In truth, it was probably the most conservative dress Eloise had seen Sophie wear since her daughter’s debut. But Madame Carême’s seamstresses had sewn frantically to add the one touch that turned the dress from conventional to enchanting. Madame added golden Brussels lace to the bodice, to the line of the overskirt as it fell from Sophie’s bosom, to the border of the shorter gown, and to the longer flow of the train. The lace caressed Sophie’s creamy skin and emphasized the curve of her breasts and the length of her slim legs.

And, Lord, but Madame Carême did know how to make a woman look enthralling. The gold lace echoed Sophie’s hair, making her look like an enchanting ivory and gold icon. A blasphemous icon, of course. No man in the chapel looked at her with reverence; the pure wanton lust rising in their loins fought so pallid an emotion. Against ivory silk and ivory skin, the blood beat in Sophie’s cheeks in a way that spoke of life, pagan life, life in the meadow, not the church, life in the bed, not the tomb.

Patrick’s breath caught in his throat as Sophie moved toward him without meeting his gaze. She raised her eyes only after she and the marquis reached the altar.

Then, for a brief instant, Sophie’s eyes met Patrick’s and she colored, looking down at the roses in her hand. A smile trembled on Patrick’s lips but the intent, languorous heat rising from his body stifled any impulse to laugh.

At least he knew why he was getting married. He had never experienced, nor would he ever experience again, a desire as profound as that which he consistently felt for Sophie York. Unbidden by the priest, he reached out and drew her small hand into his.

Bishop Foakes cast his nephew an admonishing look from under bushy eyebrows. He’d agreed to lead the service out of respect for Patrick’s dead father, his own brother. Lord knows the boys had caused Sheffie grief. But Sheffie would have been happy to be here today, Richard judged. Get ‘em both married and they’ll calm down, that had always been his advice. Not that Sheffie had paid any attention, packing the twins off to the Continent and the Far East rather than sewing them up in a couple of solid marriage contracts. He was lucky that the boys had returned safe and sound. Although his brother hadn’t managed to see either of ‘em before he died, now that Richard came to think of it.

Well, time to get on with the ceremony. Richard surreptitiously adjusted his high bishop’s hat. It had a tendency to ride backward and look like a ship listing in a storm.

“Dearly beloved,” Richard intoned, “we are gathered here together in the sight of God …”