By this point they had reached the pier and the waiting skiff. Even Simone climbed the rope ladder back up to the Lark without complaint, eager to get out of the wind that was blowing the last of the storm clouds out to sea.

Patrick saw his wife off to her bedroom, placed Henri under the watchful eye of a dependable crew member, then went to find Captain Hibbert. The storm had caused no apparent damage to the Lark, and he preferred to round the point to Milford Haven without delay.

For some reason he didn’t feel eager to bound down to the cabin and join Sophie, the way he usually did. In fact, he sent a message downstairs informing his wife that he would eat above, rather than join her for dinner, as was their habit.

It was only when he was standing at the wheel, rounding the point, that Patrick pinned down the source of his dissatisfaction. Damme it, would his wife ever fall in love with him when she was convinced that all men followed the pattern of her father? Sophie seemed to accept without question that he, Patrick, was a rake of the same cut. Patrick’s heart sank. Who but a rake would seduce a maiden in her own bedroom? Who but a rake of the worst caliber would steal his school friend’s betrothed?

Down in the cabin, Sophie was also wrestling with despair. Obviously, her mother was correct about male dislike of bluestockings. Patrick had never stayed above for a whole day before. He was disgusted with her. And it seemed that he was more top-lofty than she had thought—the very idea of her spending time with the laundry woman seemed to rattle him, let alone the question of her knowledge of Welsh.

Without a second thought, Sophie opened the porthole and tossed out her precious Turkish grammar. Patrick must never, never learn that she spoke seven languages.

By the time shadows began to steal across the polished wood floor of the master cabin, Sophie was utterly miserable. The worst thing was that she had secretly wanted Patrick to know about her fluency. If the truth be known, she had relished showing off her Welsh in front of him. Inside I was proud, Sophie thought. Well, pride goeth before a fall.

Ruthlessly she tamped down the seeds of disappointment. Patrick was her husband. The fact that he was a man just like any other was not significant. One lesson she could take from her parents’ situation was that disappointment in one’s spouse could not be allowed to fester.

One has to accept, and then forget, Sophie told herself. The lesson applies to little facts and large ones, to languages and mistresses.