Midnight Pleasures by Eloisa James

toward him, her mouth raised.
    “You’re a treasure.” Patrick’s voice had a husky helplessness to it. “Sophie.”
    Sophie smiled, emboldened by the heady freedom of the shadowy summerhouse. “If I am a treasure, do you have the key?”
    An answering smile lit Patrick’s eyes as he pulled her against him, almost roughly.
    “Odd.” His voice was deep velvet. “They seem to be playing even though we have the scarf.” Sure enough, Sophie dimly heard the excited calls of players in the distance.
    The sound brought her back to her senses. “No! We might be seen!”
    Patrick stopped immediately, lifting his lips from hers. “That’s the only thing that bothers you, isn’t it?” His mouth twisted. “If someone discovered us, you would have to marry me rather than your earl.”
    Sophie didn’t grasp his meaning. Patrick’s face was caught in a beam of moonlight that stroked down through the lattice roof of the summerhouse. It caught the planes and angles of his bones, emphasizing the rough beauty of his cheekbones and the dark shadow cast by his eyelashes.
    Unthinkingly she raised her fingers to his cheek. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.
    But Patrick pulled back from her touch. “I’m very much afraid, Lady Sophie, that your betrothed will be missing your presence.” His tone was courteous, but his jaw was set.
    Sophie opened her mouth—and then stopped. He was right.
    Patrick’s expression hardened at the heartbeat of silence between them. Briskly he wound the purple scarf around his arm. “It was lovely to see you, Countess. As always.”
    Sophie shuddered, standing there in the warm darkness. Two tears snaked their way down her cheeks.
    Oh God, she’d done it. Without getting married, she’d managed to ruin her life by falling in love with a rake. Two more tears followed the first ones.
    Then Sophie straightened her back in an unconscious imitation of her mother’s ramrod-straight spine. At least he would never know … and the world would never know. She would make certain, absolutely certain, from that moment forward, that all of London thought she was desperately in love with Braddon. If they even suspected what she felt for Patrick, the humiliation would be unending. Sophie shuddered again.
    Walking from the garden, Sophie fell into the company of two young ladies who were chattering feverishly about scarves and stolen kisses. Together they flung themselves through the doors to the house, Sophie’s giggle sounding hollow to her ears.
    In its inimitable way, the English weather had suddenly decided to stop imitating a southern clime. Wispy rain hissed into the garden torches, and footmen promptly pulled the doors shut behind the girls.
    Braddon was sitting next to his mother and looked up gratefully when Sophie approached. “My lord.” She gave him a blinding smile.
    Braddon bowed. “Lady Sophie, I believe that they are calling for a dance. Will you do me the honor?”
    As they moved rather ponderously into a boulanger, Sophie had a moment’s qualm. A lifetime of labored dancing lay ahead of her. Nothing in her experience of the world led her to believe that Braddon’s waistline would lessen after marriage; in fact, he looked as if he might attain the girth of his deceased papa.
    But when they reached the bottom of the room, she looked up to find Braddon’s friendly blue eyes twinkling down at her. “Did you have a good time in the garden, Lady Sophie? Some infernal game Lady Sheffield thought up, what? I had the scarf myself for a bit,” he confided, “but then Patrick Foakes wandered up, bold as brass, and he had another one, just like mine. So it looks as if she was playing a bit of ducks and drakes with us, don’t you know.”
    Sophie thought about that and wondered. Ducks and drakes was right. Two scarves—and how had Patrick found her so quickly?
    “Braddon,” she said, “shall we sit comfortably for a moment or two? I should dearly love to discuss something with