He told Tony of the scoundrels that had attacked Tory and the man was dutifully outraged.
“The devil you say! Was she harmed?” he asked Patrick.
Patrick clenched his fists on the table, anger surging through him anew. It was joined by an odd twisting sensation in his gut.
“The bastards tore her dress and they sought to damage far more,” he ground out. “One man struck her and I very nearly strangled the life out of him.”
Tony blinked. He leaned back in his chair and gave a slow nod. Patrick shifted uneasily as he noted the smugness on his friend’s face.
“What are you thinking, Tony?”
“You’re in a bad way, my friend.”
Patrick began to protest, at last shrugging in defeat. “You don’t know the half of it.”
Tony nodded sagely.
Patrick absently shuffled the cards. He was too consumed with thoughts of Tory and what he should do about keeping her safe from back-alley vagrants as well as the likes of Miller and his ilk. Hell, even his friends had pondered taking her as a mistress.
“I’m off to the boxing club,” Patrick announced to his friend. “I need to let off some steam.” He needed a particularly brutal sparring match to tire his body and occupy his mind for a while.
* * *
After a bustling day of work at Elliot’s, Tory finally had some time to think about Patrick. Oh, she felt wonderfully wanton. She closed her eyes and imagined Patrick’s dark head nestled against her breasts. She shivered at that provocative image. He’d also touched her in her most private place. And when he’d pressed his wonderfully hard body against hers . . . She sighed as she dressed for dinner.
She took her dinner alone, which was no surprise to her as J. B. had told her that afternoon that he had pressing business. She couldn’t sit at the polished dining table without recalling the meal so recently passed. Patrick’s hazel eyes had scarcely left her face, she was gratified to think even now. Except, she amended, when he looked at the other dinner guest in their midst. The flash of jealousy in Patrick’s eyes, whenever Mr. Miller smiled in her direction, warmed her down to her toes.
Though Patrick had no cause for jealousy on that account, since Mr. Miller’s leering attention had given her no pleasure whatsoever, in fact the very opposite. She found Mr. Miller to be quite loathsome. She’d seen that look one too many times at the shop. And if she were truthful to herself, Paul’s expression had held the very same fervor when last she saw him. Lord, it was as if she had never truly known that man from what now seemed so long ago in Cornwall.
As she placed her napkin beside her nearly empty plate, the butler Baxter appeared at the door.
“Miss, if you will?” Baxter intoned.
“Yes, Baxter?” she asked. He always seemed so stuffy, but for all she knew that was precisely the manner in which a butler should behave.
“A package, Miss,” Baxter said. “For you.”
Puzzled, she thanked the man and weighed the small parcel in her hand. She took the item into the parlor, perching on the same settee she’d made use of last evening, and carefully opened it. Inside, nestled amid much tissue paper, was the exquisite gray brooch she loved. She smiled in delight as she ran her fingers over the delicate gold vines. A calling card accompanied the lovely piece, and on it was Patrick’s name and address. She picked up the card and turned it over and found . . . nothing. No words, no handwritten greetings, met her gaze.
Why did he not include a note? Unless . . . Shame threatened to swamp her as she squeezed her eyes shut. Did he think so little of her? The pleasure they had shared—brief, though it was—had it meant nothing more to him than any other tryst? The image of the blonde opera girl filled her mind in that instant and Tory felt her shame turn slowly to anger.
CHAPTER 9
Patrick sat in the oversized chair in his comfortably-appointed sitting room, staring at the flames that danced behind the fireplace grate. A bottle of brandy sat at his side, its contents nearly depleted. After taking a solitary meal he’d thought to ease his guilt by seeing to the delivery of a particular item. He wondered if Tory had yet received it.
Tory.
She was incredible, he mused as he drained his glass. She’d responded to him last night with an honesty that even now made him ache to be inside her. He removed his cravat and tossed it across the room to join his discarded jacket and waistcoat on the other chair. He raked his fingers through his tousled hair and sighed irritably.
He poured another glass of brandy and leaned his head on the back of the plump chair. He never should have touched her, he thought perversely. But God, she was so sweet! He groaned and drained another glass.
Patrick closed his eyes and thought once more of those incredible moments he’d spent in her arms. When she’d opened her mouth to him, welcoming his deepest kiss, he’d shaken with need. As he’d bared her breasts to his eyes, his touch, he’d nearly been overcome. Her breasts were perfect, round and white and tipped with the loveliest rosy nipples. And her flesh was as sweet as the sounds of pleasure she’d made as he suckled her. But it was her heat that had surprised him. One touch beneath her skirts was all the evidence he needed to prove that she was as fiery inside as she was out. He shuddered as he felt himself grow hard. Lord, but he wanted to taste that fire now.
A sharp knocking was soon heard at his door, breaking through his reverie. He raised his head and stared at the door for a long moment, silently willing the visitor to take their swift leave. The knocking came again.
“Go away,” he grumbled. “I’m expecting no one.”
He could have sworn he heard a feminine voice muttering a curse from the other side of the panel. Curious, he arose from the chair and pulled open the door. To his utter astonishment, there stood Tory, her silver eyes ablaze with anger.
He smiled crookedly at her and leaned against the door, his movements both careless and graceful.
“Tory,” he said, his voice low. “This is a surprise.”
“A surprise?” Tory asked. “That’s surely an understatement.”
Patrick’s eyes widened at her tone.
“How dare you send this to me?” she said, holding out the brooch in her palm.
Patrick blinked dully at her before lowering his gaze to the piece of jewelry.
“Ah, you received it.”
“Yes!” she cried. “How could you treat me so dreadfully?”
He straightened, trying to make his mind function. “What?”
She entered his sitting room and paced about. “You can’t treat me like—”
“Does your uncle know you’re here?” Patrick cut in as he closed the door.
“What?” Tory spun to face him. She gave an impatient shake of her head. “No, no. He had business this evening. What happened last night to make you think that you could take it upon yourself to—”
“How the devil did you get here?” he cut in again, regarding her closely.
Tory sighed in exasperation. “I hired a hack,” she said with a wave of her hand. “And please stop doing that!”
“What?” Patrick asked, his hands outstretched. “What am I doing, Tory?”
She muttered a curse and placed the brooch firmly into one of his hands. “You’re distracting me, Mr. Latham,” she said, her hands clenched into fists.
He looked down at the brooch and raised his eyes to hers once more. “Why are you so angry?” he asked. “I thought you favored this brooch.”
“I did. I—I do,” she stammered. “But you can’t treat me like one of your—your—opera girls!” she suddenly shouted.
Patrick stiffened. The effects of the brandy swiftly leaving his mind as recognition dawned on him.
“How did you know about that?”
“About your opera girl?” she taunted. “She came into the shop to buy a pair of hideous earrings to match that hideous brooch you gave her in reward for her . . . services,” she said with a huff, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Tory,
” he began, “it’s not what you think.”
She sniffed and turned from him. “You can’t treat me like a . . . like some loose trollop,” she said, her voice shaking with conviction. “I’m not one of your many lovers, to use for your pleasure and reward with some trinket.”
Patrick swore softly. He came toward her. “I don’t think of you like that.”
“You think of me as Mr. Miller does,” she said with certainty. “Like all those men who frequent my uncle’s shop.”
“No,” he insisted.
She whirled on him. “Then why did you send me the brooch?” she countered with a tilt of her chin. “And with no note.”
Patrick was momentarily distracted by how incredibly she wore her fury. She was trembling and her skin was flushed a pretty pink. She was taking short breaths through her full parted lips. But her eyes—They fairly glowed silver bright. That odd feeling revisited his stomach and swiftly moved downward. He looked again at the lovely brooch in his hand and blew out a breath.
“I bought this weeks ago, Tory,” he said. “It was always my intention to give it to you.”
Tory stared at to the floor. “But why did you have to send it today?” she asked in a small voice. “Why, Patrick? Because of what happened last night?”
“No,” he said quickly. He placed the brooch on the mantle. “And . . . Yes.”
She looked up at him sharply.
“Tory,” he began, “I feel like a complete rogue for what I did to you last night.”
She stepped closer to him, her brow furrowed with confusion. “Why?”
Patrick found his smile. He lifted one hand to her face and caressed her cheek. “I didn’t want you to think that I was like one of those men who frequent the shop.”
“I understand,” she said nodding. “When I saw the brooch, I was so happy that it was from you but there was no note, and I just assumed that you were rewarding me for last night like you do your—” She looked up at him, her face beautifully flushed.
“No!” He exclaimed, reaching for her hands. “Never. Not you.” He brought her hands up to his lips and kissed the palms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t write a note.” He shook his head. “I’m an idiot.”
Tory giggled at that.
“And I don’t,” he went on. “That is, I no longer visit that opera girl.”
She gazed at him then, her beautiful eyes aglow.
“You don’t?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
“Not since I met you, Tory.”
“Oh . . .” was all she said in reply, her eyes wide.
“And I want to apologize for what I did to you in your uncle’s parlor.”
Her brow furrowed. “But I liked what you did.”
He chuckled and kissed her hands once more. “Mmm, so did I, but it wasn’t right—not in your uncle’s home, sweet Tory.”
She nodded and blushed once more.
“But Tory,” he continued, “we’re in my home now.”
Her eyes sparkled in response as she nervously licked her lips. She touched his face, her fingers gentle.
“Yes, we are,” she whispered.
Desire pounded through him. Patrick crushed his mouth to hers. He quickly divested her of her cloak and threw it to the floor. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck.
“Patrick,” she sighed, leaning her head back as he kissed her throat.
“God, Tory,” he moaned, gently nipping her flesh. “What you do to me . . .”
“What do I do to you, Patrick?” she asked.
He lifted his head and met her silvery gaze. “Everything.”
He worked her dress free of its fastenings and let it pool to the floor. She stood before him in her chemise and petticoat. He freed her hair from its pins, running his fingers reverently through the thick auburn mass.
“Beautiful,” he said, twisting the silky strands in his hand.
He brought his mouth to hers again and was rewarded by her passion. She returned his kiss full measure, stretching up on tiptoe to press her body to his. Patrick groaned as she cuddled his arousal with her soft belly. He began to move her toward his sleeping chamber, pushing her petticoats down around her ankles as they made their progression. It was the strangest dance in which he’d ever taken part and he stopped as the absurdity struck him. Tory pulled back to stare up at him in question.
“I don’t wish to trip you,” he shrugged.
Tory gave a husky laugh and deftly stepped out of the twisted petticoats. She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped her hands inside. She ran her fingers lightly over his chest, his flat stomach, and he shivered. As she reached the waistband of his breeches, he pulled away from her. He swung her up into his arms and with two long strides lay her down on the large bed.
She stared up at him as he got on the bed, straddled her waist on his knees, and shrugged off his shirt.
“You are magnificent, Patrick.” Her hands ran greedily over his chest and stomach and he growled in response.
“Tory,” he ground out as he stretched out on top of her. “Ah, Tory . . .”
Tory arched toward him and he stripped off her chemise. Trailing his lips from her neck and shoulders, down to her chest, he kissed her tender skin. Lavishing an equal amount of attention on both breasts, his mouth sucked and licked her rosy buds, causing her to utter a tiny little gasp with each nip of his teeth and flick of his tongue.
His fingers replaced his mouth as he moved up to claim her lips. His tongue played with hers for long moments, as she writhed beneath him, her arms entwining around his neck.
He pulled back and gazed into her passion-glazed eyes. Her red-gold hair was fanned out around her like a halo. Her kiss-swollen lips were slightly parted and seemed to be begging for more . . . At that moment, a thought came into his head. Had Paul filled her eyes with such passion? No! A flash of possession shot through him. This was Tory . . . His Tory.
“Don’t think of him, Tory,” he murmured, his mouth running wildly over her body, nipping and licking and kissing. “Don’t think of Paul,” he said as he dipped his tongue into her navel. “Think only of me.”
* * *
Tory tried to make sense of his words as her pulse pounded in her ears. “What?”
He parted her legs and placed his mouth on her.
“Patrick!” she panted. “What are you doing? —Oh my!” Her thoughts flew right of her head as Patrick flicked his tongue over the hidden folds of her sex. The sensations were both so foreign and yet so intoxicating, she didn’t think she could bear the pleasure.
His hands continued to roam over her hips, her stomach, her breasts. She needed to touch him too. She needed to feel every part of him, his arms, his shoulders, his hair.
With each stroke of his tongue, she began to spin out of control. When his tongue delved deep inside her, she shattered beneath him, shouting his name.
As she shuddered in her release he unbuttoned his breeches and drove into her.
She cried out again, in intense pain.
Patrick froze above her.
“Ah God, Tory,” he said, his voice harsh in her ear. “I—I’m sorry.”
She sobbed as tears slipped down her cheeks. “It hurts, Patrick,” she whispered. “Please stop. It hurts.”
“Shh, love,” he said. “The pain will cease in a moment, I believe.”
She opened her eyes to glare up at him. “You believe?” she choked out.
He kissed her mouth. “I-I didn’t’ know . . . I’ve never taken a virgin before,” he admitted with a crooked grin. His eyes shone with a tender light.
But Tory had no time to ponder his words, nor his expression. Her only thought was to ease the pressure within her, to lessen the searing pain that throbbed so deeply. When she shifted beneath him he groaned and closed his eyes.
“You feel so damn good,” he rasped.
Tory didn’t feel “damn good.” She felt as though she were being torn in half.
“Don’t move, love
. . . Just wait . . . a moment,” he said in a gruff whisper.
She did as he suggested, and the pain eased a bit, as she grew accustomed to him.
He claimed her lips in another tender kiss and she soon forgot about anything else.
And then something happened that changed her mind about having him inside her.
Patrick began to move inside her, slowly at first and then faster. Pleasure was etched on his face. His body was strong and hard. That lovely, tingling feeling started to build inside her again and she moaned softly. His thrusts became more urgent and she caught his rhythm. She wrapped her legs around his waist and gave herself up to him, gave herself up to the building feeling inside of her, mindless now save for the intimate connection she had with this man.
Patrick stiffened above her and let out a shout as he poured himself into her. Tory added her cries to his as she found her second release.
“Tory,” he said as he dropped kisses on her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you—if I’d known, I would have better prepared you.”
Tory sighed, too tired to move a muscle. The pressure had eased considerably, and she felt decidedly wet where they were still joined.
He cupped her cheek and she opened her eyes to him. He wiped away the tears from her face and gave her such a beautiful smile it caused her heart to skip a beat. Patrick withdrew and settled beside her in the bed, pulling the rumpled coverlet over them.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you,” he said.
Tory cuddled closer to him and breathed in deeply. The scent of their lovemaking was both comforting and compelling.
“The pain is nearly gone now,” she whispered, running her hand slowly over his chest. “And when I compare it to when you first—”
Patrick chuckled and she felt her cheeks burn.
“I can almost forgive you your many lovers, Patrick,” she finished, unable to look at him.
He sharply drew in a breath. He grasped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.
“Believe me, Tory, I’ve never felt such pleasure as I experienced this night.” He flashed a grin at her. “Despite my many lovers.”
That Determined Mister Latham Page 10
