Even as Patrick kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, Sophie was wriggling out of his arms. And then, as he watched, Sophie pulled apart the tapes at her neck and waist, ruthlessly ignoring hooks and buttons as she pulled her gown over her head.

There she was … the woman he dreamed of every night.

With a deep masculine groan, Patrick lunged toward her in a surge that carried them straight onto the bed. Sophie’s arms didn’t wind around his neck. They went to his waist, meeting his hands in an effort to pull open the buttons on his breeches. Roughly Patrick freed himself and, without bothering to remove his garments, grabbed his wife’s hips and pulled her to the edge of the bed, burying himself in her wet welcome. Sophie screamed and arched her back; Patrick groaned and drove forward again.

Later Sophie woke to find her husband’s hand languorously cupping her bottom, pulling her to him. And when dawn stole into the room, it was Patrick who opened his eyes to find that a creamy white body, streaked with rosy light, was hovering just above him. He met the speculative blue eyes looking down into his with an answering smile and pulled that body down, down onto him.

Patrick’s man of business arrived punctually at eleven o’clock and dawdled around the library for a half-hour before a poker-faced butler told him that the master was unavailable. Madame Carême waited in vain for Lady Sophie to appear for a second fitting of a lovely costume parisien.

The Foakeses did not meet for breakfast. They did not accidentally encounter each other in the hallway, nor did they attend the revival of The Taming of the Shrew, currently playing at the Covent Garden Theater. They did not meet because they never parted. The craving that had tormented Patrick was assuaged only by hours of wanton play and languorous touches. The despair that had plagued Sophie was soothed by a husband who gorged himself again and again on her body.

They did not speak of serious matters, but the world had righted itself again. Without words, they were back in the intimate world of the Lark. Sophie knew without asking that Patrick would not be going out that night. Patrick wondered at his own stupidity in ever thinking that Sophie didn’t care whether he joined her in bed. He’d had his share of lustful mistresses, but none had the thirsty, joyful desire of his own wife. So he apologized silently, without words, and was accepted ecstatically in the same way.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The next morning Patrick and Sophie went to their own chambers after one last kiss. Down in the servants’ quarters, two bells chimed simultaneously.

“It’s for you, Keating,” bellowed Clemens in a cockney twang he never used once he passed the bronze door that separated the house from the downstairs. “And you too, Simone.”