“He sleeps with too many women,” she obligingly explained.

Patrick sat down on the edge of the bed, fully swathed in Braddon’s theatrical cloak once again.

Sophie looked up at him, her eyes heavy lidded. “My mama is very irritable about the whole subject of mistresses. But you needn’t worry; I shall be accommodating.”

Patrick smiled a bit tightly. “I hope you won’t have anything to accommodate.”

Sophie was clearly drifting off to sleep again. “It’s quite all right, Patrick. I am not the sort of woman who will make a fuss. Now that I’m going to marry you, I won’t whimper about it.” Her eyes closed.

Patrick’s eyes narrowed as he watched Sophie’s face relax into dreams. It was not without a frisson of shock that he realized her complete lack of belief in his ability to stay away from other women. As he watched she turned a bit, nestling her face against her hand.

Patrick ran his hand down the silky mess of Sophie’s curls, spread out against the sheets. She must have bled when he took her virginity, this future wife of his, but she hadn’t said a word. Not a coward, then. But she had no faith in him. Why? What could she have heard about him? Stories, perhaps, about his behavior before his father sent him abroad. But Patrick couldn’t think of anything remarkable, other than the normal pranks of lustful men in their twenties. And yet, since Sophie had agreed to marry Braddon, whose reputation was not the best, a truly egregious tale must be circulating about himself. No. He’d forgotten about Braddon’s title. Sophie had wanted to be a countess. Well, now she would be a duchess.

Patrick’s jaw tightened. Whatever reluctance she’d had to marry him before, Sophie York didn’t have a choice anymore. She was his. He stood up, then leaned over her once more, almost compulsively running a hand down the lovely curves of her relaxed body. God, he’d better get out of here or he’d lose his head again.

Patrick stood, his cape swirling from his shoulders. With the silent stealth of a jungle animal he walked over to Sophie’s dressing table and swiftly pocketed the strand of matched pearls she had worn earlier in the evening. Then he left the room, shutting the door silently behind him. He walked down the stairs slowly, making no effort to hide the firm sound of his feet striking the marble risers.

Carroll had left Philippe in the front hall with instructions to await the master and mistress’s return from a ball. The footman looked up in confusion as a swell, dressed in a black cape, walked composedly down the stairs. His mouth fell open, but Carroll’s excellent training snapped Philippe to attention. He sprang to the door and held it open, bowing his head.