Lord Breksby went to his bed that night in a glow of self-satisfaction. He lay back, hands tucked behind his head, which was trimly covered in a nightcap.
“I tell you, m’dear,” he told his sleepy wife, “sometimes I fancy myself a genius. I really do.”
Lady Breksby had no complaints with that assessment—in fact, she merely grunted—so after a moment Lord Breksby composed himself for sleep.
He dreamed of ruby scepters; she dreamed of roses.
Patrick dreamed that he was dancing with Sophie York while wearing a huge insignia proclaiming that he was a Duke of the Realm. Lady Sophie dreamed that she was kissing her future husband, Braddon Chatwin, when he suddenly turned into a lop-eared rabbit and hopped away, somewhat to her relief.
Only Alex had no dreams that night. Baby Sarah was teething and cried half the night. “We should be glad that she has sound lungs,” his wife observed sleepily at three in the morning. Alex merely sighed and turned to walk back to the nursery. If the Earl of Sheffield and Downes daydreamed of sailing to the Ottoman Empire with his brother, far from the damp and wailing child in his arms, who would blame him?
Chapter 5
By the time Sophie had been bathed, gowned, coiffured, and placed in a carriage tooling its way to her engagement dinner, she was feeling a burst of happiness. She was alone. The carriage would drop her at Sheffield House an hour early so that she could visit with Charlotte. She leaned back comfortably on the salmon-pink velvet.
Her mother, the marchioness, invariably sat forward, her back stiffened as if by a steel rod, her gloved hand clenched on a wall strap. Whereas, Sophie decided, my back naturally curves into seats.
She felt recklessly sensual, the prickling call of nerve points making her heart dance, reminding her that the source of this giddy happiness was the slim, paltry, ridiculous fact that Patrick Foakes would be at the dinner party. She would see him and perhaps, if there was informal dancing afterward…. She rather fancied there would be. Then he might, would, hold her in his arms. After all, Charlotte loved to dance. And Charlotte was more than a little interested in Sophie and Patrick’s future. Not that I have a future with Patrick Foakes, Sophie quickly reminded herself.
The carriage rattled on. It clattered over rounded paving stones and swung around a corner altogether too fast. Sophie had to make a quick grab for the strap, and even so she was thrown against the padded wall. It was the pity of being so small. She couldn’t brace herself against the corner the way men could. André was driving too fast again. He thought of himself as a cross between a coachman and a courtier, and he had even adapted the trick of a Corinthian: He caught his whip as it coiled back through the air.
The horses trotted on and the carriage resumed its normal creaking rattle and sway. Sophie stuck out a foot in front of her, thoughtfully regarding her slipper. She was wearing a gown the color of bronzed gold—which was the closest she ever came to white. She never wore white. White was her mother’s preference. White was the preference of virtually every other unmarried girl in London. White, for innocence, engagements, and virginity. Sophie dropped her foot in exasperation.