The Piper's Paramour, page 11
“Oh, Rhys! It’s gorgeous!” Rebecca breathed at her side.
Tory couldn’t help but agree as she gently touched the blue and silver striped silk of the dress. It was as fine as anything that Rebecca wore, for certain. She reluctantly pulled her hand back. “It’s beautiful.” She turned to him, where his eyes burned brightly as they watched her every move. “But I can’t accept this.”
Rhys crossed his arms. “I had the feeling you would offer some sort of resistance, so I’ve come up with an equally compelling argument. Consider it partial payment for your studio rental. It would have taken me a lot longer to find homes for my rats otherwise.”
She agreed that he made a good point. And yet… “I truly have no need for such a fine dress.”
“On the contrary.” Rhys held up a finger. “I believe that we are invited to a prominent birthday gathering on Saturday.”
At this, Rebecca gave a small pout. “Tory said she is too busy, so she might not be able to attend.”
“I’m sure that — together — she and I can figure something out.” Rhys’s green eyes nearly swirled, as he put emphasis on the plural.
“I shall hold you to that, Dr. Grayson,” Rebecca teased, and then she addressed her party. “Come along everyone. We still have much to do today to prepare for Papa’s celebration!” But before she left, she shot Tory a knowing wink.
***
Rhys had prayed that he wasn’t overstepping his bounds that morning when he set out for Bond Street, but the moment he spied the ready-made gown that would undoubtedly bring out the blue-gray of Tory’s eyes, he had purchased it. She probably wouldn’t approach Rebecca about borrowing one of her dresses, and she wouldn’t wish to attend unless she had something appropriate to wear. He knew that much about her already, for growing up with a lady of the gentry, there was a certain amount of pride to be had.
“Rhys, I—”
“I’m told the accommodating undergarments will be delivered later this week.”
She stared at him. “You must cancel the order.”
Rhys was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Why? Because you might actually enjoy yourself if you would but take a chance?”
“Because this—” She waved her hand at the box. “—isn’t my life. I’m a working, single, middle-class woman, not some debutante out to make a splash in society. So why even pretend I’m something I’m not? I will never be some character in a fairytale that will be swept off her feet by the handsome suitor at the stroke of midnight.”
“That’s a rather cynical view regarding a simple gathering.”
“It might be simple to you,” she countered. “But to me, it means something I can never have.”
Silence. “What is it that you want so desperately, Tory?”
“Nothing,” she returned curtly. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She turned her back on him and walked over to the rat cages. “I am living the dream so many are denied. I should be happy with my current path, not trying to seek out something that is unattainable.”
“What do you feel is missing?” he asked softly. “Tell me.”
“Love.” It was little more than a whisper, but then she turned to him with a steady resolve on her face. “I want love.”
***
Tory had never admitted that four-letter word to anyone else — had barely even admitted it to herself, even if it was the one thing she had always been searching for. She’d never had any siblings, had never known her parents, and her grandparents had been gone long before she’d ever been born. It was true that Lady Goosebury had treated her kindly, but she had been no more than a guardian, a woman who had embraced her charitable nature by taking in orphaned girls. Mrs. Cameron was similar, in that she was a friendly acquaintance, but she was merely the woman who had taught Tory her trade.
Tory wasn’t even sure what “love” might actually feel like, except for the sadness she’d felt upon leaving Direce and the other girls at the manor.
And the stirring she felt in her chest whenever she saw Rhys — that was a dangerous thing, indeed. She might be his current paramour, but she would never be someone he could marry. He wasn’t of noble birth, but he was notable, like Mr. Veltree, a man who could possibly wed above his station and gain a voice in Parliament to which he was currently denied. She wouldn’t ruin that chance by disgracing him. All she could do was enjoy their time together — however long it lasted.
His face was unreadable as she walked slowly toward him. “Nevertheless, I am willing to show my appreciation for your thoughtfulness, Rhys,” she murmured, winding her arms around his neck. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him.
At first, he seemed reluctant to engage, but it didn’t take long until he was drawing her close. Without the impediment of layers of petticoats, she could feel his erection as it pressed into her upper thigh. A surge of heat flowed through her blood. She wanted this man badly. Now.
She pulled back and said breathlessly, “It’s nearly seven. Let me lock the door, and then we can go upstairs where we won’t be disturbed.”
He frowned. “Are you sure you’re feeling well… after last night?”
For reply, she rubbed her hand over the material covering his hard cock. “What do you think?” she nearly purred.
“Lock the damn door,” he growled.
They briefly parted ways as she bolted the front door and he went upstairs.
When she arrived, the sight that greeted her was wonderfully sensual. He was completely naked, reclining on her bed with his arms tucked beneath his head. His erection was proud and demanding as it lay on his stomach.
He was the most glorious man she’d ever seen.
And for the moment, he was all hers.
“Come here.”
It was all he had to say before she was shedding her clothes and joining him.
Chapter Eleven
Tory was in a glorious haze as she put on her dressing gown and went downstairs some time later. She’d nearly forgotten about the photograph of Rebecca and the children in her haste to reunite with Rhys. But that’s just the effect he had on her. Now that he had introduced her to the world of sensual delights, she couldn’t seem to get enough of him.
Thankfully, the picture had come out rather perfectly. She laid it on the counter to finish drying and looked at the serene images of a family displayed there.
She was so involved with the portrait that she didn’t hear Rhys join her until he was wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Come back to bed,” he said in that wonderfully husky voice.
“I will,” she promised. “I was just checking to see how the photograph turned out.”
He hugged her close to him as he rested his chin on her left shoulder. “You have a true talent, Victory Jones.”
“I don’t know if I would go that far,” she returned, turning in his arms to face him. With his hair slightly mussed, shirt hanging open and trousers on his bare feet, a lopsided grin on his face, he looked entirely too tempting for words.
“You’re too modest,” he chided gently. “You don’t just take a photograph, you bring out life in an image, even if they are deceased. You capture their personality, their essence, their light.”
Tory was afraid she was in danger of slipping perilously close to her demise with this man, so to shift the tension of the moment, she said, “Will you play for us?” She gestured upstairs to where she kept Cinnamon and Sugar.
He chuckled. “Must I?”
“Yes.” She took hold of his arm and dragged him toward the stairs, where he reluctantly followed.
Upstairs, she sat down in one of the chairs in her makeshift parlor. She kept her pet rats on the small mantle where it was sure to stay warm, even in the summertime when English rains were known to make a frequent appearance.
Rhys went into her bedroom where he returned with his recorder. She found that he seldom went anywhere without it. It was as much a part of who he was, just as her camera had become part of her. His lips twitched. “Any requests?”
She thought about it for a moment. “One of your favorites.”
Without saying anything, he put the recorder to his lips and began to play. Tory watched as Cinnamon and Sugar ceased their earlier play and settled down to listen, as if equally enraptured as she was.
She closed her eyes and let the melody wash over her. It sounded vaguely familiar, and she realized it could have been something that Lady Goosebury had one of the girls practice on the pianoforte. Unfortunately, playing any instrument, along with singing, watercolors, and several other feminine skills had been beyond her comprehension. She was thankful she’d found an interest in photography, or she might have struggled to find any sort of gainful employment.
As Rhys’s music slowly drew to a close, she opened her eyes and Cinnamon and Sugar returned to their usual scampering habits. “What was it called?”
“’Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes.’”
As usual, his words never failed to warm something deep inside of her, although she attempted to wave away her melancholy with nostalgia. “I thought it sounded familiar,” she returned.
“It was one of the first songs I learned to play.”
Genuinely curious, she asked, “Who taught you the recorder?”
Rhys carefully set the recorder on the small table before them, and then took a seat across from her. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together before him. “It was my paternal grandmother, believe it or not, even though her son, my father, had no desire for me to even attempt the challenge.”
“Why ever not?”
Rhys shrugged. “I guess because he didn’t think it was something that manly for me to accomplish. He would much rather I do manual labor or have a steady business mien. I became a veterinarian to satisfy his expectations, but I was lucky to find that I rather enjoyed it.” He exhaled a slow breath. “However, my grandmother always encouraged me to practice when I went to visit her, and I did, as long as my father wasn’t around. But when Levi and Anastasia died within two years of each other, we moved from London to Bath, where my parents continue to reside. In the ten years I’ve been back in the city to attend university and conduct my research, I don’t think they have returned once. I correspond with my mother on occasion, but that’s about it.”
“So you haven’t gone back to Bath either?” she asked. “What of your father?”
Rhys’s expression turned grim. “I haven’t spoken to him since I left. Sometimes I wonder if it’s too painful for me to be around, for it only reminds them of what they’ve lost. It just seems… better this way.”
She shook her head sadly. “Surely you can’t mean that.” She didn’t want to push him into anger, but she well knew how important it was to lay the past to rest and move on. “Won’t you at least consider going back to Bath someday? You don’t want to have any regrets.”
He looked at her for a time. “You know, for the year and a half I was with Marissa, she never encouraged me to seek a reunion with my parents. Of course, I’m not sure that I would have considered it then, but you’re absolutely right. I should make amends while there is still time.”
The green-eyed monster returned, as Tory didn’t care to hear the name of this faceless Marissa, but she was thankful that he was considering her proposal.
“And now, Miss Jones,” Rhys said as he rose to his feet and walked over to her. “I believe it’s time we enjoyed the rest of our evening.”
He held out his hand to her, which she readily accepted with a flirtatious smile. “I couldn’t agree more, Dr. Grayson.”
***
When Rhys returned home later that night, he realized he had a lot of soul searching to do. Tory had made a valid point about his parents; something that had actually been on his mind a lot of late. His mother’s last letter had been rather cryptic, as if she was hiding something, and it concerned him.
It was a difficult crossroads to traverse as he was also faced with his growing feelings for Tory. She was becoming that voice in his head, the siren of his dreams, and what he looked forward to each day.
He sighed, for he decided that it was time to confide in Harry.
Early the next morning, he made his way across the square and knocked on the door of the Veltree residence. Parker greeted Rhys as he let him inside, even though he was calling quite a bit earlier than usual. Anyone else might have been turned away, but Rhys was practically part of the household at this point. Even the children had taken to calling him uncle.
“Dr. Veltree is in the breakfast room with his family,” the butler intoned.
His family. Rhys didn’t know why that statement bothered him more today than any other time, but he shook off his misgivings as he walked down the hall.
As he drew closer, he could hear the sounds of laughter drifting out of the room. He paused in the open doorway to see wide smiles on everyone’s faces. Harry was looking at his wife with a certain mischievousness that Rhys could appreciate all too well, while Archie and Charlotte giggled with delight.
Rhys appreciated the sight, but never before had his chest ached liked this. But then it dawned on him that this was what he’d been missing all of his life.
After the deaths of his brother and sister, he didn’t recall a single moment where laughter had filled the walls of their house like this. It was as if his mother and father had died along with their children, even though they still had one son alive that would have cherished moments like these.
When he’d met Marissa, Rhys had imagined a scene very similar to this one, for he vowed to love all of his children, even if tragedy were to strike. But then, after their separation, he’d retreated into himself, like some sort of turtle afraid of danger. He’d thrown himself into his research, thinking of nothing else night and day, until he’d shoved down any hope of being injured again.
And then he met a brown, mousy-haired woman on a train platform and she began to effectively chip away at the walls he’d erected around his heart. He had known the woman a week, for God’s sake, but it was already difficult to imagine the rest of his life without her in it.
“Rhys?”
He glanced up at the sound of Harry’s inquiring voice, and he felt like the worst sort of interloper for intruding on their cheery morning. “I didn’t mean to—” He shook his head. “I’ll drop by later.”
He turned on his heel and started to head for the front door, hoping to make a quick exit, but he should have known Harry wouldn’t have allowed that. “Rhys, wait.” Reluctantly, he turned to face his friend, and something of his inner turmoil must have shown on his face, for Harry gestured in the direction of his study. “Come have a drink with me.”
Rhys couldn’t help but snort, wondering if he looked that terrible. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for spirits?”
Harry lifted a brow. “You look as if you could use it,” he returned dryly.
Once they were seated in his private space, a finger’s worth of port in their glasses, Harry took a sip and said, “What’s wrong?”
Rhys toyed with his glass, downing it all in one burning gulp, and then set the crystal tumbler gently on the side table. “I think I may be falling in love.”
“And this is a bad thing?” Harry asked.
Rhys sat back in the chair and folded his hands over his midsection. “You remember Marissa, don’t you?”
It was Harry’s turn to snort. “That wasn’t love. It was lust.”
Rhys grimaced. “It sure as hell hurt like it.”
Harry tilted his head and regarded him steadily. “First love, or young love, can often be misconstrued as the real thing. Yes, it can be painful, but when you find someone who truly makes your days worth living, nothing can compare to it, and you quickly find out that what you thought was real wasn’t genuine after all.” He paused. “I take it this recent reticence has to do with Miss Jones, the woman that Rebecca can’t stop gushing about?” He shook his head. “Normally when my wife returns with a new bonnet, it’s all I hear about for three days, but not since she met this paragon, who I’m still waiting to meet for approval, by the way.”
The memory of Rebecca and Tory’s easy interaction caused another pang in the vicinity of Rhys’s chest. “The connection was instant,” he said quietly, thinking of his own reaction to Tory.
“Then what is the problem?” Harry asked, picking up on the double entendre, as astute as usual.
Rhys considered a vague reply, but since he knew his old friend would gain the truth from him sooner or later, and considering he’d come here to gain some insight, he tapped his thumbs together in thought and murmured, “It’s all just progressing so… fast. Isn’t it too soon to feel this way?”
Harry smiled. “If you mean confusion, uncertainty, and an odd sense of having your world turned upside down, then no. It’s completely normal.”
Rhys laughed. “I would consider all of that the furthest thing from normal.”
“But then,” Harry held up a finger. “You’ve never truly been in love.”
And for the first time since Marissa broke his heart, Rhys thought he might be right.
“And now, if I have cured your emotional ills,” he smirked and took another sip of his port as Rhys rolled his eyes. “You actually saved me the trouble of calling on you. I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news regarding our furry little friends.”
Rhys sat up a bit straighter. “Thank God. I’ve run into nothing but dead ends. Even my contacts on the streets have come up empty, or else they are just reluctant to share any information that they have.”
“Unfortunately, that may be the case,” Harry returned grimly. “It seems that the rat catching gangs in the city have taken it upon themselves to hold a contest to see how many rats each can catch, with quite a bountiful prize to be had for the winner. While we still don’t know who is smuggling the rats into the city, at least it’s somewhere to start.”
