Sophie gasped. “Undressed, or half undressed, although it can also be a négligé.”

Patrick’s lips were trailing lower.

“Oh, woe is me …” His voice sounded half muffled. “My clever wife has thrown another foreign word at me. What is a négligé?”

Sophie giggled, her hands running up and down Patrick’s muscled shoulders. “As if you haven’t bought a thousand négligés in your lifetime!” she said saucily.

At that, Patrick’s lips stilled and he raised his head, looking into her eyes. “Why is it that my own wife insists that I am an old roué, a libertin?”

Sophie gasped indignantly. “Your accent is perfect! You’ve been shamming it!”

“Je ne suis pas un libertin, et je n’achèterai plus de négligé pour une femme qui m’est pas ma propre femme. Translate that, O clever wife.”

Sophie pouted. “You are claiming not to be a libertine, and promising that you will never again buy a negligee for a lady other than your wife.”

Patrick was about to insist on the point, but his eyes were drawn to Sophie’s lips. “Lovely Sophie,” he whispered huskily. “Ma belle, ma mariée.”

Sophie closed her eyes. It was unbelievably erotic, hearing Patrick speak French. She had been raised speaking French and hadn’t learned English until she was six years old. In many ways it was the language closest to her heart. But she never thought to be able to make love in it.

Suddenly her heart was beating thunderously. She opened her eyes, leaned down, and nipped her husband’s lip. He responded with a growl, capturing her lips and pulling her forward so she half fell into his lap.

“Embrasse-moi, mon mari,” Sophie breathed.

“Anything, ma belle.” In one swift movement Patrick came to his feet, holding his wife in his arms, and moved over to the marriage bed. They fell under the twisting vines and cherry-red flowers as if they collapsed into a flowering grove in the depths of India.

Below deck, no bell rang, signaling dinner to be brought to the master cabin. In the kitchen of the Lark, Patrick’s French chef, bribed at enormous expense to accompany him on this trip, became first surly and then hysterical.

“It’s entirely ruined, my lovely dinner.” Floret looked around tragically. The soup still waited in a silver tureen. The roast would be salvageable, but his masterpiece, the trout, was beyond recovery.

Patrick’s sturdy first mate, John, shook his head. “It’s a bit fancy, but all right,” he said, with his mouth full of trout au court bouillon.

At that Floret broke into tears, to John’s disgust.

Sophie’s maid stayed gratefully in bed, suffering through one hazy attack of seasickness after another. To Simone, the fact that her mistress had no need of help to get undressed was a gift from God. Finally Simone took a dose of laudanum and became even groggier.