He almost turned on his heel to leave. Sophie was laughing, her eyes brilliant. Until she caught sight of him. Her smile entirely disappeared for an instant, and then just as quickly the corners of her mouth turned up again, although this smile didn’t touch her eyes. Probably afraid he would let on to Braddon just how proficient she was at the art of kissing, Patrick thought sourly.

Braddon had lurched over to the group like an overeager puppy, given his hellos, and now stood beaming down at his intended bride. Patrick strolled toward the fire. He’d be damned if he’d let his composure be shaken by an alluring wench who’d had the gall to turn him down for a bigger title. She had what she wanted. Now she was engaged to the only earl on the marriage mart this year, and given that there was only one unmarried duke, old Siskind with his eight children, she had snagged the best of the bunch—at least until he himself became a duke. Patrick’s eyes glowed with a blighting fury.

Sophie cast one look at his face and instantly looked away, a flush as delicate as the pink champagne she held in her hand creeping up her cheeks. Braddon had cast himself down on the rug and was eagerly rearranging the backgammon pieces, enchanted to learn that his future wife knew how to play the game. Sophie forced herself to smile at him.

From the shadowed high back of the armchair Quill had watched the charming Lady Sophie freeze and then break into frail gaiety; he twisted about to see who had caused her to transform from an engaging damsel to a glassy society woman.

So a lean brown hand emerged from the armchair and a sardonic voice drawled, “Patrick, my man, come and greet me.”

“Quill!”

In an instant Patrick’s long legs had brought him in front of the armchair, his black eyes alight with pleasure. “My God, man, I thought you were bedridden!”

“Well, so I was, until a few months ago.”

“You look splendid.”

“I’m alive,” Quill said simply.

Patrick squatted before the chair. “I thought of you when I was in India and a maharajah threatened to have me decapitated if I didn’t kneel before his little idol. It reminded me of your tyranny at school.”

Sophie could hardly bear it. Sitting back on his heels, Patrick was at her level as she sat on the stool. He was just at her shoulder. Her eyes instinctively drifted down his body and saw tight pantaloons stretched over hard-muscled thighs. She jerked her head away, nervous as a rabbit in high grass, but it was too late. Sophie swallowed hard and pulled slightly to the other side of the tufted stool.

Patrick, who had discovered that the ambitious little chit still had the capacity to wake his body, was beginning to feel uncomfortable. A soft fragrance came drifting to his nostrils from just beyond his right shoulder, a sweet, innocent odor like that of cherry blossoms. It inflamed his senses. He wanted to throw Sophie over his shoulder and take her to a bedchamber.