Patrick jerked upright, his expression suddenly forbidding. When he glanced down at the stool, his eyes were bright, sardonic.

“Lady Sophie, your servant.” He bowed politely. “I must apologize; I didn’t see you earlier.”

Sophie flushed again. Of course he had seen her. His glance had reduced her to an immobile lump. She inclined her chin just as courteously, not trusting her voice.

He was just as beautiful as he had been a month ago, although his eyes had turned from entrancement to mockery. His hair was unruly, even when shaken into the careless elegance favored by London gentlemen. But Patrick’s hair spoke eloquently not of pomades and hair oils but of windswept rides and fresh air. It was as black as ebony, as jet, except for the wild silver streaks that made it look moonlight-tipped.

Sophie took a firm grasp on herself. She was wilting like a Bath miss under the mocking gaze of an accomplished rake. And Viscountess Dewland was looking distinctly restless, still chatting to Sylvester Bredbeck.

Sophie straightened, coming gracefully to her feet. She smiled at Quill, a real smile that lighted her eyes and trembled on her mouth. Quill rose to his feet with a small lurch, bracing himself on the armrest of his chair.

Sophie dropped a deep curtsy. “Please, be seated.”

Quill’s mouth was twisted with pain but shatteringly sympathetic. “Lady Sophie, I would be most honored to meet you again. Perhaps we could have a rematch of our game when I am feeling more lucky.”

“I should enjoy that,” Sophie said.

She turned to Quill’s brother, Peter, and gave him a twinkling smile. Her eyes slid coolly past Patrick and toward her betrothed, towering above her. She moved toward Braddon.

“My lord.”

Braddon held out his arm and she took it, walking across the Persian carpet, the silver tips of her slippers pressing down on glowing ruby and crimson flowers. She was very conscious of the two men who watched her go—Quill, still on his feet, smiling a sympathetic half-smile that made her feel weepy, and Patrick with his mocking half-smile that made her want to throw a vase at him. I will not look back at that—that unreliable seducer, she thought. And she didn’t.

For his part, Patrick watched Sophie walk toward the announcement of her engagement to Braddon Chatwin with a surge of wrath that sent a gathering wave of heat over his body. He had a horrifying urge to lunge across the room and bend her over his arms, to destroy the self-assured sway of her hips when she walked away with Braddon.

He knew, knew, it would take only one instant to return Sophie to the flushed and trembling woman he’d held in his arms, the woman whose confusion looked so touchingly real that if he hadn’t known that she was a sophisticated wanton, a minx who had shared her kisses far and wide among the London beau monde, he might have … He might have what?

As Peter made his apologies and trotted back toward the ballroom, Patrick made no move to follow.