Sophie leaned her head back on the latticed frame of the summerhouse and closed her eyes. Her mind was clearing, the anguish draining out of her. What I should do is hasten my marriage to Braddon, she thought. Because once I really am Braddon’s wife, I shall stop hankering after the greatest rake of them all, Patrick Foakes.

Her eyes snapped open as there was a light tug on the scarf around her neck.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you come up the walk,” she said lamely.

“Hmm.” Patrick Foakes increased his tug on the scarf and Sophie obediently bent her neck as the silky band slipped from her neck. She felt suddenly shy, meeting Patrick’s eyes.

“Thinking about the delights of marriage?” His tone was soft, unthreatening.

Sophie stood up. She had no illusions about where this conversation might lead her. She took a step forward, but Patrick was standing in the doorway of the summerhouse, one knee up and braced against the top step. He didn’t move back as she approached.

A pulse of excitement started in Sophie’s spine, a weakening tremor of electricity that drifted down her legs.

“The delights of marriage,” she repeated meditatively—wickedly. A smile trembled at the corner of her mouth. “Are they very sweet?” She cocked her head to the side like an inquisitive robin.

“I believe so.” Patrick’s face was impassive. She was an unbelievable tease, Sophie York. Damned if he’d ever met anyone as alluring in his life. Where her hair had fallen to the side, the moonlight painted her neck as white as a lily.

He stepped up and into the summerhouse. His large hand captured the fall of her hair, tugging her head to the side.

“What are you doing?” Sophie wasn’t very worried; if she was honest with herself, she’d waited for this moment all night. His large body was so close to her that she could feel its heat through the flimsy material of her gown.

“Do you know a poem with a line like this: ‘Your lips are red, soft and sweet’?” Patrick’s voice was husky. She felt his fingers running down the silken currents of her curls. “Do you know that poem, Sophie?”

“No,” she said a little shakily. He tugged on her hair again, her head tilting once more, as his right hand swept her against his muscled body. Her tiny gasp lingered on the air as warm lips caressed the sweep of her exposed throat.

“ ‘Your cherry lip, red, soft and sweet, proclaims such fruit for taste is meet,’ “ Patrick said lazily, punctuating his words with kisses.

“Is this one of the ‘delights of marriage’?” Sophie was desperately trying to be rational in the face of a whirlwind of sensations.

“One of ‘em,” Patrick agreed. He was holding her against him with both hands, hands that were wandering all over her small body, now touching the arch of her bottom, the tender curve where her leg began (Sophie gasped), and finally the generous curve of her breast, so easily released from Madame Carême’s tiny bodice.