can sport the blunt,” Braddon said, his tone defensive.
“Well, I can buy and sell you,” Patrick drawled, “and I’d like to contribute to Arabella’s house.”
Braddon looked at him, his light blue eyes unenvious but curious. “So did you really come back from India as rich as a nabob, then?”
Patrick shrugged, tossing his hair back from his eyes. “M’father sent me out East by myself, you know. Not much fun raising hell without Alex. It seemed to come naturally.”
And it had. His mercurial, mocking nature took infinite pleasure in the delicate rhythms of Indian negotiation and export.
Designing trade routes, finding rare spices, loading the holds of ships with delicate gold bird cages, rippling silk so delicate that it tore at the touch of a fingernail, and casks of peacock feathers, pleased him. He took great risks and received greater rewards. At the moment, his fortune was to be rivaled in England only, perhaps, by those of his brother and a few others. Those London gentlemen like Braddon who limited their financial ambition to training a horse for the next Ascot were a dying breed.
Alex stepped into his carriage with a wave. Patrick shrugged off Braddon’s plan to visit the back door of the Duke’s Theater and then, in a sudden decision, waved off his own coachman as well. He stood in the deserted street, watching his well-slung carriage disappear around a corner.
A light rain had begun to fall. London was ripe with the smell of settling dust and horse manure. Patrick settled his cloak and started down the street, his legs eating up the pavement. As he walked, tension uncurled from his leg muscles and his stomach lost a knot he hadn’t been aware of. His scalp eased.
Patrick had walked the hot breathless alleys of Whampao Reach, Canton, strolled under the delicate arches of Baghdad, tramped the byways of mountain villages in Tibet. It was when he was ambling along a small back street in Lhasa that he’d heard a chorus of avadavats singing: the small black and red songbirds that he had later exported to England, and that had become the rage in London.
He wasn’t much of a sleeper at the best of times. It was while walking that ideas floated into his mind, unbeckoned. But now Patrick brooded rather than thought. Even the memory of the sweet curves of Sophie York’s breasts—exposed to the whole world in that ridiculous gown she was wearing!—made his loins tighten. And so he strode on, telling himself to cut Sophie from his mind.
For God’s sake, he had had a mistress in Arabia, what was her name? Perliss. Until a pasha took a liking to Perliss, and she to him, and within a few hours his mistress became an honored wife, the twenty-fourth, or was it twenty-fifth? He hadn’t turned a hair, although he missed Perliss’s undoubted skills and graceful long legs for a few days.
But now! He’d kissed the chit only a few times, for God’s sake. Held Sophie in his arms once before kissing her, but that was when his sister-in-law was almost dying in the next room. Even then he’d been conscious of what he held, although he knew that Sophie had no awareness of him whatsoever. She was grieving for Charlotte’s death. Except that Charlotte, of course, hadn’t died.
Patrick had bided his time. Sophie returned to her family the day after Charlotte’s child was safely born. Patrick was no stranger to the hunt. He deliberately didn’t follow her. Instead, he waited until the gentry began returning to London, in late November.
But then, when he had awakened her, turned a sleeping beauty into a flushed, silently begging woman who had pressed herself into his arms, she had turned him down. Not that he really wanted to marry, of course, but given the circumstances …
Weeks had passed since his proposal of marriage. He’d hadn’t been with a woman since and he hadn’t stopped thinking about Sophie’s body. Obviously it was frustration. Simple sexual frustration, and if he had any brains he’d
“Well, I can buy and sell you,” Patrick drawled, “and I’d like to contribute to Arabella’s house.”
Braddon looked at him, his light blue eyes unenvious but curious. “So did you really come back from India as rich as a nabob, then?”
Patrick shrugged, tossing his hair back from his eyes. “M’father sent me out East by myself, you know. Not much fun raising hell without Alex. It seemed to come naturally.”
And it had. His mercurial, mocking nature took infinite pleasure in the delicate rhythms of Indian negotiation and export.
Designing trade routes, finding rare spices, loading the holds of ships with delicate gold bird cages, rippling silk so delicate that it tore at the touch of a fingernail, and casks of peacock feathers, pleased him. He took great risks and received greater rewards. At the moment, his fortune was to be rivaled in England only, perhaps, by those of his brother and a few others. Those London gentlemen like Braddon who limited their financial ambition to training a horse for the next Ascot were a dying breed.
Alex stepped into his carriage with a wave. Patrick shrugged off Braddon’s plan to visit the back door of the Duke’s Theater and then, in a sudden decision, waved off his own coachman as well. He stood in the deserted street, watching his well-slung carriage disappear around a corner.
A light rain had begun to fall. London was ripe with the smell of settling dust and horse manure. Patrick settled his cloak and started down the street, his legs eating up the pavement. As he walked, tension uncurled from his leg muscles and his stomach lost a knot he hadn’t been aware of. His scalp eased.
Patrick had walked the hot breathless alleys of Whampao Reach, Canton, strolled under the delicate arches of Baghdad, tramped the byways of mountain villages in Tibet. It was when he was ambling along a small back street in Lhasa that he’d heard a chorus of avadavats singing: the small black and red songbirds that he had later exported to England, and that had become the rage in London.
He wasn’t much of a sleeper at the best of times. It was while walking that ideas floated into his mind, unbeckoned. But now Patrick brooded rather than thought. Even the memory of the sweet curves of Sophie York’s breasts—exposed to the whole world in that ridiculous gown she was wearing!—made his loins tighten. And so he strode on, telling himself to cut Sophie from his mind.
For God’s sake, he had had a mistress in Arabia, what was her name? Perliss. Until a pasha took a liking to Perliss, and she to him, and within a few hours his mistress became an honored wife, the twenty-fourth, or was it twenty-fifth? He hadn’t turned a hair, although he missed Perliss’s undoubted skills and graceful long legs for a few days.
But now! He’d kissed the chit only a few times, for God’s sake. Held Sophie in his arms once before kissing her, but that was when his sister-in-law was almost dying in the next room. Even then he’d been conscious of what he held, although he knew that Sophie had no awareness of him whatsoever. She was grieving for Charlotte’s death. Except that Charlotte, of course, hadn’t died.
Patrick had bided his time. Sophie returned to her family the day after Charlotte’s child was safely born. Patrick was no stranger to the hunt. He deliberately didn’t follow her. Instead, he waited until the gentry began returning to London, in late November.
But then, when he had awakened her, turned a sleeping beauty into a flushed, silently begging woman who had pressed herself into his arms, she had turned him down. Not that he really wanted to marry, of course, but given the circumstances …
Weeks had passed since his proposal of marriage. He’d hadn’t been with a woman since and he hadn’t stopped thinking about Sophie’s body. Obviously it was frustration. Simple sexual frustration, and if he had any brains he’d
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