For God’s sake, he had had a mistress in Arabia, what was her name? Perliss. Until a pasha took a liking to Perliss, and she to him, and within a few hours his mistress became an honored wife, the twenty-fourth, or was it twenty-fifth? He hadn’t turned a hair, although he missed Perliss’s undoubted skills and graceful long legs for a few days.

But now! He’d kissed the chit only a few times, for God’s sake. Held Sophie in his arms once before kissing her, but that was when his sister-in-law was almost dying in the next room. Even then he’d been conscious of what he held, although he knew that Sophie had no awareness of him whatsoever. She was grieving for Charlotte’s death. Except that Charlotte, of course, hadn’t died.

Patrick had bided his time. Sophie returned to her family the day after Charlotte’s child was safely born. Patrick was no stranger to the hunt. He deliberately didn’t follow her. Instead, he waited until the gentry began returning to London, in late November.

But then, when he had awakened her, turned a sleeping beauty into a flushed, silently begging woman who had pressed herself into his arms, she had turned him down. Not that he really wanted to marry, of course, but given the circumstances …

Weeks had passed since his proposal of marriage. He’d hadn’t been with a woman since and he hadn’t stopped thinking about Sophie’s body. Obviously it was frustration. Simple sexual frustration, and if he had any brains he’d walk himself over to the Duke’s Theater and see if Arabella would take him to her bed for old times’ sake.

But his feet didn’t listen. They headed home, ignoring the tigerish frustration that pulsed up and down his muscled limbs. He’d be damned if he’d let Sophie marry Braddon. Patrick’s eyes narrowed as an image flashed across his mind, unbidden: Braddon punctiliously removing his embroidered waistcoat and preparing to do his duty—but only until he got an heir.

What was Sophie supposed to do after Braddon had his heir? Become one of those shallow, bored society matrons who took on lovers from the ton or, worse, slept with their gardeners?

Patrick found himself in front of his house. The walk hadn’t done its magic tonight. His heart was pounding and his hands were clenched.

The engagement party. He slowly climbed the stairs, his grateful butler almost running toward the servants’ quarters and his own bed. Patrick walked into his bedroom unseeingly, dismissing his sleepy-eyed valet with a wave.

The dinner that Charlotte was giving for Sophie.

I’ll talk to her, Patrick thought. Talk, my ass! His thumbs itched to rub themselves over the tender arch of her nipples. He longed to pull Sophie against his hard body, an intoxicating encounter of muscle and yielding softness, bumps and curves that were made to be linked together.

I’ll talk to her, Patrick decided. I’ll talk to her, that’s all.