Patrick didn’t like the pucker of worry that appeared between Sophie’s brows. Why was his wife sparing any sympathy for that good-for-nothing lout? Braddon’s honored place as an old and dear friend evaporated from Patrick’s mind.

“Braddon lies,” Patrick said, a blunt edge in his tone. Sophie’s eyes flew to his, startled by the sudden disgust in his voice. In the back of her mind she could hear David Marlowe saying that Patrick was a stickler when it came to honesty.

“He lies? What do you mean?”

“He’s precious close to a loose fish. He rarely distinguishes between truth and falsehood.”

Sophie looked at her husband inquiringly, but Patrick didn’t want to continue. In fact, what with one thing and another, he found himself in a pucker of a mood. The way to mend it, he thought, is a little intimacy with m’wife. So he nipped around the table and sat on the arm of Sophie’s chair. Without another word, he began pulling the pins out of her hair and scattering them on the carpet. Slowly, slowly, curls the color of honey and sunlight fell down Sophie’s back and over her shoulders. And by the time Patrick’s long, clever fingers ran through her hair a final time and moved to the hooks on her dress, Sophie had long ago stopped thinking of Braddon and Braddon’s problems.

Thus, it was somewhat to Patrick’s dismay that the very first billet to arrive the next morning was from the Earl of Slaslow.

“What the devil does he want?” he growled, the very picture of a jealous husband.

Sophie looked at Patrick in surprise. “I’m sure he is simply being polite. He invites me for a drive.”

Patrick snorted. Since when was Braddon a punctilio? His manners were easy to a fault.

“You are not available,” he stated presumptively.

“I’m not?” Sophie was really surprised now. Was Patrick the possessive sort of husband? It was a rather thrilling thought. Thrilling but impractical.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at her husband. “Is there some reason why you don’t wish me to see Braddon?”

“It doesn’t look right,” Patrick replied.

“I’m a married woman,” Sophie pointed out. “No one will think twice if I drive in the park with a bachelor.”

“But you were engaged to this particular bachelor!”

“I’m married to you,” Sophie remarked. “Surely you don’t think that I would ever have an affair with Braddon.”

Put in this cold, reasonable light, Patrick had to admit that no, he didn’t think Sophie would ever break her wedding vows—with Braddon or anyone else. She had integrity, his little Sophie.

“Oh, all right,” he said, feeling as if he had somehow lost a battle. “See him all you like! Set him up as your cicisbeo!”