Patrick stretched out his legs in the back of his box at Drury Lane and looked at his wife, who was sitting at the front of the box. If Lady Sophie York, the beautiful daughter of the Marquis of Brandenburg, had been a social success, Lady Sophie Foakes, the delectable wife of the Honorable Patrick Foakes, was clearly going to be a leader of the ton. At the moment Sophie was surrounded by gentlemen. Marriageable girls were all very well in their own way, but young matrons acquired a group of admirers who were afraid of being pushed into wedlock if they paid special attention to a young girl, and who delighted in witticisms considered too bold for the ears of maidens.

Patrick curled his lip as Sophie’s chuckling laughter erupted again. Her admirers bent toward her like willow trees in a storm. Trying to see down her gown, he thought sourly. Sophie was wearing an opera dress of deep gold, dipping low over her breasts.

“Isn’t that dress rather formal for the theater?” Patrick had asked when she appeared in the foyer of their house, smoothing elbow-high gloves.

Sophie had looked at him flirtatiously from under her lashes. “I like overdressing at times. It makes people think of undressing.”

Patrick couldn’t think of a response. Even glancing at the smooth, creamy expanse of her breasts, almost completely exposed in that gown, made his groin tighten. He had quickly swathed Sophie in a velvet wrap and whisked her outside, afraid that his wife might see the evidence of his lust.

What in the hell was he doing? She was his wife. Sophie showed no signs of being angry with him for their quarrel. But Patrick had spent the last few weeks walking the back streets of London, instead of ravishing his own wife, in his own bed, where he should be.

Patrick took a deep breath. He was sitting behind the cluster of gallants who formed Sophie’s court, but even from where he sat he could see the way her breasts formed sweet, plump curves, thrust forward by her gown. He crossed his legs. It must be almost time for the damn play, A Christian Turned Turk, to start again. The Christian in question was lamentably slow at turning Turk, leaving Patrick far too much time to think about Sophie’s body. At least the end of intermission would mean the clodpoles who were hanging about his wife would leave their box. Naturally Braddon was part of the group. Patrick was developing a positive hatred for his old school friend.

Sophie, in the front of the box, was aware of every restless move her husband made, although she studiously avoided looking at him. At the moment she was laughing and tapping Lucien Boch on the wrist with her fan. He was a particular favorite of hers, given that he excelled at the kind of light witticisms that didn’t seem too pointed.