“That would be lovely,” she returned with a smile of her own.
Over tankards of hot cider and plates of steaming lamb and vegetables, Patrick felt the unease between them dissipate. He’d tell her of Susan one day, he decided as they finished their meal. When he was certain she wouldn’t see him as the fool he’d been then. But until he set matters to rights with his father—he wouldn’t leave her open to any disgrace by association with such a scandal.
CHAPTER 16
As Tory readied for bed she thought back to Patrick’s strange behavior out by the riverbank. The anger she’d glimpsed in his hazel eyes was nearly eclipsed by the hurt the mere mention of Lady Stafford had elicited. The pretty lady had indeed held his heart. As they’d shared their luncheon—and their dinner just a while ago—he’d seemed his usually attentive self.
She sighed with the realization that she would have to put any thoughts of Lady Stafford from her mind. Hopefully, in time, her husband would open up to her completely and share his past with her as she had shared hers with him.
She donned the gown he’d so enjoyed choosing for her. The fabric caressed her gently, and she was vaguely scandalized by her appearance as she stepped out from behind the privacy screen. She realized with a flood of bashfulness that her nipples were visible in the faint light from the few candles. She was nearly consumed by her shyness as her husband turned toward her. She forced her arms to remain at her sides as she stood still beneath his careful inspection.
“What do you think, Patrick?” she asked, her lashes lowered.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said in a low voice.
Tory looked up and saw the obvious passion in her husband’s eyes. He wore only his breeches, and they were snug enough to show her the effect she was having on him. She drifted over to him, the fine fabric rustling in a most pleasing fashion.
“I favor this gown as well,” she said, running her hands slowly over herself. Patrick seemed transfixed by her movements, making her feel bolder by the moment. “The fabric is so soft and silky,” she said in a husky voice, running her fingers along the delicate lace of the filmy gown’s bodice. Patrick swallowed audibly, his eyes holding a hungry look. “It feels so wonderful against my skin, Patrick,” she went on, smiling a siren’s smile. “Much like a caress.”
He growled and grabbed her to him. As she found herself on her back in the big ivory bed she let out a throaty laugh, which soon melted into whimpers of delight as he caressed her through the nightgown. The rasp of the fabric, the heat of his touch, thrilled her.
“Tory,” he murmured, his lips on her neck. “You feel incredible.”
“Mmm,” she returned, her fingers playing with his thick hair.
His tongue traced over the swell of her breast, teasingly flicking at the skin just beneath the frothy lace trimming the low bodice. He reached for the satin ribbon holding the garment closed, but something stilled him. Tory opened her eyes and studied him in the soft light as he brushed his palm over her nipple. Heat began to spread through her from that point of contact. He grinned as the peak hardened beneath his touch. He sealed his mouth on the nub, his mouth moist and insistent.
“Oh!” she gasped.
His tongue rasped at her through the fabric, more titillating than she could have imagined. He teethed the nipple, moaning in the back of his throat. His hand pressed the filmy cloth between her legs, rubbing with his long fingers now, and the friction thrilled her. Her flesh was soaking wet, and she couldn’t bear it any longer.
“Patrick!” she cried, “I want you so much.” She came swiftly to her knees and grasped the hem of her nightgown, pulling it up and over her head.
Patrick let out a shout of laughter as she urged him onto his back. Suddenly her lips were on him, teasing his nipples, his chest, his stomach. He groaned loudly as she placed her mouth upon him. Her tongue was insistent, her teeth lightly nipped him. He ran his hands through the curtain of hair that hid her from him, finally lifting the thick mass.
“Ah, the sight of your rosy lips on my shaft, love,” he groaned . . . I won’t shame myself. I won’t shame myself.” It sounded as if he were trying to convince himself, and she thrilled at the power she had over his passion. A few moments later, he held her away from him.
She blinked at him in confusion.
“Ride me, Tory,” he gasped. “I need to be inside you.”
She straddled him and rubbed herself against him. The pressure was unbelievable, he was so hard.
“Take me inside you, love,” he pleaded, his eyes squeezed shut.
Tory grasped him in her hand and slowly lowered herself onto his shaft, taking him in inch by delicious inch. “Oh, Patrick,” she murmured, her body bowed back.
Patrick held her waist tightly, prolonging his complete possession. He began to move, raw and wild beneath her. He clutched her hips, teaching her the rhythm that would please them both. Tory learned quickly, riding him as she arched her back. Patrick ran his hands over her breasts, then his fingers found her center. She keened softly as she neared her release, her hands clutching at his wrists.
“Say it, Tory,” he said roughly. “Say you love me.”
“I love you!” she sobbed.
She came then, writhing above him as he arched off the bed to join her. He held her tightly to him, aftershocks making them both tremble.
“My God,” he ground out. “Sweetheart, that was unbelievable.”
Tory collapsed against his chest, still joined to him.
“Say it, Patrick,” she commanded softly.
He took a deep calming breath and released it. “I love you, Tory,” he said. “Only you.”
She slipped off him and came to rest curved against his side. He ran his fingers through her damp curls as she cuddled closer, dropping a kiss on her temple. She let her eyes drift closed, contentment filling her.
* * *
All good things must come to an end, and the bliss of their honeymoon was no exception. Patrick and Tory set off for London directly after breakfast the next day, accepting farewells and congratulations from the occupants of the inn. Tory had packed her new belongings most carefully for the journey, choosing to wear a light blue travel dress—never before had she possessed so many dresses for so many different functions—topped with a spencer of dark blue velvet. Fine gloves of gray kid leather adorned her hands. A straw bonnet sat atop her curls, fastened with a wide blue ribbon beneath her chin.
As she waited for Patrick to settle their bill with the innkeeper, she ran her gloved fingers over the fine linen of her skirt, the rich velvet of her spencer. Her new clothes made her feel worthy of being Patrick’s wife, as silly a notion as she suspected women born to such luxuries would find her admission. Women like Lady Stafford surely had seven or eight dresses for each day. No matter, she told herself as she gazed at her handsome husband walking toward her, a smile on his face. Lady Stafford didn’t have Patrick’s heart. It belonged to her and her alone.
“What will we tell my uncle, Patrick?” she asked him as they boarded his carriage.
Patrick was thoughtful for a moment.
“I’ve postponed that consideration these last few days, love,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “Nevertheless, I would think that delicacy would be in order.”
“I’d like to tell him myself,” she said. “In my own way.”
“No,” Patrick protested, worry etched on his brow. “I can’t let you face your uncle’s wrath alone.”
Tory recalled the urgency she’d glimpsed in her uncle’s eyes when he’d beseeched her to accept Mr. Miller’s dishonorable offer. He’d seemed angry but there was something else there as well. Something like desperation. But why? She wanted to ask him about it. And get to the bottom of why he’d wanted to throw her at Miller in the first place.
“I was the one who left his house in the middle of the night, Patrick,” she insisted. “I should be the one to tell him.”
Patrick didn’t lose his look of worry.
“Pray, wait for me in my rooms, Tory. I have to go to my solicitor, love.” He grinned at her. “It seems my circumstances have changed, and I want to make sure he has a record of our marriage.”
She reasoned he was a man of some fortune and, though she knew little about such things, she could imagine he had a man of business of some sort. “If you must.”
“I must. It shouldn’t take me overlong. When I return we’ll both go to him”
She nodded, certain that once she told her uncle of her happy marriage, his worries about her future and his sordid whim to give her to Miller, would no longer have any import. But could she do that with Patrick standing there beside her? “I’m certain he will be happy for us,” she stated.
Patrick gave her a look that seemed to contradict that, at which she dropped a tiny kiss on his furrowed brow.
By the time they arrived in London, it was well past the dinner hour. They stopped before Patrick’s building and he stepped out onto the curb. He saw to the conveyance of Tory’s many packages up to his rooms and escorted her abovestairs.
“You won’t be too bored during my absence?” he teased.
“I shall manage,” she said in reply.
She gave a firm nod and he drew her close for a tender kiss.
“I’ll come directly and we’ll tell your uncle together.”
“Yes, we will,” she returned with a smile.
Patrick kissed her again and left her. It took some time to see her new beautiful belongings settled into his very masculine rooms. In fact, she’d had to leave her underthings and the like in their boxes, stacked beside his armoire.
Dresses now hung beside his suits of clothes, and her hairbrush and pins sat on the top of the squat dresser with his comb and neck cloths. She saw no sign of the valet he spoke of several times, but no doubt the man resided with the other servants in this place. It would be very nice if she and Patrick found a place of their own soon. He could bring his valet and she could employ a maid.
A nervous flutter began in her belly. Ordinarily, she would ask her uncle for his assistance in such matters of home and business, but she had yet to gauge his reaction to her speedy nuptials.
Nothing occupied her at the moment, and she could scarcely stand to wait here for Patrick to return to pay a visit on her uncle. J. B. had always been kind to her, despite his most recent and odd insistence she give herself over to Mr. Miller. He’d been a good brother to her father as well, inviting them to visit in town even as her father had been unable to leave the vicarage very often.
She made the decision quite easily. She owed it to her uncle to approach him with their news on her own. The last thing she wanted was for any animosity between him and Patrick, and that just might be the case should they go to him together. Later they would all have a nice visit, but for now, she would break the news to her uncle on her own.
She located a slip of foolscap in one of the dresser drawers and penned Patrick a note, stating that she would be back very soon. Heading downstairs, she asked the man behind the desk to call her a hack. If her request was unusual, his passive expression gave no indication of it.
When the hired carriage pulled beside the curb in front of J. B.’s townhouse, Tory peered at the building’s façade. Every window was ablaze with light and yet she had the unmistakable feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Foolish girl, she chided herself. No doubt she was seized with the same uneasiness that had been so evident on Patrick’s face. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the vehicle. Thanking the driver, she sent him on his way.
She took a deep breath and mounted the few steps to the front door. Raising her fist, she rapped sharply on the thick wooden panel. A shuffling was heard from within and she braced herself for the coming confrontation with her uncle, forcing calm in her demeanor.
The door opened and Tory found herself facing a mountain of a man, dressed all in black and wearing a fierce scowl on his face.
“Who are you?” he demanded to know.
Tory blinked and tried in vain to peer around his bulk.
“I’m Victoria Elliot—” she returned. “Latham,” she hastily corrected.
The man was taken aback, but apparently not for long.
“Miss Elliot, Constable,” he called out in a booming voice.
Constable? What was going on here?
The big man took her elbow and pulled her from the doorway. Tory dug in her heels in reaction.
“What is going on?” she began in protest.
“Miss Elliot,” a voice of authority said, stilling her.
Tory turned and saw a thin man wearing a coat of scarlet. His eyes were fixed on her in a probing gaze. She recoiled from the coldness those black eyes.
“Y-yes?” she returned.
A slick smile curved the man’s thin lips and Tory felt her blood chill in her veins.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” he drawled.
CHAPTER 17
Patrick returned to his empty rooms, but reading the note Tory had left him gave him a modicum of comfort. Elliot did truly care for his niece. Patrick had seen that time and again. It niggled at him that she’d gone without him, as he rather enjoyed playing her hero. Laughing at himself, he settled down in a chair to wait for her.
Evidence of her was everywhere in his rooms, he saw, his heart overflowing with happiness. Dresses and underthings and feminine combs and such. He closed his eyes, envisioning the home they would share.
His solicitor had been surprised by Patrick’s news, but Tory was now officially a Stafford, even if she didn’t yet know it.
He yawned, the long trip not to mention the satisfying long nights spent in his wife’s arms, had caught up to him. He settled more comfortably in his chair, lulled by the distant street noise and thoughts of his beloved Tory. His eyes closed and his breathing grew even . . .
* * *
Tory sat on a hard bench in the front room of the office on Bow Street, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The room in which she sat was narrow. Plain wooden benches lined the otherwise bare walls, most of them occupied. Light from the lamps, set high on the walls, caused disturbing shadows to pass before her each time another runner returned with a suspected criminal. The place was busy and noisy and the air smelled stale.
She’d asked for them to let her contact Patrick, but they’d dismissed her without any noticeable regret. She’d even given them his name so they could contact him but, after a rather stern looking man told her to be quiet, she found herself with no other recourse but to follow his orders.
The men working in the busy office didn’t pay her much mind, merely glancing at her with suspicion and superiority in their gazes. She wished that the other men lounging across the benches, the ragged degenerates brought in by the runners on one charge or another, were as inattentive. She suppressed a shiver and hugged herself tighter.
Nearly two hours had passed since she was taken from her uncle’s home at the strong insistence of the constable. While neither he nor his burly underling had physically harmed her, their accusing looks and harsh words had her bewildered and frightened.
The constable had told her nothing of import as he ferried her to Bow Street, merely stating that she knew well the charges that would soon be brought against her. He’d said nothing of her uncle either despite her entreaties, causing her worry to increase. Where was her uncle? Had he done something to implicate her in this trouble?
The other man in her life, her beloved husband of but a few precious days, filled her mind. Tory knew that at the very least Patrick would be worried that she hadn’t yet returned or even sent word for him to bring her home.
Home, she sighed. Those lovely green rooms that he felt were quite unsuitable for a young married couple but seemed so blessedly cozy and comfortable now as her bottom fairly ached from continued contact with the hard bench. What must Patrick be thinking? Would he come to her uncle’s searching for her? And what, pray, would he be told of her absence?
; “Miss Elliot,” a gruff voice said, breaking through her reverie.
Tory looked up into the face of the big man who’d opened the door at her uncle’s townhouse.
“My name is Mrs. Latham,” she corrected wearily.
The man snorted in obvious disbelief.
“There ain’t be no record of a Mrs. Latham here in town,” he informed her with a humorless smile.
Tory sighed audibly. “We were married in Gretna Green a few days ago,” she informed him. She gave him the direction to Patrick’s rooms, imploring them to contact him. “Please. My husband doesn’t know I’m here.”
The shrug he gave her in answer served to turn her confusion to anger.
“No matter,” he said. “The charges against you will stand no matter your husband’s interference or what you claim your name to be.”
“Charges? What charges?” she asked him again, coming to her feet. “I demand to know for what crime I’m being held!”
His eyes roamed over her, distaste curling his beefy lips. “Thievery, plain and simple,” he told her. “No doubt the fine clothing on your back was illegally obtained.”
Tory could only stare at the man in shock. He grabbed her elbow as before and began to drag her from the room.
“Too late to wake the magistrate,” he told her. “You’ll be held here until morning.”
“Held?” Fear shot through her. “Wait, please. I’ve done nothing wrong. There must be some mistake. My uncle is J. B. Elliot. He is the owner of a very fine store called Elliot’s. Please let me send word to my husband, he can vouch for me.”
He scowled in answer and walked down the narrow corridor, dragging Tory along beside him. She soon found herself in a cell no larger than eight feet square, the door closed tightly behind her. The only light afforded her was a single lamp set high in the wall, a lone candle sputtering behind its smudged glass. A cot was set against one wall, she glimpsed in the dim chamber. It appeared more than a bit soiled and she thought to avoid making use of it but a wave of fatigue overtook her. She removed her bonnet and carefully set it aside. She lowered herself to the cot and curled onto her side, thinking to put as little of her body in contact with the mattress. Thievery, the big man had stated. She’d never once stolen a thing in her life.
That Determined Mister Latham Page 17
