“I read The Delicate Distress.” Sophie’s eyes twinkled. “It’s the memoirs of Lady Woodford. She led quite a sensational life, you know.”

The conversation languished once more. Sophie picked at her venison. The only thing she could think about was Patrick’s kiss. Why did he do it? More important, would he do it again?

Finally she ventured to peek across the table at her husband. He was lounging back in his chair, staring at his wineglass. Dressed all in black, he looked like a devil, his silver-black hair swept into tangled curls by restless hands. A candle winked on the candelabra between them and went out, sending lurching shadows across the table that emphasized the planes of his face. How could she ever have hoped to keep a man as beautiful as this for her own?

Even looking at him made Sophie’s heart start a tip-tapping dance. Maybe he wouldn’t go out tonight. Perhaps her restraint had been rewarded and she could lure him back to her bed.

Before she could think about it and lose courage, Sophie waved the footman out of the room and pushed back her chair. Patrick, deep in thought, didn’t notice.

Softly she tiptoed around the long table, her slippers whispering against the carpet. Liquid warmth had infused itself into every inch of her body, making her bold. With a twist of her hips she inserted herself between Patrick and the table.

He looked up, startled, just as Sophie leaned forward and wantonly traced the curve of his lips with her tongue. Patrick’s hands instinctively reached out and pulled her onto his knee. Sophie hardly noticed. Now that she was touching Patrick, a sensual haze, compounded by weeks of acute, wanting, desperate lust, descended on her.

Patrick savaged her mouth until she moaned. He was dimly aware that his docile, pleasant wife was tearing his shirt off, right in the dining room. Clemens might enter at any moment, not to mention the footmen.

Still, he waited, reluctant to break the spell. Sophie’s warm body was pressed to his again; his hand had swept up her dress without a hint of reluctance and now she was uttering little broken half-shrieks against his mouth.

It was then that Patrick realized he was about to lower his own wife to the floor and drive into her right there, on the Persian carpet, probably with an audience of a butler and two footmen.

He stood up, easily pulling Sophie into his arms, and brushed by the footman standing outside the door without a word. Undoubtedly the man would be able to judge for himself that no sweets were required in the dining room.

As Patrick walked sturdily up the stairs, Sophie buried her face against his throat, as if to avoid seeing anyone. But in fact her tongue was dancing over his heated skin, and small teeth nipped him in a way that sent quaking tremors of lust down his spine.