He ran his mouth along her jaw and nuzzled her neck. “My wife,” he said again, cupping her breasts through her bodice.
Her nipples hardened at the contact, causing her to shiver. She arched against him as he lifted her skirts.
“Patrick.”
His hand slipped into her thin drawers. His breath was warm on her cheek as he moaned softly. He unerringly found the spot that drove her nearly out of her mind, his fingers expertly teasing and retreating.
“Oh . . . ”
“You’re mine, Tory,” he growled.
Tory bucked against his hand, nearly lost in the sensations he was arousing so easily. She reached behind and ran her fingers over his breeches, tracing his arousal that swelled beneath her touch. He cursed softly and turned her in his arms.
“I vowed to wait until we settled for the night,” he said, swiftly unfastening the buttons at the back of her dress. “I swear to you I did.”
“I can’t wait, Patrick,” she whispered, straddling him.
He freed her breasts to his touch, kissing first one then the other as she whimpered softly. He drew one nipple into his mouth and she threw her head back, moaning. Patrick brought his mouth to hers and kissed her. His hands were wild on her, on her breasts, her thighs, her bottom. Her drawers fluttered to the floor of the carriage as his fingers found her again. She unbuttoned his breeches and grasped him in her hand. He shuddered beneath her.
“Oh, God,” he ground out. “I need you, Tory.”
When he lifted her hips she was more than ready for him. She slid over him as he drove upward with a shout. Their coupling was fast and wild and intense. She cried out as her climax struck her, grabbing on to his shoulders as tremors rocked her frame.
“Look at me, love.” She gazed into his eyes as he held her tightly. And she watched as he reached his own climax, his head thrown back against the cushioned seat.
For several minutes afterward their labored breathing was the only sound in the carriage. Tory cuddled against Patrick’s chest, her legs still straddling him. He ran his hands lazily over her back, letting out a grunt of intense satisfaction.
“Oh, husband,” Tory said at last, the name coming to her quite comfortably. “That was glorious. I never thought we could do that in a carriage!” Her eyes were wide in wonder.
A laugh rumbled in his chest and he hugged her tight.
“Lord, you please me,” he declared.
* * *
After stopping for a nooning meal, they continued on to Bradford. Patrick was relieved to be back at the pretty inn, for Tory’s closeness the previous evening was only one reason for his lack of satisfactory rest. The thin lumpy mattress had merely added to his discomfort. He secured a room for several nights, thinking the notion of keeping her from London both pleasurable and advantageous. He would face Elliot in due time, but why rush the inevitable?
Bradford was a charming, bustling village and if they ever deemed it necessary to leave their room it would be pleasant to stroll to the shops. His new wife’s present possessions were woefully inadequate in his opinion, and despite his crystal clear memory of her incredible figure he longed to clothe her in garments befitting her beauty. Money was scarcely an object and, although she had no knowledge of her title as baroness, he would see to it that she was dressed accordingly.
“This room is just lovely,” Tory said as they settled into the chamber.
He glanced about and silently agreed. Lacy curtains trimmed the large windows. The wooden floor shone from much polishing. The furnishings were of fine quality. The very large bed dressed with ivory satin drew his particular attention. It was set on a platform in the center of the room. He had little trouble imagining his beautiful bride lounging splendidly in the center of it. His body reacted swiftly. After his incredible release in the carriage, this pleased and surprised him both.
“Let’s ready for bed?” he asked with a crooked grin.
Tory blushed from the scooped bodice of her wedding dress to the roots of her auburn hair. But the smile that curved her luscious mouth told him that she was of a like mind.
“What of dinner, Patrick?” she asked coyly.
He shrugged out of his jacket and began to unbutton his waistcoat.
“After,” he answered as he advanced on her.
Those incredible silver eyes widened as she backed away from him. But he didn’t miss the delicate fingers working the buttons of her dress free. He was soon stripped nearly bare and possessed by the overwhelming urge to have her in like condition. She was tangled in her petticoats, so he divested her of the frothy garments and lifted her in his arms. She let out a husky laugh as he carried her swiftly to the very large bed.
There he loved her thoroughly, his tongue and lips delighting in the smoothness of her skin, his heart and mind marveling at the abandon with which she responded.
“Oh, Patrick,” she gasped as she raked her nails over his back.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Parting her legs with his knee, he began to enter her. She was so tight, so hot he nearly came at once. Squeezing his eyes shut, he braced himself above her and forced himself to slow down. He withdrew and held himself still, his pulse pounding in his ears. Tory clutched at him, her body arching violently.
“Please!” she sobbed.
He said a silent prayer for the restraint that was rapidly deserting him. Surrendering with a low moan, he drove into her again and again as she tightened around him in her climax.
“Ah, Tory!” he shouted as he poured himself into her. “I love you!”
He collapsed on top of her, his mind blessedly muddled. He felt her hands fluttering on his back, her lips planting little kisses on his neck, his shoulders. As his wits came back to him, the reality of his profession struck him. What was it about this girl that caused such remarks to fly from his mouth? First his proposal, which had stunned him with its suddenness and clarity. And now he confesses to an emotion of which he hadn’t deemed himself capable for five long years?
“Patrick?” Tory whispered, running her fingers through his hair.
There was nothing for it, he thought with resignation. He frowned into the ivory satin.
“Yes?” he asked, his face averted.
“D-do you mean what you just said?” she began hesitantly. “That you . . . you . . .”
He turned his head sharply at the tone of her voice. He saw that her eyes shimmered with tears, that her lower lip quivered slightly. It was true, he realized with absolute sincerity. He loved her, more deeply than the paltry affection he’d felt for Susan. He ran his fingers gently over her cheek and smiled down at her.
“Yes, love,” he told her. “I’m afraid so. Or may honeyed biscuits never touch my lips.”
* * *
Tory stared up at him, her heart racing with fear despite his teasing tone. Paul had professed his love to her time and again as they ran and played along the cliffs of Cornwall. She’d believed him sincere. How could she not, given his earnest looks and affectionate touches? But he hadn’t truly loved her. Had she loved him? No, she knew in a flash. Not with nearly the intensity with which such an emotion should be felt. Did she love Patrick? Could she trust herself to free her heart?
“Tory?” Patrick asked, worry in his tone.
She wiped away her tears and brought her hand to his face. She knew the truth in that moment. Her heart beat steadily once again as she stared into his beautiful hazel eyes.
“I love you,” she said shyly. “I love you, Patrick.”
The smile he gave her lit the room and brightened her heart. He wrapped her in his arms and held her close, kissing her tenderly as he stroked her hair.
“Quite convenient, this,” he observed wryly.
She quirked a brow at him in question.
“Seeing as we are married to each other,” he teased.
She swatted his arm and he hugged her tighter. Hunger soon noisily presented itself, causing Patrick to drop a loud kiss on Tory’s abdomen.
“I believe you make your every feeling known,” he told her. “I can readily tell when you’re craving satisfaction.” He winked at her. “Of any kind.”
Tory laughed at his words.
His smile faltered for a moment. “You’ll have no secrets from me,” he said.
Tory sensed something serious in his eyes. “What . . . ”
“Up, wife,” he said quickly, a bright smile once more fixed on his face. “I can’t allow you to faint from hunger, can I?”
She permitted him to set the matter of secrets aside for the time being, for her stomach once more grumbled loudly. Her cheeks warm, she changed into her nightclothes behind a wide privacy screen while Patrick rang for their dinner to be brought up directly.
When their meal was scarcely concluded, Patrick grabbed Tory’s hands and pulled her to her feet. Together they fell into the big bed once more, their every action, every word, a testament to their mutual devotion. They slept curled in each other’s arms, warm and comfortable beneath the satin counterpane.
* * *
The next day, Patrick escorted Tory into the picturesque town of Bradford with the intention of spoiling his beautiful bride. Against her many protestations, he insisted on buying her several articles of clothing: dresses, pelisses and spencers, underclothing, bonnets, gloves and shoes.
“You won’t wear your plain day dresses any longer,” he’d told her that morning as they took their breakfast in the common room at the inn.
“There’s really no need for this, Patrick,” she insisted. “My clothing is more than adequate.”
“Nonsense,” he returned. “Your simple dresses were suited to your former life as a shop girl.” At her expression of surprise he continued. “Your uncle insisted that you would scarcely work at his shop once you settled in as Miller’s mistress. Do you think I would let you work one day now that you’re my wife?”
She said nothing to that.
He gave a nod of satisfaction and they left the inn, strolling through its cobble-stoned courtyard into the village. He urged her toward a shop no more than a few steps down the road, its wide front window displaying the prettiest dresses, jackets and bonnets she’d ever seen.
The pleasant-faced dressmaker measured Tory while Patrick perused the store’s inventory. Tory stood on a stool in the back room of the shop, enduring the poking and pinning as length after length of fine fabric was draped over her.
“I’m taking the liberty of choosing several items for you, love,” he called to her. “I wager I can more than guess at your size.”
She blushed and closed her eyes in mortification, grateful that the little woman seeing to her fitting showed no indication that she grasped Patrick’s meaning. She resigned herself to several new dresses, thinking to choose the least expensive and simplest designs. Her husband had other notions, she saw as she emerged from the back of the shop. The smile on his face told her that he was enjoying himself immensely as he selected underclothes and the like, and she tamped down the embarrassment threatening to engulf her again as he held up one particularly filmy nightgown and matching wrapper trimmed with frothy lace.
“What do you think of these, wife?” he asked cheerfully.
Her eyes widened as she saw that she could fairly see through the garments he held aloft. She couldn’t help but imagine wearing the scandalous nightclothes for her husband, nor what his reaction would be when she did so.
“They are, um . . .” she stammered, her cheeks burning. “I believe they’ll suit, husband.”
The wolfish grin that split his face told her that he knew precisely the direction in which her mind had wandered. She took a breath and forced her attention to the woman boxing their purchases for delivery to the inn.
As Patrick changed into his dinner clothes later that evening, she clicked her tongue at the mountain of boxes now crowding their chamber.
“This is far too much, Patrick,” she protested again. “I have no need for so many fine clothes.”
He shrugged into a gray jacket as he stepped from behind the privacy screen. “My sweet, it’s not about your need,” he said with a wink. “It’s about my need to see you in clothing befitting your beauty.”
She blushed once more and shook her head.
“Do choose one dress, and we’ll go to the dining room,” he told her, grinning. “For the sooner we dine, the sooner I can see you in those delectable nightclothes.”
If Tory had thought she’d grown accustomed to such comments, her racing pulse soon convinced her otherwise. He gave her a jaunty bow and took himself from the room. She reverently placed her pretty new dresses—in nearly every color of the rainbow—into a large wardrobe set to one side of the chamber, running her hands appreciatively over the fine fabrics as she did so. She unpacked the filmy nightgown, and she saw that she could indeed see right through it.
“Oh, my.” She swiftly hung the garment in the wardrobe.
She chose a lovely violet dress and readied to dine with her very generous, very captivating husband. She briefly wondered how he came to have money to spend on her, and assumed he came from a wealthy family. A family he never spoke of, but who was she to know about the lives of those far wealthier than a vicar’s daughter?
After sharing a savory meal in the dining room, Patrick scarcely allowed her time to remove her new gown before falling upon her, much less giving her the opportunity to don the sheer garment. Neither of them regretted the omission.
* * *
The next morning, after lolling about in bed long after the sun ascended into the sky, they decided to explore a few of the ancient castles dotting the wilder portions of Yorkshire. Despite the fact that it was nearly August, the chill in the air so far north of London necessitated their donning cloak and greatcoat for their drive into Leeds, York and Hull. The castles they discovered nestled among the green hills were awe-inspiring. Even in their ruined states, their stone walls and parapets stood proudly, despite the weathering of time. Several, they saw, had been rebuilt into true homes for their inhabitants. Patrick thought for a fleeting moment, how wonderful it would be to live here with Tory. To leave London for good and make their home in a stalwart old castle, surrounded by wildflowers and green, rolling hills.
Later that afternoon they passed through Hull, a picturesque Yorkshire town, and decided to step out of the carriage to explore its environs on foot. As they walked along the bank of a wide river fed by the sea, Patrick plucked a purple flower from the ground and stepped closer to Tory. The incessant wind blowing across the craggy ground had loosened her beautiful hair and it now flowed freely about her face. She gazed at him as he placed the purple bloom behind her ear. Her gray eyes were bright, her cheeks pink from the bracing wind. She looked like a pagan goddess, he mused. His heart soared with love for this young woman, who’d changed his life completely.
“Are you enjoying today?” he asked, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
Tory nodded, shivering slightly against him.
“I’m sorry, love,” he told her. “I’ve kept you out of doors far too long.”
“It’s not that,” she said softly. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself and sighed. “It’s just that this river bank, these rough boulders . . . these surroundings remind me of Cornwall.”
He exhaled sharply and dropped his arms from her.
“Did you love him so much, Tory?” he asked her, struggling to keep the hurt from his voice. “Does the thought of Paul still cause you such pain?”
Tory turned toward him, her eyes the same stormy gray as the thick clouds above them.
“I was referring to my beloved childhood—my home . . . my father.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Back then, I thought I loved Paul.”
Patrick moved toward her again. “And now?” he urged.
She shook her head. “What I felt for Paul was a young girl’s naïve and foolish infatuation . . .” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears and her voice trembled. “What I feel for you is true love.” She p
laced her hand on her chest. “It fills my heart to overflowing.” An impish gleam lit her face. “It’s as strong as this Yorkshire wind,” she said flinging her arms wide.
Patrick shouted with laughter and lifted her up in his arms, twirling her around and around. His lips sought hers, in a passionate kiss that left them both breathless . . .
“What of Lady Stafford, Patrick?” she asked, as she brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow.
He stiffened, loath to tell her of his father’s betrayal. He couldn’t stop the tide of anger and bitterness that still washed over him now.
Gently he put Tory back on her feet. “I didn’t love her,” he said flatly.
Turning from her, he began walking along the riverbank. He could feel her quiet presence beside him. “I was a callow youth whose heart was sorely mistaken and misused,” he finished.
Tory placed her hand on his arm, and he stopped walking and turned to face her once more. Her gray eyes pierced him to his soul.
“Misused?” she asked him softly. “I believe there’s more to your story than you’re saying.”
He shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. “It doesn’t signify,” he said stiffly. “Susan and I shared nothing then, and nothing now.”
Tory cocked her head to one side. “You’re angry,” she said in amazement. “Why should the subject induce such feelings if indeed you shared nothing?”
“I won’t talk about this, Tory!” At her wince he silently cursed himself. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t feel anything for Susan now, I assure you. I’m angry at the circumstances of my revelations, that’s all.”
Tory shook her head, her lips pursed. He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a tender kiss.
“You have my heart, wife,” he told her. “That is the truth.”
“I shall protect it,” she vowed, placing her hands over his.
He welcomed the odd lurch his heart gave in response, kissing her again.
“I have an idea,” he said smiling down at her. “Why don’t we take our nooning meal at that small inn we passed in the town of Hull?” he asked her.
That Determined Mister Latham Page 16
