Midnight Pleasures

by Eloisa James

  The supper dance started, and Patrick appeared at her side. But just as he began to bow before her Sophie shook her head, nodding at the other end of the ballroom. Patrick turned around. Braddon was standing at the top of the room, holding Madeleine’s hand.

  Lord Greenleaf cleared his throat importantly, and said loudly, “I have the honor to announce that Lady Madeleine Corneille has agreed to marry the Earl of Slaslow.”

  Braddon’s mother stood beside them, smiling happily. As the strains of a minuet fell into the quieted room, Braddon turned and thanked Lord Greenleaf. Then he took his new betrothed in his arms and swept into the clear space. The newly engaged couple remained a demure three inches apart. Braddon Chatwin did not allow his legs to brush Lady Madeleine’s gown, nor did he touch her in an overfamiliar fashion.

  But when Braddon smiled so sweetly at his Maddie that she lost her fear of dancing in front of the ton and returned his smile, Sophie wasn’t the only woman in the room who got a lump in her throat and a shine in her eye.

  The tightness in Patrick’s chest had nothing to do with Braddon. That bounder had obviously played fast and loose with Sophie’s emotions. There she was, almost crying in public because Braddon was engaged again.

  But it couldn’t be called Braddon’s fault, could it? Patrick’s conscience was uncomfortably awake. Sophie would be married to Braddon right now, he thought with dogged self-hatred, if I hadn’t slept with her first.

  He swept his wife into the dance. If nothing else, I can protect her from curious eyes, Patrick reasoned. Sophie would be ridiculed for crying over a man she had jilted.

  They danced silently. Sophie kept her head turned away, afraid that Patrick would be able to read in her eyes that she had lost her anger. She was too humiliated to face the fact that she would probably always welcome back the rake she had married, no matter how far he strayed. She loved him too much.

  They were swept in to dinner in a wave of babbling dancers and found seats around a large round table. Halfway through the meal Sophie excused herself from the table, not coincidentally when Patrick had gone to fetch another cup of syllabub.

  “Please, Sissy, do tell my husband that I will be in the ladies’ retiring room,” she said to her friend.

  Sissy Commonweal looked at her with the sympathetic eyes that seemed to greet her everywhere in the ton these days. I’m sure she knows where Patrick spends his nights, Sophie thought tiredly. It’s a wonder that no one has told me the black-haired woman’s name. She walked away from the table without looking back, not even seeing Patrick weaving his way back to the table with her syllabub.

  She couldn’t stay in the retiring room forever, however, and Patrick found her later and claimed a second dance. Thankfully, it was a country dance, which meant there would be little intimacy. Sophie was mechanically going through the figures when suddenly, through a gap in the crowded room, she saw something that made her heart thump sharply in her throat. Her mother, Eloise, was smiling sweetly and drawing Madeleine over to speak to an elderly Frenchwoman—undoubtedly Madame de Meneval, famed for her ability to expose fraudulent French aristocrats. Without a second’s hesitation, Sophie snapped out of the steps, dropped her husband’s hand, and set out across the dance floor.

  Patrick looked after her in stupefaction. Daughters trained by the formidable Marchioness of Brandenburg did not abandon their partners on the dance floor. Mentally shaking himself, he hurried after his wife.

  But Sophie got there too late. Even as she dodged around a last cluster of people, she saw Madeleine sinking into a dulcet curtsy before Madame de Meneval.

  “Merde!” Sophie whispered, and stopped running. Eloise looked up and held out a welcoming hand.

  “My dearest, do come meet Madame de Meneval. I have just introduced her to dear Madeleine.”

  With a sinking heart, Sophie walked to her mama’s side. In another second, Madame would declare that Madeleine was an impostor, bringing Braddon’s whole scheme crashing down around their ears.

  Patrick appeared at her side and touched her arm. Sophie cast him a frantic glance.

  He frowned in confusion. What in thunder was going on? Here was Sophie, apparently quaking with fear to meet an old Frenchwoman dressed in rusty black silk. True, the woman had a beak that could grace an eagle, but there was nothing intrinsically terrifying about her. In fact, she looked to be a bit of a soft touch to Patrick. Wasn’t she crying?

  Definitely, Madame de Meneval was crying, just a trifle, only a single tear. She dropped her cane and stretched her hands out to Madeleine.

  “Madeleine, dear Madeleine! I thought you were dead. I have missed your mother so much, and here you are … You are the very image of her. I remember you as a young girl, my dear, when you were only five years old. Your mama brought you all the way to Paris just to see the ballet. Your mother loved the ballet. Oh, how she loved to dance.”

  Sophie didn’t say a word. Neither did Madeleine. They both stared at Madame de Meneval as if she had suddenly grown a horn on her forehead. But Madame didn’t notice. She was pulling a handkerchief of the finest lace out of her reticule, and gently patting her eyes.

  “Just so your mother used to look when she was outshining every lady of the court. It’s as if I see my dear Hélène before me again. You have her eyes, and her hair … your figure is exactly like hers. Why, I remember dear King Louis ogling Hélène’s bosom, as if it were yesterday. How Marie Antoinette used to bridle at your mother! But there was nothing she could say. Your mother was perfectly behaved, a truly modest lady who never put herself forward. It wasn’t Hélène’s fault that Louis always found her très désirable.”

  Then Madame suddenly noticed the look of stunned surprise on Madeleine’s face. “Did you not know that you are the image of your mother, my dear?”

  “My father always said so, ma’am,” Madeleine said slowly, “but I could hardly believe it.”

  Just then Braddon came up behind Madeleine and touched her elbow. “I believe this is my dance,” he said, bowing.

  “Braddon!” she cried, ignoring the rule that she address him formally in public. “Madame de Meneval says that I look exactly like my mother!”

  Braddon’s mouth fell open and for a moment Sophie tensed. He’s going to say something idiotic, she thought. Her fingers tightened painfully on Patrick’s sleeve.

  Patrick glanced down at his wife’s white fingers. He hadn’t the faintest idea why Sophie was so agitated.

  Luckily, Madame de Meneval broke in before Braddon could expose Madeleine’s true identity.

  “You must be the Earl of Slaslow,” she said, looking over Braddon critically. She didn’t care for the overly English sort herself: all that hearty blond hair and blue eyes. “I have heard that you are to have the honor of marrying the daughter of my dear friend, the Marquise de Flammarion.”

  “That’s right,” Braddon said uncertainly. He bowed again.

  Madame snorted. Stupid as they come, she thought to herself. Still, at least he’s not as odd as Hélène’s husband was.

  “Your father, the marquis, must have survived as well, then,” she said curiously, turning back to Madeleine. The girl was still standing there, white faced, as if she’d been turned to stone.

  “My father brought me to England in 1793,” she replied.

  “Oh, 1793.” Madame shivered. “That was a dreadful year, a dreadful year. Yes, that was when your dear mother was denounced. In April, it was. A dreadful year.”

  If possible, Madeleine turned even paler. “My father always told me that my mother died of a fever,” she said carefully.

  “Oh no,” said the Frenchwoman. “She was arrested. Fouquier, that butcher, didn’t need a reason. She rarely came to Paris, you know, since your father was such a recluse. But she was there, perhaps to buy something … new clothing. I am not sure.”

  Madeleine knew. In her head resounded her father’s frequent and fierce condemnation of fashion and female love of fashion in particular.

 
; “She was caught,” Madame continued. “I know that your father came to Paris and pleaded for her life before the Tribunal. The only reason he wasn’t imprisoned himself was that he was such an odd sort. Always messing about in the stables, always covered with dirt. There were rumors that he even learned how to shoe horses.”

  “Yes, he did,” Madeleine said numbly.

  “Well, it saved his life,” Madame replied. “The Tribunal judged him to be better than a useless aristocrat—those canaille! Degenerate pieces of rabble, judging the lives of their betters!” Her eyes glowed fiercely at Madeleine. “You’re better off here, girl. Even married to an Englishman. Even without your father’s estates. Did he manage to bring anything to England?”

  “Yes,” Madeleine answered, thinking of the huge sum of money her father had suddenly, and most surprisingly, produced when it was time to buy her clothing and to hire Mrs. Trevelyan. “Yes, he did.”

  “Well,” Madame de Meneval said with grudging respect, “I never cared for Vincent Garnier overmuch. He was an odd sort, even as a young man. But Hélène loved him. She was absurdly in love with him. Wouldn’t hear a word against him. And then after she married him, he took her off to his estates in the Limousin, and hardly let her come to court at all. I don’t know how she got permission to come to Paris in ‘93.” She fell silent.

  Madeleine turned to Braddon, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He responded promptly. “I am afraid that I must claim my future bride,” he said, bowing deeply in the general direction of Madame de Meneval. “Madame, your servant.”

  Madame inclined her chin an inch as if she, rather than Louis XVI, had been king. But her eyes softened as she turned to Madeleine.

  “Dear child, I can see that I unwittingly gave you some unpleasant news. You must forgive me.”

  “No, no,” Madeleine said softly. “It is lovely to meet someone who knew my mother. I am afraid I have very few memories of her.”

  “Perhaps you will come and take tea with me someday. I knew your mother from the day she was born. I would be happy to tell Hélène’s daughter about her. How proud she would have been of you, my dear!”

  At that, Madeleine’s tears threatened to overflow. As she made a hasty curtsy, Braddon drew her gently out of the ballroom. Braddon may not have been overbright, but he knew his Maddie. Without a word he pulled her into an adjacent salon, shut the door, and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Braddon, Braddon,” Madeleine sobbed. “It is Mama, Hélène is Mama.”

  “What?”

  “Madame … she was talking about my mama!”

  “Impossible,” Braddon said kindly. “Your mama married a horse trainer, m’dear. She couldn’t possibly have been friends with a member of the French court.”

  “Don’t you see, Braddon?” Madeleine looked up at him, brown eyes shining with tears. “My father is the marquis who was so strange that he learned how to shoe horses. When Papa brought me to England, he opened a horse stable. That’s why he suggested that I pretend to be the daughter of the Marquis de Flammarion. I thought it strange that he agreed to a scheme of this sort so quickly.”

  “You mean, you really are that woman’s daughter?”

  Madeleine looked at her beloved. His blue eyes were still confused. “My papa is the Marquis de Flammarion,” she explained patiently. “When my mother was condemned, he must have taken me and fled to England. When he arrived, he opened a stable.”

  Braddon gaped. “You are a French aristo!”

  Madeleine nodded. Tears were still rolling down her cheeks.

  “But my mama, Braddon!”

  He rubbed her hair awkwardly. “You knew she was dead, Maddie.”

  “Yes, but in such a way, the guillotine …”

  “I’ll tell you what, Maddie, that old woman is right. Your mother would be proud of you now. You learned all the things that she would have liked to have taught you, and you’ve turned into the most beautiful, most proper lady I’ve ever seen.”

  Madeleine buried her face in Braddon’s shoulder. “Oh, Braddon,” she said, half muffled. “I love you.”

  “You do? You do? Do you, Maddie? Really?”

  At that Madeleine laughed, a watery little laugh. “I do.”

  “Oh, Maddie.”

  And, when he raised his head again: “Marry me, Maddie, please.”

  “I already said I would,” she whispered, with just a trace of her normal impish humor.

  “No, I mean marry me now. Let’s get married tomorrow.”

  “Do you mean elope?”

  “For you, I will even climb a ladder,” Braddon said seriously.

  Maddie’s endearing laugh erupted. “I sleep on the ground floor, Braddon.” Then she grew more serious. “No, I can’t elope. My father wouldn’t like it. But perhaps we could marry quite soon.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Not tomorrow.”

  “Day after.”

  “No!”

  “Next week?”

  Braddon’s kisses were so sweet. Maddie’s heart flip-flopped madly in her chest. “Next week,” she conceded.

  Chapter 25

  The following morning Sophie walked into her sitting room with a renewed sense of energy. To this date, Sophie had simply inhabited the room; now she planned to make it her own. True, the room had been wallpapered by its last occupant in a dizzying series of trellises crammed with roses so fat that they looked like pink clouds, but that she didn’t mind. Although she did object to the figurehead of a naked woman that incongruously decorated one wall.

  The first thing Sophie did was ring the bell for a footman. Then she began pulling books from the low shelf under the window. The books had spilled out of Patrick’s library downstairs. She pulled them out at random, created spiraling stacks on the polished wood floor. They were an odd mixture. Sophie dumped The Care and History of Husbandry on top of God’s Exhortation Against Witchcraft, followed by a series of dusty bound pamphlets explicating the miracle of the steam engine.

  As the door opened, Sophie said “Good morning,” briskly, but didn’t turn around. “I’d like all these books taken up to the attic, please, as well as that … that woman.” She waved at the figurehead gracing the south wall.

  “Sophie! You should be more careful.” Patrick loomed behind her, frowning. “You are not lifting heavy books, are you?”

  Sophie dusted her hands on her dress, not even thinking of Simone’s reaction to the brown streaks she left on her lemon-yellow morning gown. She looked up at her husband, trying to keep all traces of sarcasm from her voice. After all, she might have been hoisting boxes of books in the last month, without his knowledge.

  Then she pointed at the slim volumes strewn about the floor. “These are not very heavy; in fact, most of them seem to be pamphlets.”

  “Why did you want my figurehead in the attic? She’s supposed to be Galatea, the sea nymph.”

  “I don’t want a half-naked woman jumping out of the wall of my sitting room.”

  “She’s not half naked,” Patrick said, strolling over to look at Galatea more closely. “Look: she has a bit of drapery on her left breast. Quite tasteful, really.”

  Sophie dumped two more dusty pamphlets on the stack at her feet without replying.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll have it removed to the attic.” There was a pause. “Alex pointed out that I have been remiss in allowing you to go about without escort,” Patrick said stiffly. “From now on, I would like you to inform me when you wish to use the carriage, and I will accompany you.”

  Sophie’s mouth tightened. There was the explanation for her husband’s unexpected appearance: Alex!

  “I have decided to begin my confinement,” she replied, “so I doubt I will have to bother you overmuch.” In fact, she decided at that moment never to leave the house again.

  Patrick stared down at his wife’s small figure in despair. He couldn’t think of anything to say to her. Talk, Alex had instructed. Talk about what? Sophie had just stiffened up
, all over her body, so already he’d said something wrong.

  He hesitated, then bowed and turned, pulling open the door just as a footman raised his hand to knock on the panel. Patrick stood aside, then looked back for an instant.

  “Sophie, would you like this wallpaper changed?” To him the roses looked like rosy mushrooms.

  Sophie looked up, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “No, I rather like it. It’s very cheerful. I do intend to buy some new furniture for this room, however. Unless you have an objection.”

  “Shall we go shopping this afternoon?”

  “Perhaps later in the week.”

  But Patrick wanted to do something for her now. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to take a carriage ride in the park?”

  “Quite sure, thank you.”

  “Would you like me to send a message to Charlotte or your mother and ask them to visit you?”

  “No, thank you, Patrick.” She was clearly waiting for him to leave.

  So he did. What else could he do? He went downstairs and wondered about what made pregnant women happy. He sent a footman up to remove Galatea to her new home in the attic. Then he sent another footman out to buy three huge bouquets of roses, “the fat, floppy kind.” If roses made her cheerful, why not fill the house with them?

  Sophie finally arranged all the bookshelves to her liking. Given the chance, she preferred strict organization. So her Dutch grammar was followed, in alphabetical order, by French, German, Italian, Portuguese, and Welsh books. Between Portuguese and Welsh she left a little space. That’s for Turkish, Sophie promised herself. As soon as I get a chance, I shall buy another Turkish grammar.

  At lunch Patrick again asked Sophie if she would like him to accompany her anywhere in the afternoon, and again she refused. She was feeling tired, with a dragging ache in her back.

  “I met Monsieur Foucault and his companion, Bayrak Mustafa, when they brought the inkwell to the house,” Sophie said abruptly, breaking the strained silence that ruled over luncheon. “I cannot like him, Patrick.”