night, so that they could both look forward to uninterrupted pleasure tonight. First thing, he’d draw that gown off one shoulder and then kiss her all the way down her arm, to the inside of her elbow….

But Patrick’s plans were interrupted by two things: Miss Cecilia Commonweal’s voice had droned its way into silence, and he was growing increasingly irritated by Braddon’s monopoly of Sophie. This wasn’t the way to convince the London
ton
that Braddon didn’t give a fig about Sophie jilting him! And what were they talking about, anyway?

Sissy gazed at her pink slippers in an agony of perplexed embarrassment. The whole room could probably hear the Earl of Slaslow’s sharp voice. Why, he was almost shouting at Lady Sophie. She had distinctly heard him say, “You owe me that, at least!”

Then she realized that Patrick Foakes had come out of his daydream and was looking at her again, with a charming smile. Surely he had heard Slaslow’s comment, but he didn’t look as if he cared a bit.

“Would you like to dance?” Patrick slid his hand under Sissy’s arm and turned her toward the ballroom floor.

“Well …” Sissy glanced uneasily toward Braddon and Sophie. They seemed to be deep in argument. “Shouldn’t you dance with your wife? I’m sure that you must wish to be dancing with her.”

Patrick’s smile grew a trifle cooler. “Not at all. Given that I wish to dance with you.” And without another word he swept the annoying girl into a line of couples waiting to make their way down the floor in a reel.

Sissy colored. It was shocking to find herself on the dance floor with Patrick Foakes, and with everyone watching, of that she was sure.

“Oh goodness,” she whispered. “Am I turning crimson?”

Patrick grinned at that. “No. Should you be?”

“Yes!” Sissy had utterly lost her composure. “I’m dancing with the groom, and your reputation, you know, and your wife …”

“Miss Cecilia—or is it Sissy?” At her shy nod, Patrick continued. “Well, Sissy, in a year we can twirl all about this ballroom and no one will give us a second glance.”

Sissy considered this suggestion and didn’t find it comforting. She had just caught her mama’s eye, and she looked to be in a high rage.

“Why in a year?” she asked. Her mama was always telling her that it was a lady’s duty to keep a conversation going.

“In a year we’ll both be old married people, and Lord knows, no one pays attention to married people dancing together.”

“They will to you,” Sissy blurted, then hastily added, “And anyway I shan’t be married.”

Patrick smiled at her. The girl’s miserable face had awakened a glimmer of sympathy in him. “Yes, you will.”

“Oh no, I never
took
, you see.” Sissy was so beside herself that she found herself laying bare her most agonized thoughts. “I kept falling in love with the wrong people, and they never came up to scratch, as my mother says.” She tacked on that last phrase, belatedly realizing how excruciatingly vulgar she sounded.

But Patrick just laughed. His eyes were looking at her so warmly that Sissy felt her toes curl.

“I’ll give you some advice,” he said. “Pick out the young man you want. Then, every time you talk to him, look at him right in the eye. No matter what he says, and especially, no matter how idiotic it is, tell him that he just had a
tremendously interesting
idea. Young men are nervous, and they don’t like to be corrected.”

Sissy was looking up at Patrick as if he were an oracle. “Do you think so? Because my mother has always said that I should keep up my end of the conversation, and so often I find myself doing all the talking!”

“Let them do all the talking,” Patrick said cynically. “Men like the sound of their own voices, you know. And don’t tell ‘em how much you know. Once you’re married, you can lecture all day long on ocean currents, if you wish.”

Having reached the head of the line, Patrick and Sissy started their progress down the floor: around, around again, up, back, step left, twirl right—and Patrick swept Sissy to a gentle stop in front of her mother.

He bowed, with a flourish. “Miss Commonweal, this dance has been a pleasure.”

She curtsied. “Thank you, sir.”

Patrick bent close and whispered in her ear, “And get rid of those plumes, Sissy.”

With a final wink he was gone. Sissy stared after him, repeating his words in her mind. When she turned, her mother was smiling, a thin smile that boded ill for the future but signaled the need for a show of warmth between mother and daughter.

“Dearest,” she was saying. “I would like to introduce you to Fergus Morgan. Mr. Morgan is the son of Squire Morgan, over in the next county. He has just returned from an extended trip abroad.”

Cecilia looked over the young man quickly as he bowed before her. Pleasant blue eyes, a little bald, but he looked nice.