“I must go.” Patrick was so edgy that he was barely listening. It was nearing time for dinner with his bride-to-be and her parents. He wasn’t looking forward to an evening with offended parents, but it would be nice to find Sophie clinging to him, her lips cherry-sweet, her breath caught in her throat. He wanted to remind himself why he was committing the heinous act of getting married. He had always sworn never to go near the parson’s mousetrap.

“So you picture your marriage along the lines of a calm affair that just happens to last sixty years or so,” Alex said with a twinkle as they strolled out the door of Jackson’s and onto Piccadilly. “In fact, this marriage is going to be so civilized that Sophie won’t even notice if you wander off to Turkey for a few months. And you will wave goodbye as happily as if you were off to a hunting lodge for a week.”

“Hearts and beauty have nothing to do with each other,” Patrick replied. “Believe me, I’ve been dealing with beauties for years, and my heart has never been in danger.”

“Well, aren’t you a knowing one,” his brother said mockingly. “We’ll see, shall we? Care to make a small wager?”

“A wager on what?”

“Your heart, naturally. I’ll bet you five hundred crowns that a year from tomorrow you’ll admit to being desperately in love with your wife.”

“I’d hate to take money from a washed-up jack-pud-ding like yourself,” Patrick said with a dry chuckle. “Having fallen into a sloppy state, you’re eager to persuade your own brother that he will share your affliction.”

“Then you’ll have no qualms accepting my wager,” Alex retorted.

“I’ll hand the five hundred crowns to charity, in your name,” Patrick replied in a devilishly sweet tone. “Because, by God, you’re as likely to find me sleeping in a nightshirt as to see me hand over a tuppence.”

Alex’s eyes brimmed with laughter. “You forget, dear brother, that I have seen you around Sophie. You want her so much that you pant when she walks within a fingertip of you. If—no, when—you give me five hundred crowns, I’ll buy you a nightshirt trimmed with the finest Brussels lace.”

Patrick took the reins of his low-slung phaeton and swung up on the step. “May I give you a lift back to Grosvenor Square?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll drop in at White’s and see what the betting books are saying about Lady Sophie’s new betrothal.”

Patrick cast him a keen glance. “Dress it up with frills and bows, won’t you?”