Color raced delicately up her cheeks as her clear blue eyes met his black ones, down the length of the starched linen tablecloth. Silently Patrick raised his wineglass in a salute. She was his wife; she was carrying his child; she was unbearably beautiful.

A tiny smile hovered on Sophie’s lips and she raised her wineglass in return. Patrick was gazing at her with the same suggestive look he used to have, before her mother announced that sex was forbidden.

They would sit together at dinner, talking innocently of the state of the war with France, and all the time Patrick’s eyes would lazily slide over her face and down her shoulders, lingering on her breasts until she felt like fireworks about to explode. Every pulse in her body would be pounding by the time Patrick rose from his chair and held out his arm so that they could leave the dining room.

Thinking of it, Sophie put her wineglass down with a soft thump and wrenched her eyes from Patrick’s. This was no time for seductive games. She turned decisively to Patrick’s brother, Alex, to her right, only to find that he was grinning at her. Sophie blushed again. I suppose he caught Patrick’s look, she thought to herself.

“Do you know,” Alex said conversationally, leaning close to her ear, “I am very glad that you married my brother, Lady Sophie.”

“Thank you,” she said hesitantly.

Much later that night, Patrick and Sophie were finally left alone in the drawing room. Sophie dropped into a chair, with an exhausted sigh.

Patrick stood looking down at her for a second. “It was a great success, Sophie my wife,” he said quietly.

She looked up and smiled. “Thank you. I thought Madeleine did very well, didn’t you?”

Patrick looked a bit surprised. “Naturally. She is a lovely young woman.”

Sophie couldn’t explain that she was proud of Madeleine because she carried herself to perfection. Not a soul at the party, Sophie would be bound, even considered the possibility that Madeleine was not born into the French aristocracy.

“Has your stomach been indisposed, Sophie?”

It was Sophie’s turn to look startled. “No, not at all.” Then she grinned. “I placed you next to my mother, didn’t I? Did she mention milk baths, by any chance?” And, at Patrick’s answering grin, “Bitters?” Sophie gave a melodramatic shiver. “I hate bitters.”

Patrick laughed and put out a hand, helping her to her feet. “It was Lady Skiffing who said that you ought to be resting.”

Sophie paused and looked up at him sympathetically. “It sounds as if they talked your ears off, and just on a subject you dislike. I am sorry.”

Patrick looked down at his wife, then took her arm and led her toward the stairs. “Time for bed.”

His voice was resonant, almost seductive, Sophie thought. But when she looked up, Patrick’s face was impossible to read.