“W-Weston?” The faint tremble to her words, the manner in which her lashes fluttered indicated her body’s awareness to him.
He dropped his brow to hers. “You sing beautifully, Patrina.”
A snorting, breathless laugh bubbled past her lips.
He stroked his thumb over her cheekbones. “You sing from your heart with joy and laughter and that passion passion is far greater than any soulless, perfectly sung melody.”
Her laughter died.
Weston dropped his gaze to the tempting red flesh of her lips and with a groan, claimed her mouth. Gentle at first, and then his body registered the heat of her pressed to him; the sweet curve of her hips, the small, perfectly rounded breasts practically made for his hands and he was lost. He slanted his mouth over hers again and again. She moaned and he slid his tongue inside her mouth, tasting, exploring all of her. She twined her hands about his neck. Encouraged by her response, he began his search of her. He gripped her delicately flared hips, drawing her close to his manhood and then continued his quest. He palmed her breast. Patrina’s head fell back on a desperate moan.
“Weston,” she pleaded.
He weighed the flesh of first one breast, then the other in his palm. Through the fabric of her dress he devoted attention to the bud. She groaned in protest when he drew back, but he only continued his exploration of her graceful back, the curve of her buttocks. He drew her closer and angled his head down to shower her neck with kisses.
She arched into him, tightening the grip she had on his hair as though she never wanted him to stop, as though she wanted to meld their bodies as one, even as he wanted the same.
Weston wrenched away. Even as he ached to lay her down and lay claim to her body, he would not disrespect her. He imagined soldiers had waged far easier battles than this, setting Patrina from his arms.
Her smoky, dark lashes fluttered open. “Why…? What…?” The tendons of her throat worked up and down. “Did you not enjoy…?” Color flared in her cheeks, like the holly berries on mistletoe.
He pressed a kiss against her temple. “Do not be mistaken, Patrina. I want you.” Her blush deepened. “I want to lay you down and make you mine, but I’ll not disrespect you.” She deserved more than that. He’d not fall into the ranks of the Albert Marshvilles of the world even as he wanted to trade his soul to know the pleasure to be found in her arms. Weston fished around the front of his pocket. He withdrew a small box, wrapped with a neat red ribbon.
She stared down at it and then looked to him questioningly. “What…?”
“Here,” he said softly, pressing the box into her fingers. “It is for you.” As his intended, he could present her with a small gift. As his future wife, he would shower her with anything and everything she could or would ever desire.
Patrina took it. She eyed the small package in her hands a moment and then worked the ribbon free with the tip of her finger. She removed the lid and gasped. Her fingers hovered hesitantly over the small snowflake pendant dusted with diamonds.
“Here,” he murmured. “Allow me.” He took the box from her hand and drew out the gold necklace. He turned her around and placed the chain about her neck, fastening the intricate clasp. “I thought it would serve as a reminder of our first meeting.”
Patrina touched the pendant. “It is beautiful,” she said softly. She turned back toward him. The ghost of a smile played about her lips. “I’ll always remember that day.”
He’d been an utter bastard to her in the park. He took her hands in his and raised them to his lips one at a time. “I was an arse that day.” He pledged to spend their days together atoning for his callous disregard.
“You were a father defending his children,” she said automatically. “It is hard to fault a man for being protective of a small boy and young girl.”
“Even children who were unpardonably rude and throwing snowballs at polite young ladies?”
She snorted. “Polite young ladies wouldn’t have hurled snowballs back at those children.”
Weston dropped his brow to hers, imagining how very different this moment would be even now if she hadn’t hurled a snowball at Charlotte and Daniel. “I’m so glad you did.” Because if she hadn’t, then he’d still be the harsh, angry man teeming with resentment, a man who’d never imagined he could smile again.
The door flew open so hard it knocked against the plaster wall. Their gazes swung to the entrance and they jumped apart at the unexpected appearance of a young girl.
“Penelope—” Patrina began.
The girl gulped, heavily out of breath. “Mother,” she rasped.
Patrina angled her head. “I don’t know where Mother—”
“Is on her way,” Penelope said on another gasping breath. “I raced from abovestairs, down the servant’s entrance, back up to the main floor to tell you.” She looked pointedly at Weston. “She has heard from one of the servants you are currently with the marquess. Alone. With the marquess.”
“Er, you said that part once before, Penny,” Patrina said, a smile tugging at her lips.
Penelope rushed into the room. “It felt important enough to point it out. Twice.”
Weston looped his arms behind his back and studied the younger girl with tight black ringlets, now eyeing him as though he’d come to make off with her family’s silver. He sketched a bow. Her narrow gaze deepened and he was struck by the loyalty of Patrina’s sisters.
“Even if you are to be married, it still isn’t done.” Penelope troubled her lip. “Or at least, that is what Mother has said, anyway. Therefore, you sit,” she ordered Weston.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
Penelope jabbed her finger toward the ivory sofa. “Sit. As in you bend your legs and—”
“I gather the marquess knows the meaning of the word,” Patrina said drolly.
Penelope’s glare deepened and Weston knew enough to claim the suggested seat. He flashed forward another seven years and saw his own daughter in this feisty, spirited young miss. He groaned at the thought. The two young women looked to him. He waved off their concern.
Penelope gave a short nod and looked to her sister. “Now, play.” She guided her sister by the shoulders onto the pianoforte bench.
A protest sprung to Patrina’s lips. “The marquess doesn’t want to hear me play.”
He and Penelope spoke in unison.
“He most certainly does.”
“I do.”
A flash of approval lit the girl’s determined brown eyes.
And Patrina began to play and… sing… God Rest Ye Marry Gentlemen? Well, he imagined it was God Rest Ye Marry Gentlemen. He couldn’t quite make out the particular words of the sharp verses. Her head tipped back and forth to the quick, lively, if disjointed tune. She caught his gaze and winked.
His smile widened and for the first time since Cordelia’s betrayals, and the shame of her scandalous affairs, the last vestige of bitterness slipped away, replaced by the light, carefree enthusiasm he’d once had for life—restored by the spirited young lady banging away a discordant tune on the pianoforte.
“My lord, it is of course a pleasure to see you.”
He moved his gaze, reluctantly away from the woman he’d make his wife to the beaming matron in the doorway. He rose and sketched a bow.