Sophie stared at him in dumb frustration. Then she steadied her voice. Not for nothing had she witnessed a hundred—or a thousand—marital quarrels.

“I am not having, nor am I planning to have, an affair with the Earl of Slaslow,” she said slowly and clearly.

“Yes,” Patrick said. He was beginning to wonder what it was they were fighting about.

“And I did not intend to seduce Braddon, had he appeared in my bedroom window rather than you,” Sophie stated.

“I accept that.”

“One more thing,” Sophie said stonily. “I may have married you for lust, but I will never question what the current object of your lust is. It may be that in the future we shall both find other amusements, but I will not read your correspondence, nor will I countenance you reading mine.”

“Fine. You don’t question me and I won’t question you. It’s a lovely marriage you’re planning for us, my love.” Patrick emphasized the last phrase with bitter sarcasm.

Her face paper white, Sophie turned and walked out of the room. Rage touched Patrick’s backbone again, like a whisper of fire. With a shock, he realized that he was unconsciously baring his teeth.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered with suppressed violence. One thing was very clear: He could not tolerate the idea of Sophie finding another “amusement.” Not with Braddon or with any other man.

Patrick paused. Without thinking, he had started to follow Sophie up the stairs. Instead, he spun on his heel and headed out the front door. Grimly he started walking south toward the river.

A half-hour later, he was feeling much better. True, he still winced every time he thought of Sophie saying she married him for lust. But Sophie would never take a lover. Her personal integrity was one of his favorite things about her—that and the way she was so devilishly vulnerable at one moment and sophisticated at the next.

However, if he returned to the house now, he would arrive around three o’clock, and Sophie would think he was watching for Braddon’s arrival. Whereas he didn’t give a toss whom she went riding with, Patrick reminded himself. What he should do is go to his offices on the West India docks. His man of business, Henry Foster, had left some fifteen notes for him, which had escalated in urgency as the Lark continued to meander around the coast of Wales.

Instead, Patrick jumped into a hackney and directed it to the Ministry for Foreign Affairs. He might as well see what was putting Breksby into such a twist that two notes had awaited his return from Wales.

But Patrick’s temper was not mended by the interview with Lord Breksby. Breksby took the news of the haphazard fortifications stoically. He hadn’t expected anything different.