“I can’t say I’m at all bothered by this turn of events, Tory,” Patrick said with a grin as he led her to a gold brocade settee.
Victoria raised a graceful brow at him as she settled herself on the couch. He glanced about the room then, thinking her well-suited to such elegant furnishings. Aside from the gold settee on which she perched, the room was decorated with several chairs of the same fabric, coordinating with the striped gold and ivory fabric dressing the walls. The light from the many candles danced over her, giving her vibrant hair a fiery cast.
“I don’t know if this is at all proper, Patrick,” she said, drawing his attention to her face.
Patrick saw the light blush coloring her smooth cheeks. She was so adorable when she blushed. He shrugged his disagreement to her statement. He’d be hard-pressed to find a more fitting, if not proper, situation.
“I distinctly heard your uncle instruct you to entertain his guests in his absence,” he drawled, coming to sit beside her on the settee.
Tory clicked her tongue at him. The pretty little pout on her lips charmed him. He watched idly as the same maid from earlier brought in a silver tray holding a decanter of sherry and an assortment of sweets and cakes including fluffy white biscuits with a small bowl of honey.
He quirked a brow at her.
She shrugged her shoulders, and after the maid had left the room, she said with an impish grin, “I have acquired a sweet tooth of late and I quite like honey with my biscuits.”
Patrick couldn’t help himself; he laughed.
Tory poured them each a glass of sherry. Patrick lifted his glass to his lips and wasn’t surprised to find the sweet wine to be of fine quality. Tory sipped delicately at her own, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. He couldn’t help but stare at that delectable mouth. He forced his attention to the ruby colored liquid in his glass.
“This sherry’s quite fine,” he said, turning his glass in his hand. “I’m doubly glad that I don’t have to share this with Mr. Miller. Or these fine biscuits with honey.” He reached for a biscuit and popped it into his mouth.
Tory bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Mmm . . .” Patrick said as he drizzled honey on another biscuit and offered it to Victoria. “Poor Mr. Miller doesn’t know what he’s missing. But I’m certainly glad that he is.”
Patrick thought to bring up something that had been plaguing him all evening.
“Speaking of which, were you acquainted with Mr. Miller before this evening?” Patrick asked her, setting his glass upon the round table beside the settee.
“He’s shopped in Elliot’s, though this is the first time he’s been invited here to dine.” she replied. “And since my uncle invited you to thank you for your act of heroism at the fair, it seems quite strange that Mr. Miller should be included.”
He wanted to ask her if she’d preferred to dine with him alone, but thought better of it.
“Still, you have seen him before,” Patrick said, still wondering at the man’s identity.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as her lips pursed. “I’ve certainly seen the look in his eyes often enough.”
Patrick caught the pique in her voice and straightened. “What do you mean?”
Tory shook her head and sighed. She placed her own glass beside Patrick’s and folded her hands in her lap.
“Some of the men who frequent my uncle’s shop seem to believe that more is for sale than gloves and jewelry,” she said in a small voice.
Patrick thought immediately of Paul, the blond dandy from the fair. He chose a lemon tart from the tray of pastries and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully for a moment.
“Men like Paul, for instance?” Patrick asked at last, keeping his voice even.
Tory raised round eyes to him. “What do you know of Paul?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Patrick didn’t much favor her impassioned response to the mere mention of the man’s name.
“Who is he to you?” he asked.
He watched as the emotions flitted across her face: anger, hurt, resignation. She turned away from him.
“No one,” she said in a clipped tone. “He’s none of your concern.”
Her dismissal filled him with jealous anger. “Then why, pray, was that gentleman asking after you at the Sturbridge Fair?” He took perverse satisfaction in the flinch she gave in answer. “And in the company of his wife?”
Tory gasped and twisted toward him. “What? Why?”
Patrick reached for her, his eyes searching hers. “Who is he, Tory?” he asked in a low voice.
She shook her head wildly. “I can’t speak of him to you,” she whispered.
“Is he your lover?” Patrick had to know, his fingers grasping her shoulders tightly. “Is he the lover you left in Cornwall?”
She gazed up at him, tears swimming in her silver eyes. “He is not my lover,” she said softly.
Relief flooded through him. He loosened his hold on her and rubbed her arms. “Did he break your heart?” he asked, his voice gentling.
Tory held herself stiff.
“Tell me Tory.”
Patrick was struck as her rigid stance crumbled. Her lips quivered as tears fell from her eyes.
“Yes, he broke my heart!” she cried. “Is that what you wish to hear? He married a rich girl and still wanted me to be his. He isn’t the man I thought he was.”
Patrick drew in a sharp breath and wrapped his arms around her. He dropped tender kisses on her forehead, her cheeks and Tory gave herself up to his gentle ministrations.
“That man is a fool, Tory,” he murmured against her lips. “If I were ever so fortunate as to have your heart, I would never let it go.”
“Truly?” she breathed as she leaned toward him.
“Yes, truly. Or may honeyed biscuits never touch my lips again.”
Her tears suddenly stopped and she laughed.
“I love seeing you laugh,” he said just before claiming her lips for a kiss.
She opened her mouth, welcoming his tongue. She gasped in surprise, apparently thrilled by the sudden intimacy. This kiss was far different from his tender caress the night of her attack. She reached up and twined her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. She arched toward him as he cupped one perfect breast in his palm.
“Tory,” Patrick rasped, lowering her to the seat of the little couch.
She shivered and arched toward him as he managed to ease her bodice downward. He glimpsed the most exquisite breasts he’d ever seen. Round and full. Pale, yet tipped with nipples a shade darker than her rosy lips. He palmed her breast again with one hand.
“Tory, you’re so beautiful,” Patrick said as he traced his thumb over her nipple. “You fit me perfectly.”
He lowered his head, his mouth closing over her nipple, making her tremble. He watched as she squeezed her eyes shut and clutched at him, holding him close to her as his tongue rasped over the bud again and again. His fingers trailed over her leg, up and under her skirt and petticoats. He touched her through her drawers and she moaned sweetly. He reluctantly released her breast and her eyes fluttered open. Patrick stared at her hotly, at her body draped beneath his on the couch.
“I want you, Tory,” he said, his voice rough to his ears.
Tory reached for him. “You want me,” she repeated, her voice husky.
“Yes, my sweetness. With every fiber of my being.”
Patrick stared at her full lips, her lush breasts and rosy nipples that beckoned him. He cursed softly and crushed his mouth to hers. Their kiss was wild and his fingers found her center once more. She bucked beneath him, whimpering softly. He shifted on the couch and pressed himself to her. He groaned as she arched against his arousal. He’d never felt such passion, such a crushing need for release. When Tory whispered his name again, both fear and urgency in her voice, he came back to himself. He couldn’t do this, a long-dormant kernel of decency demanded. He couldn’t take this girl in the parlor of her uncle’s townhouse!
He sat up, running his fingers through his hair in an effort to clear his muddled mind. Tory’s eyes fluttered opened, their silver depths clouded as she gazed up at him. She placed one hand on his arm, her fingers burning him through his jacket.
“Patrick?” she asked, her voice breathless.
The little sound of his name on her tongue made his body grow harder. He flicked his gaze over her form. One bared leg was thrown across his lap, her hair was in loose waves that glowed richly against the gold brocade of the couch. It would be so easy to lift that pretty green skirt. He could remove those paper-thin drawers and taste her, bringing her swiftly to pleasure before she could think to protest. His mouth went dry and he swore again.
“My God, Tory,” he said, taking a deep breath to cool his blood. “Do you know what you do to me?”
A smile curved her kiss-swollen lips and he was nearly lost again. That smile was wanton and seductive, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d gazed at the dandy from Cornwall in the same manner. Had that pup ever sampled her charms . . . If so, his jealous mind concluded, the man was an utter fool to have let her go. He couldn’t fault the man for wanting her back, but he’d be damned before he’d allow that.
As Patrick ruminated on Victoria’s past, he watched her regain her composure, and along with it, her modesty. He averted his eyes from the bounty before him as she readjusted her clothes. He poured himself another glass of sherry and downed it quickly, sorely wishing that it was something far stronger. Tory finished dressing, her motions stiff and shy. What had he done? “I—I must go,” he said, feeling every bit the coward.
Tory’s eyes glowed in the lamplight. He could stare into their silver depths for the rest of his life, and never stop wanting her. He brushed a thick auburn lock away from her cheek.
“Then I’ll bid you good night,” she said softly.
Was that sadness, he’d heard in her voice? In her eyes? Regret at what they’d done or didn’t do?
“Tory,” he began. “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head in answer. “No, don’t be sorry,” she whispered.
“I can’t help it,” Patrick said, taking her hand in his. “This was completely my fault. I touched you and I nearly lost myself.”
She touched his face, a smile teasing her lips.
“This ‘losing yourself,’” she began. “It was quite wonderful, Patrick.”
He felt an indefinable emotion bubble up in his chest, something far stronger than lust. It frightened him to the bone. He kissed her again, gently this time.
“Good night, Tory,” he said.
She cocked her head to one side and regarded him closely. What, precisely, was she seeing? A coward? A despoiler? A fool like that pup, Paul?
She sighed and gave him a slight smile. “Good night, Patrick.”
* * *
After Patrick had left, Victoria slowly climbed the staircase to her cozy bedchamber, her body pleasantly drained. As she readied for bed, she stood before the cheval mirror. The image that faced her was quite different from the one that had met her gaze earlier that evening. Her hair was a mess, she noted as she ran her fingers through the tangles. Her beautiful green dress was hopelessly wrinkled. What would Posy think when she saw to the dress in the morning?
How the buttons on the back of the dress hadn’t popped off she had no notion. Patrick had unfastened them with lightning speed. She shivered as she recalled all that had happened after he’d eased the bodice of her dress away from her body. My God, what he did to her with that beautiful mouth of his! And his hands, she mused. His very large hands, she amended with a giggle. Oh, how incredible those hands had felt on her skin, so bold and tender at once.
She removed her dress and set it aside for Posy’s attention and unpinned her hair. She slipped off her chemise and studied her body in the full-length mirror. Patrick had called her beautiful. He’d declared her perfect. She smiled at her reflection. She had felt beautiful. Everywhere his gaze had landed. Everywhere he’d touched. Faint pink marks stood out against the pale skin of her breasts, and the thought of his hands on her bare flesh made her ache for his touch on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, everywhere . . . Especially lower between her legs.
She donned her nightgown, letting the fine linen slowly settle against her skin. The thin fabric rasped delightfully against her nipples, reminding her of the tingles she’d experienced with Patrick. She turned her back on the woman in the mirror and blew out the single candle beside her bed. She closed her eyes, quite certain that her dreams would be filled with Patrick and the lovely things he’d done to her.
* * *
The next day passed for Patrick in a confounding haze of guilt and astonishment, neither of which he could dispel. He managed to distract himself for a few fleeting moments at White’s, but even a challenging game of Commerce couldn’t banish Tory from his mind. He sat there with his seasoned cronies, one of whom was Tony.
“Where have you been keeping yourself, Latham?” he asked Patrick. “I haven’t seen you since the night you left me at the fair.”
“I didn’t think you needed my company, Tony,” Patrick returned absently. “You seemed quite taken with that woman on the stage.”
Tony laughed. “She wanted nothing to do with me, friend,” he admitted. “But don’t trouble your mind. I wasn’t without company.”
Patrick smiled at that. “I had no worry in that regard, I assure you.”
“Have you seen our lovely Miss Elliot since that night?” Tony inquired.
“Ah, Elliot’s niece,” Bradley put in as he studied his cards. “She’s one delightful piece.”
Patrick held himself rigidly, refraining from punching his frequent sparring partner square in the nose.
“Has no one yet managed to capture that pretty bird?” the fourth of their party, Compton, added. “Perhaps it’s time I took a mistress.”
Patrick muttered a curse as he glanced at the handsome, black-haired widower. Compton had a daughter to look after, didn’t he? He shouldn’t be thinking of taking a mistress at this point in his life. He should think of finding a mother for his daughter. But not his Tory. Although she would make a wonderful mother, she was not for Compton.
Tony laughed aloud.
Glaring at him, Patrick willed him to be silent. Play continued among pleasant banter, Patrick keeping himself from the conversation despite his satisfaction that Tory was no longer the topic. He forced his attention to the hand of cards he’d been dealt, his mind far from focused on the game. He studied one of the cards in his hand.
“Doesn’t the queen of hearts have the most lovely almond-shaped eyes?” he wondered aloud.
Silence fell at the table. Patrick raised his head to find three pairs of eyes fixed upon him. They looked at him as if he were daft! Tony wore a look of enlightenment that he chose not to ponder. Patrick cleared his throat and returned his gaze to his cards.
When the party broke up more than an hour later, Patrick asked Tony to stay for a moment.
“What is it, old boy?” Tony asked him after bidding the other gentlemen farewell.
“Did you hear about an altercation at the fair, Tony?” Patrick asked him.
“Did you get into mischief without me?” Tony grinned.
“Hardly,” Patrick said. “When I left you at the entertainment stages it was because I thought I saw Victoria in the crowd.”
Tony leaned forward, disbelief on his face. “But we left her safely at her uncle’s booth!”
Patrick smiled ruefully. “The lady had other notions,” he allowed. “I started to search for her and it was divine providence that I did.”
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.