Sophie’s eyes darted to his and a little smile turned up the corners of her mouth. She repeated the movement, slowly, with both hands, then slid her thumbs down to the same position. She felt Patrick’s heart beating under her hand like that of a small mole she had found once in the garden at twilight.

Suddenly, just as she was relaxing into a sense of power, Patrick’s hands dragged her from the bed and she found herself sitting on his lap, her hands crushed against his chest, her heart beating wildly. He smelled like a midsummer night, like the midsummer madness that was racing through her veins like potent canary wine; he smelled male and faintly like brandy. She held her breath and just … waited.

Patrick looked down into her trusting eyes and momentarily closed his own, resisting a wave of passion that threatened to turn him into a satyr who would thrust her back on the bed and leap on her. Instead he kissed her little nose.

“You’re marrying me.”

His voice was deep with unstrained conviction.

Sophie gave an assenting little sigh, a little, fuzzy, unargumentative puff of breath. And so, without a moment’s further thought, she consigned a thousand childhood oaths to oblivion.

Patrick tipped up her chin with his knuckles.

“Sophie.”

“All right,” she said, not pettishly, not irritably. “All right, I will marry you.” But the question didn’t really interest Sophie at that moment. She was aware of the rosy glow in her cheeks and a matching glow of warmth low in her belly.

“Patrick?” Her eyes were caught on his.

He lowered his head so that his lips were a whisper from hers, his warm breath caressing her as he spoke.

“It wouldn’t be proper, Sophie,” he said, his voice husky with desire. “We must wait.”

But wells and springs of joy were washing over Sophie’s body. She was marrying a rake, yes. But she was marrying a rake whom she loved, so surely…. Daringly she reached up and ran her tongue along the chiseled outline of his mouth. He tightened his grip, but said nothing. Her hands slipped from around his neck, down to his chest, running again over the planes and angles, down to where a small feathered arrow of hair disappeared into his waistband.

She risked a glance at him. His face had taken on an erotic languor, and a sensual promise hung in the darkness of his eyes and the shadowed curves of his cheeks. Sophie smiled.

Reluctantly Patrick smiled back.

“You’re a hell-born brat,” he murmured.

“Oh dear.” Sophie pursed her lips teasingly. “Are you an archbishop?”