Alex had forgotten all about the ring incident in the pleasure of talking to a well-read man. Poor old Braddon certainly had grown boring over the past few years. He thought so again when he rooted Braddon out of one of the gaming rooms. Braddon was up fifteen pounds, and had been down as much as two hundred; he was also drunk and shaky on his feet.

“Steady,” Alex said impatiently, as Braddon tottered toward the door. Lord! The man must be at least thirty, since Alex was thirty-one; why couldn’t he hold his liquor yet?

Alex slept soundlessly, linen sheets pushed down to his waist, exposing a deeply tanned, muscular chest. He lay perfectly still, on his back with his arms folded behind his head. It was one of the few ways he and his twin brother, Patrick, could be told apart. Patrick slept in a tangle of arms and sheets, tossing and kicking all night long. When Patrick was small his restless sleep often landed him on the floor, where he would simply continue sleeping. But when Alex was a baby he slept so soundly that his mother used to tiptoe in and touch him, just to make sure he was still breathing.

It was almost eight o’clock when Alex awoke. The sun was casting bright, slanting lines below the curtains. He lay back, eyes closed, thinking about the previous night.

But Alex’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of bare feet trotting unsteadily into his bedroom. “Papa!” shouted a little voice happily. He opened his eyes. Pippa was clutching the heavy gold brocade of his bed curtains, smiling widely.

He reached down and swept his little daughter up next to him. She giggled and clutched the black hair on his chest. Oh, Lord. He’d been trying to remember to wear a nightshirt, given her propensity for joining him in his bedchamber in the morning. She looked small but she had a powerful grip and loved to pull hair.

“Hey!” he said with mock severity. Pippa nestled down in the crook of his arm and looked at him expectantly.

“Cocca,” she said impatiently. “Me, me!”

Alex leaned over and rang the tasseled bell cord next to his bed. He hated the habit of drinking hot chocolate in bed. But then, he never thought to have a one-year-old child in his bed either.

Keating appeared at the door, silver tray in hand. Neatly arranged on the tray were two sturdy mugs, filled precisely to the midpoint with hot chocolate. When Pippa and Alex first returned from Italy and Alex deciphered what “cocca” was, the tray had held delicate Wedgwood teacups, brimming with truly hot chocolate. Now, after a series of mishaps, Alex philosophically drank lukewarm chocolate from a servant’s mug.