Midnight Pleasures

by Eloisa James

  “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.

  “I understand that you’re quite a literary expert,” Fergus said a trifle nervously.

  “She certainly is,” her mother interjected. “Cecilia knows everything about literary matters!”

  “I’m afraid my mama is exaggerating,” Sissy said in a dulcet tone, looking straight into Fergus’s eyes.

  “That’s a pity,” Fergus replied, a tiny frown appearing on his forehead. “Because I was hoping to start a poetry club. I just returned from Germany, and poetry clubs are the rage over there among younger people.”

  “Oh, what a tremendously interesting idea!” Sissy said, her eyes glowing. It was nice that she actually believed it.

  Fergus visibly perked up. “May I accompany you to dinner, Miss Commonweal? After this dance, I mean?”

  Sissy smiled and barely restrained herself from declaring dinner to be a tremendously interesting idea. “I’d love to. Perhaps you could tell me more about your idea for a poetry club.”

  Back at the pillar, on the other side of the room, Braddon and Sophie were, in fact, having an argument, just as Sissy had surmised.

  Braddon had initiated the conversation with all his usual grace. “Sophie,” he stated, “you must listen closely to what I have to say.”

  Sophie looked at Braddon in surprise. For one thing, he had addressed her formally during their brief engagement, at least when in public. Now she was “Sophie”?

  There was a brief pause. “I need your help,” he said, rather less confidently.

  Sophie smiled at her ex-betrothed. She felt expansively happy and willing to help anyone. “I’d be delighted to help you,” she assured him.

  Braddon relaxed and lost a bit of his anxious bulldog look. “Here’s the thing, Sophie. You know I have to get married right away.”

  She nodded, her eyes full of sympathy.

  “Well, I’ve found the woman I want to marry.” He gulped. This was the stickler. “The problem is that Maddie—Madeleine—isn’t a lady.”

  Sophie looked perplexed for a moment. Then her eyes widened.

  “No!” Braddon half shouted. “She’s not one of the muslin company either, Sophie. For goodness’ sake!”

  Sophie almost laughed at Braddon’s scandalized expression.

  “She’s a lady inside, Sophie. And I’m not going to marry anyone but her.” His tone was fierce. “I could have got up to the sticking point with you, Sophie, you know that.
But I’m not going to do it again. I want to marry Madeleine.”

  Sophie blinked at the matter-of-fact way in which Braddon characterized their engagement. At least she needn’t worry about having hurt his feelings by jilting him. “Who … who is she?”

  “Her father’s name is Vincent Garnier,” Braddon replied. His eyes pleaded for understanding. “Garnier has protected Madeleine’s reputation just as if she were a lady,” he said. “No one in London knows her, Sophie. No one except me, I mean. They came over from France after the troubles, and Madeleine doesn’t even speak perfect English yet.” He took a deep breath. “Her father is a horse trainer.”

  Sophie’s heart sank. “You can’t marry the daughter of a horse trainer, Braddon.”

  But Braddon smiled. “I’m not going to. I’m going to marry the daughter of a French aristocrat, guillotined back in ‘93.”

  Sophie stared at him a moment. “Oh, no! Braddon, you can’t!”

  “Yes, I can,” he replied, unyielding. “And what’s more, Sophie, you are going to help me.”

  She shook her head.

  “You owe me that, at least! You broke off our engagement without so much as a by-your-leave, and the very day after you convinced me to elope to Gretna Green. Do you know how that makes me look?” Braddon’s tone conveyed a strong sense of ill usage.

  Sophie felt an embarrassed flush rising in her cheeks. “I am sorry, Braddon,” she said humbly. “But I can’t—what on earth could I do to help you marry this, this horse trainer’s daughter?”

  “You’re going to teach her,” he replied. “You’re going to turn her into a lady, Sophie. You know all the odd bits of etiquette and such. You teach ‘em to Madeleine, and she’ll go to a ball and pretend to be a French aristo. Then I’ll meet her and marry her right away, before people think about it too much.”

  “You’re cracked, Braddon,” Sophie said, staring at him in fascination. “This scheme will never work. It is impossible to transform a horse trainer’s daughter into a member of the French aristocracy.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Braddon’s face took on the bull-doggish look his family dreaded. “I don’t see anything so difficult about being a lady. After all, Madeleine is French, so no one will expect her to act exactly like an English girl. There’s swarms of French aristos over here, and I bet half of ‘em are fakers.”

  Sophie had heard her father complain of the same thing. “It still doesn’t solve the problem of making your friend—Madeleine is it?—into a lady.”

  “She’s a natural lady,” Braddon said positively. “It’ll be easy, Sophie. Tell her a few things about fans, and dresses, and the like. You can do it,” he urged. “And you do owe me the help. You’ve thrown me back to the wolves. I can’t go through that whole charade again, proposing marriage to a woman I don’t give a toss about.”

  “I wasn’t the one who broke my leg,” Sophie retorted, casting a dubious eye at Braddon’s obviously sound limbs.

  He shot her a nervous glance. “Least said about that whole night, the better.”

  They finally parted with Braddon’s pleas hanging in Sophie’s ears. “I’ll get Madeleine started, Sophie,” Braddon said, his long eyes beseeching. “I’ll teach her what I know, but I can only tell her what I’ve heard m’mother nagging at my sisters about over the years. You simply must help me.”

  Patrick had adroitly made his way about the ballroom, winding back toward the pillar where he had left his wife and Braddon Chatwin. He was stopped every few feet and offered congratulations. He had almost reached Sophie when Lord Breksby popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

  “I must offer my congratulations, my lord,” Breksby said. “And my gratitude. I understand that you will be making a small voyage down the coast. I assume you will cast an eye at the shore now and again.”

  Patrick bowed. “My pleasure,” he murmured.

  “I shall look forward to hearing about the fortifications, on your return,” Breksby said genially. “I trust your marriage has not altered your intention to travel abroad in the coming year?”

  Patrick stiffened at the implication that he might be henpecked before he was wed a full day. “Certainly not,” he replied in his most top-lofty manner.

  Breksby lowered his voice. “Then I must speak to you, when you return from your wedding voyage, about the gift we discussed.”

  Patrick stared at him for a moment. Oh yes, the scepter. Patrick bowed again. “I am at your disposal, naturally.”

  Breksby rubbed his hands together. “Good, good. We’ve had just a spot of bother over it. Just a nuisance, really. But I thought I should drop a hint in your ear.”

  What on earth was the old gaffer talking about? If they couldn’t make enough rubies stick to the confounded scepter, what was it to him? Patrick bowed again. “I will attend you as soon as I return,” he promised.

  By the time Patrick finally made it back to the pillar, Sophie and Braddon had disappeared. Patrick stood for a moment, scanning the crowd while avoiding the curious eyes of gossips. Sophie was nowhere to be seen. Just then his sister-in-law appeared at his side.

  “Sophie has gone to tidy herself,” Charlotte said pertly, smiling up at Patrick.

  He felt a surge of irritation. Was he so obvious? “I thought she’d run off with my groomsman,” he said, his tone sarcastic.

  Charlotte’s smile deepened. “Ah, the zeal of the newly-wed husband.” She laughed. “I expect I could disappear from a ballroom for an hour or so and Alex wouldn’t even note my absence!”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” her husband growled with mock ferociousness, appearing beside her and wrapping one arm around her waist.

  “Oh Lord,” Patrick said with a groan. “Uncle Richard has arrived.”

  Sure enough, their uncle had thrown off his bishop’s robes and emerged in all splendor to honor his nephew’s wedding. In the ceremonial glory of ecclesiastic garb, Richard Foakes took on the dignity of office, but in evening clothes he appeared a most awkward fop in white and gold, wearing a cherry and silver waistcoat and facings.

  “Is he wearing a cravat string?” Charlotte whispered in awed tones.

  “He wants only a sword knot to be a perfect dandy of some fifty years ago,” her husband said, chortling.

  Patrick began making his way toward the door, Alex and Charlotte behind him. Before they could reach the ballroom doors, however, Sophie appeared in the doorway behind Bishop Foakes. To Patrick’s secret pleasure, she greeted his uncle with a charming and unaffected smile. By the time Patrick reached her, the bishop was smiling like a cat in the cream and chuckling gently to himself.

  “Yes indeed, m’dear. Why, when I was young I was always meant to go into the church, being the third son. But I remember when strangers would fancy me to be a Member of Parliament at the least, and once I was mistaken for a Venetian Count.” The bishop patted Sophie’s hand with a good deal more enthusiasm than he had shown toward her in the chapel. “You’re a charming gel, a charming gel, m’dear. I don’t doubt but that you and young Patrick will be prodigiously happy together.”

  The little group of scandalmongers and gossips standing to the left took note of the readiness of the Foakes family to countenance the match. Of course, Lady Sophie was a great heiress, and it would be a baffling family indeed who wouldn’t welcome her into their ranks. Still, if there were anything tawdry about the match, one would think the Bishop of Winchester wouldn’t look quite so cheerful.

  “Because it will reflect on the bishop if a child appears in seven months, won’t it?” Lady Skiffing was born to intrigue and was never happier than when she was taking apart the reputation of someone she had just greeted with utmost civility.

  Sarah Prestlefield was conscious of her decision to support Penelope’s conviction that the hasty nuptials were romantic rather than scandalous. “Only those with an excess of spleen would imply such an ill-tempered thing,” she pronounced grandly. “Lady Sophie has made a true love match, and although one doesn’t see the like
very often among the quality” (if ever, she added to herself), “none of us would like to imply that the dear children are marrying for less than the most virtuous reasons.”

  Though dubious of the matter, Lady Skiffing was outranked by Lady Prestlefield and knew it. She changed the subject. “Did you hear that Mrs. Yarlblossom, that red-haired widow who lives in Chiswick, is boasting of having an Indian prince as her suitor?”

  Sarah Prestlefield was fascinated. “Do you mean the red-haired hussy who keeps sixteen lapdogs?”

  Sophie looked up to find her husband looming at her shoulder. His eyes met hers with such a heady promise that she couldn’t help glancing nervously at the bishop to see whether he had caught the message in Patrick’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry about Uncle Richard,” Patrick drawled, stepping so close to her that his breath stirred her hair.

  Sophie turned an enchanting shade of pink. Patrick’s hand slid up her hip to her waist. Would he always be able to make her tremble? Even the touch of his hand made her limbs feel strangely liquid.

  Something in Sophie’s eyes made Patrick’s groin tighten.

  “Time to go, sweetheart,” he said, his voice husky.

  Sophie jumped. “Go?” Her eyes were wide. She’d known, of course, that she and Patrick would leave the ball together. For heaven’s sake, her trunks had been hauled out that very morning, and if her maid had overcome her fear of the water, she was already tucked onboard the Lark. Because, as Patrick had explained with a wicked grin, the boat was likely to sail at a very early hour, before they would want to be out of bed.

  But somehow Sophie hadn’t pictured actually leaving the ball. Getting into a carriage, alone with Patrick. Getting into a bed!

  “Oh, we can’t go yet,” she said hastily. “I’ve barely spoken a word to your uncle.” She twitched her hip away from her grinning husband and moved over to the bishop. He was talking busily to Charlotte.

  “Since being on this new regimen, I have looked extremely well, and I think you’ll agree that I have a most agreeable color in my face. Doctor Read allows me only one cup of chocolate a day, plain water gruel three times a day, and a roasted apple, to be eaten one hour before dinner.”