“Oh, irregular.” Patrick’s tone was smug. “That is likely because you were a maiden, and now that you’re married, everything will steady down.”

Sophie looked at him in horror. “How do you know such things?”

Patrick evaded the question. “We need to speak openly, Sophie, because regularity is the key to preventing the birth of a child.”

Sophie gaped. “What are you talking about?”

“There are certain times of the month when a couple can make love without danger of conceiving children,” he explained. “And then there are things one can do to prevent conception during the rest of the month. None of which I have been attending to,” he added, a shadow of a frown crossing his face. “It must be you, Sophie.”

“Me!”

“Your body,” Patrick said, his mouth hovering just above hers. “I have been intoxicated for the last month or so. But we mustn’t continue to act like feckless lovers, Sophie. As soon as your next monthly flux appears, tell me and we can determine a schedule.”

“I have never shared this information with anyone,” Sophie said, with just a bit of an edge in her voice. “Nor has anyone ever demanded schedules or information of any kind.”

“You were never married before,” Patrick pointed out. He was taking little nips around her chin. “We’ve been very lucky so far. Do you think it will start tomorrow?”

Sophie’s voice was definitely stiff. “I have no idea.

Well, I do, Patrick thought to himself. But there was no point in throwing his intimate knowledge of women’s moods in his wife’s face. She already thought of him as kin to Don Juan.

“Let’s have supper in bed,” Patrick said, his tone persuasive. “I’ll feed you.”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “You’ll feed me?” Patrick’s smile was devilish, irresistible. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

In fact, Sophie was enthralled by the experience of eating in bed. She took to having lemon mousse nibbled from parts of her body with such entrancing eagerness that mundane thoughts of schedules, conception, and the like flew from both their minds.

Faced with the choice of losing his daughter to the great American wilderness or allowing her to pretend to be a French aristocrat for a few weeks, Madeleine’s father did not hesitate.

“Do you love this galumph?” he asked Madeleine, in swift French, as Braddon stood politely by her side.

“Oui, Papa,” Madeleine replied, with maidenly docility. “But he is not a galumph, Papa!”

“He is a galumph,” her father said heavily. “However, he is also an earl, and you could make a worse match.

“Do you have a good estate?” Heavy gray eyebrows frowned at Braddon, who started, having lost track of the conversation once it shifted into French. He’d never been any good at languages.