At eight o’clock in the morning, Sophie finally heard brisk boots walking into the chamber next door and a jovial voice said, “Lord yes, man. Look at my face! I need a shave and a bath.” She heard the rustle and thud of clothing being removed.

Sophie felt as if someone had placed a huge boulder on her chest. But still she didn’t cry. At last the sounds of splashing next door quieted. When her own door opened again, Sophie waved out her maid and finally went to sleep.

Patrick wandered around the house all morning waiting for Sophie to rise, until he realized that she must be keeping to her room in order to avoid seeing him. He summoned Simone and cast a gimlet eye on her when she insisted that her mistress was, indeed, asleep. At three in the afternoon he finally lost patience when Braddon appeared on the doorstep.

“ ‘Lo, Patrick,” Braddon said cheerily. “Where’s your wife? I’m here to take her for a drive.”

“She isn’t up yet,” Patrick drawled.

Sophie had, in fact, just emerged from her room, but she paused at the top of the stairs when she heard Patrick’s voice.

“Didn’t you go out for a drive with Sophie yesterday?”

“That’s it,” Braddon said. “Takin’ her out again today, too. So, how is married life?” Braddon was in a mood akin to bliss. Madeleine was going to be his wife and all was right with the world.

Patrick glanced at him, and spoke with icy carelessness. “If I had to be leg-shackled, it’s not bad.”

“Leg-shackled!”

For a man who was trying to seduce his wife from under his own nose, Patrick thought, Braddon had no right to look so shocked.

“You’re married to one of the most beautiful women in the ton, probably the most beautiful, and you call it leg-shackled?”

“Could be worse,” Patrick said laconically. “Given her lack of siblings, likely I won’t have a lot of brats underfoot.”

Sophie felt as if each word were an arrow burning its way into her chest.

“That’s a bit raw, isn’t it, old fellow?” Braddon began patting his pockets, looking for his snuff case. “I say, Patrick, have you tried my new mixture? It has rose hips in it … somewhere here.”

Patrick spoke through his clenched teeth. “I don’t like essence of roses in snuff,” he said.

Braddon comfortably helped himself. “Do you suppose Sophie will be much longer? My horses are standing in the street.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Patrick replied.

Braddon cocked an eyebrow at him. “I must say, Patrick, you don’t sound like a merry bridegroom.”

“I’m merry. I’m merry.” Patrick felt indescribably drained. He had worked in the warehouse half the night, and then had come home only to fall asleep in his own library, clutching a brandy.