But Patrick assured Monsieur Foucault that he would be more than happy to convey a gift to the coronation and present it personally to Emperor Selim.

At length Foucault bowed himself out of the room, leaving behind only a faint scent of ambergris and the promise of returning in two months, bearing his gift. “Selim is so fond of rubies,” he said earnestly. “I am considering a silver inkwell set with the gems.”

And the last of Patrick’s doubts were assuaged, for hadn’t Breksby talked of Selim’s love of rubies? It was not his concern how the unsavory Foucault would acquire such an expensive item.

Patrick stared blindly at the closed door. He hadn’t given Selim’s coronation a thought in days. But now it took on an entirely new significance. He would have to leave Sophie. Travel to Turkey. Be gone for months. By the time he returned, she’d be living in Braddon’s pocket, most likely.

That evening, as his valet carefully smoothed a coat over Patrick’s broad shoulders, Patrick made up his mind. Alex was right. Bloody hell, he was acting like an adolescent girl. Wasn’t his plan to make his wife fall in love with him? Deserting her bed wasn’t a very sensible way to go about it.

When he walked into the drawing room, Sophie was standing on the other side of the room, looking out the window. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of pale green silk. The room was rather dimly lit, with not enough candles; rain had suddenly started to pour down at twilight, and the servants apparently hadn’t had time to return and light the candelabra lining the walls.

Sophie’s dress wasn’t provocative. It didn’t have the dipping neckline of the gold opera gown. She even had a little shawl draped around her bare arms. But Patrick was rooted to the floor by the way the soft fabric almost strained over her breasts, tucking up under their curves and then falling to the ground.

“Is Henri dining with us tonight?”

Sophie turned about, startled. “No, he—”

Patrick strode across the room and pulled Sophie into his arms.

With a startled cry she dropped her shawl. Patrick’s mouth descended on hers and took her breath. She opened her lips to him as if it had been yesterday when they last kissed. Fire danced down Sophie’s legs. He was back. He was back. Gratitude, triumph, love, desire: they all mixed together as she melted into Patrick’s embrace.

Slowly, slowly he released her, settling her back on her feet.

He looked down at her, one finger tracing the swollen curve of her lower lip. His eyes were black as midnight, unreadable.