A quick glance about the store showed him no sign of Tory. What the devil? The older woman, Mrs. Floss who had sold him the pretty gray brooch weeks ago, smiled at him and he returned the gesture absently. His eyes continued to scan the interior of the store.
“May I help you with something today, Mr. Latham?” Mrs. Floss asked as she came to stand before him.
“What?” he asked shortly. “No, thank you,” he recovered. “Is Victoria about?”
A frown crossed the woman’s pretty face. “No, I’m afraid she’s not working today.”
“Is she ill?”
That look of worry revisited her countenance. “No, no,” Mrs. Floss said, her eyes downcast. “I must see to the other customers,” she murmured. “Have a good day.”
Patrick stood there in disbelief as the woman swiftly took herself from him. What the devil was going on here? Tory’s uncle stepped out of his office at the back of the shop, coming to a standstill as his eyes met Patrick’s. Elliot began to turn away.
“Elliot!” Patrick called out.
Elliot faced him again, resignation clear in his stance. Patrick took quick strides to stand before him.
“Where’s Miss Elliot?” Patrick asked without preamble.
“She’s not working in the shop today,” Elliot said with a nod, his voice stiff.
Patrick blinked at the man’s tone, at odds as it were with his usual manner of speaking.
“Why not?” he asked.
Elliot swallowed audibly. He shrugged his shoulders and gave Patrick a small smile that did nothing to appease him.
“You won’t find her working quite so often, now,” he said with more conviction.
Patrick stared at him. “What are you saying?” he asked, a sense of dread coming over him.
“Victoria has found another . . . situation, Mr. Latham,” Elliot said in a low voice. “She’ll have no need to work quite so hard to make her living.” A feeble smile crossed Elliot’s face. “Thomas Miller will see to that.”
Rage pounded through Patrick as the man’s meaning settled on him. No! Tory would never agree to that! Words failed him as he stood stock still, his hands clenched in fists at his side.
“My niece is an incredibly beautiful girl,” Elliot added. “Sweet-tempered and intelligent, as well. Surely, she deserves more than toiling day after day in this shop, agreeable though it may appear to a carefree gentleman’s eyes.”
Patrick had nothing to say to that. He turned and left the store. Tory did deserve more than an existence in trade, he allowed as he strode down Bond Street. But would she truly take her ease at the expense of her virtue? That question caused his stomach to clench. He’d stolen her virtue, he forced himself to realize. Had he shamed her so, that she would give herself so dishonorably to another? He turned into the closest public house and proceeded to saturate his guilt and resentment with ale.
As he drained his third tankard, Patrick began to feel his fury lessen. Tory would never accept such a situation willingly. He was convinced of that. She’d been furious with him when she’d thought the lovely gray brooch a reward for that bit of passionate sport in her uncle’s parlor.
No, he thought as he closed his eyes. She wasn’t a piece of fluff to use to slake his lust. Tory was sweet and good and when he was with her he felt alive for the first time in five years. He couldn’t deny the fact that since meeting the incredible silver-eyed girl the anger and resentment toward his father and Susan no longer held him hostage. Since their first conversation, he’d felt as though he were changing somehow, becoming the man he hadn’t realized he could be.
He opened his eyes and signaled to a serving wench to refill his tankard. The woman, an amply-endowed blonde who had seen to Patrick’s other needs on more than one occasion, crossed to his table set far in the corner. She smiled widely at him.
“You be hittin’ the ale hard this evening, Latham,” she said as she re-filled his mug. “Will you be takin’ a room abovestairs?”
Patrick shook his head at her. At her snort of disbelief he shrugged his shoulders and lifted his ale to his lips. She flipped her fair curls over her shoulder and sauntered off in search of other more willing patrons. He leaned back in his chair and took another sip of his ale, idly watching the goings on around the public house. The blonde serving wench was flirting with another patron. Patrick’s gaze settled on her hair. Had he always favored blondes? To his startling recollection, all of his female companions, starting with the mistress he took soon after Susan’s betrayal, had possessed hair of gold.
Except for Tory.
The beauty of her glorious auburn locks had struck him upon first meeting her. He could get lost in those thick, luxurious waves, the way they felt—soft and silky in his hands—the way they fanned across his bed, and tangled around him as he held her close. He cursed softly and raised his tankard again.
Suddenly a voice reached him, familiar in its cadence. Miller. He focused his slightly bleary eyes on the far corner of the pub. He came to his feet a bit unsteadily and made his way across the room.
“Miller,” Patrick called as he neared him.
Miller started and turned. A sly smile curved his mouth as he ran his eyes over Patrick’s slightly rumpled appearance.
“Latham,” he said mockingly. “I see you’re at last in your element.”
Patrick wouldn’t rise to the challenge. He narrowed his eyes on the man. “Is it true?” he asked.
Miller raised a brow in question. “I’m sure I don’t know your meaning.”
“Did you offer to keep Victoria under your protection?”
Triumph flickered in Miller’s eyes. He gave Patrick a slow nod. “She’s exquisite, isn’t she? I’ve been searching all the day for a suite of rooms that will compliment her incredible beauty.” He rubbed his hands together. “Mmm. Just the thought of her awaiting me in luxury . . . Well. You can imagine it, I would wager.”
Patrick grabbed Miller by the lapels.
“You can’t have her,” he growled, his face close to Miller’s. “She’s not meant for such a life.”
Patrick pushed the man from him. Miller snorted and ran his hands over his jacket to smooth the creases.
“Who are you to say anything about it?” he asked. “Are you entertaining the notion of making a like offer of your own?”
At Patrick’s silence Miller laughed, the sound conspiratorial.
“She has, no doubt, drawn the interest of many a wealthy gentleman,” Miller said.
“You have no right to speak so of her,” Patrick growled.
“Oh, I imagine she’s not pure,” Miller allowed with a wave of his hand. “No matter. Purity isn’t what one wishes in a mistress, eh Latham?”
Patrick let his fury free as he punched the man squarely in the nose. He felt a brief flicker of satisfaction as blood began to trickle down Miller’s face, but that didn’t stop him. He began to pummel the man, using all of the skill he’d honed in Bradley’s Boxing Saloon. Suddenly, a pair of hands restrained him.
“Latham!” a voice shouted near his ear. “For God’s sake, man!”
Patrick turned his head to find Tony holding his arms.
“Leave me, Waring!” he said. “This bastard’s planning to—”
“Bastard?” Miller cut in. “And who, pray, is your father, Latham?”
Patrick held himself still. He watched as the man deftly withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed the drops of blood from his face.
“My family’s none of your concern,” he spat. “You won’t have her, Miller. Mark my words.”
Miller had the audacity to smile at Patrick’s assertion as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. Patrick lunged for him, stayed once more by Tony’s hands.
“Come now, Latham,” Tony said. “He’s not worth the trouble.”
Patrick shook free of his friend’s hold and without another glance in Miller’s direction, turned and left the pub. Once on the street, he took a breath and faced Tony.
>
“He thinks to keep Victoria,” Patrick told him. “That bastard will never touch her!”
Tony leaned his head to one side, considering him closely. “My God, Latham,” he said. “You wish to keep her yourself?”
Patrick shook his head in denial of Tony’s simple conclusion. “I have to see her.” He flashed a rueful smile at Tony. “Thank you, friend. If you hadn’t arrived just then, I would have killed the whoreson.”
CHAPTER 12
Tory paced in her chamber, her head fairly aching. Was she truly destined to be a man’s mistress? No, she thought in the next moment. The notion was wholly abhorrent to her. She wouldn’t accede to Mr. Miller’s demands. That was certain. But what, then, was left for her? Marriage to a man in trade perhaps? Or to some other gentleman . . .
Her thoughts drifted to Patrick. The way he made her feel, that wonderful night spent in his arms. Could she go to him? And then what? Offer to be his mistress? Oh, she could not. Not even for Patrick. She wanted a husband and a family of her own. A quiet life where she could raise her own children and love them . . .
But why could she not have those things? Why had her uncle been so adamant, almost frantic, for her to accept Miller’s offer? There had to be something more to it than simply settling her in well-kept luxuries. Her uncle’s home was quite fine and she dealt in luxuries all day in the shop. It had scarcely been two months since her arrival in London. Was he so tired of giving her room and board that he wanted her to accept the first offer to come for her, no matter how unsavory?
She’d avoided her uncle all last night, and the ease in which she did so indicated to her that he was doing his best to avoid her as well. And today, he’d succinctly told her at breakfast that she wasn’t to work in the shop this day.
“You won’t need to toil so greatly from now on, my dear,” he’d said with an over-bright smile.
She hadn’t questioned his meaning, fearful for him to put into words what she already knew in her heart.
Too restless to so much as give sleep a thought, she left her room to find solace in the books that had become an escape for her these last few days. Perhaps she could think of some way out of this horrid situation. She had to do something, and soon. She would rather leave London and find her way back to Cornwall, than become a man’s mistress.
The house was quiet. J. B. was gone for the evening. Where—she neither knew nor cared. Posy and Baxter, not to mention Mrs. Wigham, were asleep, since she’d insisted they take their evening off soon after the conclusion of her early dinner. The irony was not lost on her. Her uncle’s house was fine, he had servants, and luxuries aplenty, and yet he was intent on making her accept such a vile offer. She couldn’t fathom it.
Several candles were lit, the hallways dim but passable as she walked to the library. She held a candle close to the bookshelves as she searched for a book to direct her mind from its turmoil.
A light rapping at the window startled her and she nearly dropped the heavy book she held in her hands. She turned toward the window with trepidation and awaited the sound to come again. It did, soft yet insistent. She stepped up to the glass pane and peered through the curtains at the darkened street. A carriage was parked there, no crest or insignia visible on its door. A lone figure stood not far from the vehicle. A tall, broad-shouldered man with an unmistakable air of masculinity.
“Patrick,” she whispered in astonishment.
Loath to awaken the sharp-eared Baxter, she hurriedly replaced the book on the shelf and went to the front door. She opened it a crack.
“Patrick,” she called out softly.
Patrick appeared uncertain, shifting from foot to foot on the walk. He dropped a handful of pebbles on the ground before finally approaching the entry. He looked disheveled and exhausted.
“I had to see you, Tory,” he said.
She stepped aside and allowed him entry. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a whisper. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock.”
“You can’t do this, Tory.” He grasped her shoulders. “You can’t.”
Tory pulled back at his vehemence. When he bent his head toward her, his mouth close to hers, she shook her head. He gazed at her in confusion.
“The parlor,” she said simply, closing the door and leading him farther into the house.
They were soon closed in the main parlor of the townhouse, the double doors sealing them in the same room where she’d first awakened to passion at his hands.
“Why are you here, Patrick?”
Patrick paced about the room for several moments, finally grabbing her again. “You can’t do this,” he said. “Tell me that you won’t.”
“How did you—”
Her words were halted by a searing kiss. Patrick moaned as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck as his body hardened against hers. He brought his mouth to her throat and she leaned her head back to accept his kisses.
“You won’t belong to Miller, You’re mine.”
Tory gasped and pulled out of his grasp. “What did you say?” she asked him, aghast.
“You’re mine,” he stated.
She gave a violent shake of her head. “No, I’m not!” she cried.
“You’re not seriously considering becoming his mistress?” He reached for her again.
“Of course not,” She stepped out of his reach. “I’ll never belong to Mr. Miller,” she said, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. “And I’ll never belong to you.”
“The hell you say!” Patrick countered. “Do you honestly expect me to give you up? To let another man have you?”
She closed her eyes and blew out a breath. “I’m not a prize over which to be fought,” she said, looking at him again. “A possession to be kept and put aside. I won’t go to Mr. Miller or to you, Patrick. Or to Paul, for that matter.”
Rage was stamped on Patrick’s face. “Paul?” he growled. “What the bloody hell does that dandy have to do with this?”
She turned away from him in shame. “It seems the only offers I’ll ever receive are being a rich man’s mistress, according to my learned uncle,” she whispered. She whirled on him. “But I would rather die than live in such disgrace.”
“Tory—”
“I’ll move back to Cornwall and live my life alone, in a hovel if I have to,” she finished, her chin raised. “At least I’ll have my dignity, if not my virtue.”
Patrick winced visibly at her words. “I didn’t know I was taking your virtue,” he said. “But I don’t regret it, Tory. Not for a moment. Can you honestly tell me you do?”
“No,” she said softly. “I don’t regret it.”
Patrick grabbed her to him and kissed her again. He pinned her against the wall, his body pressed intimately to hers as he devoured her mouth. His fingers loosened her hair from its pins. He deftly unfastened the tiny buttons marching down the back of her dress. His tongue ran over the skin above her chemise, searing her.
“Oh, Patrick . . .” she sighed.
He untied the satin ribbon of her chemise and bared her to his gaze. Tory arched toward him as he flicked his tongue over one nipple.
“You’re mine, Tory,” he said against her breast.
“No,” she returned, her denial sounding weak even to herself.
Patrick raised his head. His hand cupped her breast, his thumb running over the nipple. She moaned in response and heard a low growl from his throat.
“Now say you don’t belong to me,” he said before his mouth closed over her breast.
She couldn’t, soon mindless of everything but what he was doing to her. Her skirts were pushed up to her waist as his head went lower. She was barely aware of it as he removed her drawers. When he placed his mouth on her, she bit her lip to keep a scream from coming forth. His tongue delved into her again and again, his hands caressing her bottom as he held her close. She twined her fingers in his hair, arching violently as her climax consumed her.
“You’re mine, Tory,” Pa
trick said as he came up to kiss her full on her mouth.
* * *
Tory gazed at him, and Patrick thought briefly that he’d never felt so alive as when she turned those silver eyes on him with such passion. She said nothing as her hands suddenly became frantic on him. She pushed his jacket off of his shoulders. Her kisses were hot as she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. He helped her remove his shirt, baring his chest to her beguiling touch.
“Patrick,” she said, her lips brushing his chest. “You’re so beautiful.”
His throat tightened as she kissed his chest, his stomach. When she came to her knees before him, her fingers poised over the straining bulge in his breeches, he was torn.
“Tory.” He placed his hand on hers. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to make you feel what you just made me feel,” she said as she unbuttoned his breeches.
He swallowed and watched as she freed him. Her fingers grasped him and he groaned. Bracing his hands against the wall, he fought the desire threatening to overwhelm him.
“How do you know how to do this?” he asked.
“I read something . . .” Her eyes glittered up at him. “A friend of mine writes slightly-scandalous stories.”
Her lips explored, light and teasing and more arousing than anything he’d ever experienced. Her caresses were hesitant and unskilled, and he nearly came as he arched toward her. He reached for her and pulled her to her feet, pressing her against the wall.
“I need you, Tory,” he ground out, once more lifting her skirt. “Now.”
Tory gave a swift nod and began to move away from the wall.
“No,” he said, pressing closer still. “Here. Now.”
Her eyes were round as he parted her thighs. He raised one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist as he lifted her. He entered her slowly, easing her down upon him. No barrier resisted him this time. But she was so small, so hot and wet, that he knew it would be over for him too soon. He caught her cries of pleasure in his mouth as his thrusts became forceful.
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