Be My Lover (10 page)

A triumphant smile replaced the resignation on her features.
“Jacob married another woman not long after I left for Downby,” she said. “And
now I don’t want to talk about Isaiah. I want you to make love to me so
ardently I’ll forget there ever was an Isaiah, even for a little while.”

Despite her smile, he heard the sorrow in her voice. He did
not want to consider the loneliness of her married life. If not for his promise
to his father that their family line would continue, he would sink to his knees
and propose on the spot.

Instead, he kissed her. “What man could turn down a request
like that?” he murmured. “I shall have to get my most creative.”

“Surprise me,” she whispered, running her hands over his
chest. Tracing his nipples, she asked, “Do men find these as sensitive as women
do?”

Anthony’s heart took off at a gallop. “Yes,” he said,
exhaling the word.

“And do they like this?” She rolled his nipples between her
thumbs and forefingers.

“That too.”

“And this?” She leaned in to capture one of the points in
her mouth, gently nibbling and using her tongue. The image of doing the same to
her racked his body with a shuddering desire. The memory of her mound’s
sweetness filled his mouth, and it was all he could do to not strip her where
she stood and drink her juices before plunging hard and swift inside her until
they both reached a convulsing finish.

“I think it’s you who have surprised me.” Anthony placed her
hand against his aching cock, straining to be free from the breeches holding it
captive. “That’s how much I like what you’re doing to me.”

“Perhaps we should get started then.” She tugged at the
waistband of his breeches. “Shall I take these off?”

“I like the way you think, Emily.”

She removed his breeches slowly, like a thoughtful child
unwilling to tear the wrapping on a gift to get to what was inside, pulling
them past his ass, his knees and down to his ankles. He stepped out and kicked
them aside.

“Now for you,” he said. “Let me rid you of that dress.”

She gently wrapped her hand around his cock. “It’s so
pretty,” she sighed. “So very pretty.”

He undressed her in record time, but left on her stockings
and shoes. She looked down at them and then back at him. “What on earth do you
have in mind?”

“Patience, my dearest Emily, patience.” Anthony strode to
the bed, grabbed several pillows and carried them to the upholstered chair.
After depositing them on the seat, he beckoned her with his finger. “Come here
and sit.”

She did as he asked, her gaze fixed on his face. “Now,” he
said, “as best as you can, put your legs over the chair’s arms.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean straddle it?”

“Yes.”

Puzzlement wrinkled her brow. “But why do you want me to
leave on my stockings and shoes?”

“There’s something incredibly arousing about a woman wearing
nothing but her shoes and stockings,” Anthony said, running his hands up and
down her legs. “And also something very wanton. You said you wanted to feel
wanton, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me take you there.”

Slowly, she draped her legs over the arms of the chair.
“It’s a very wide chair, isn’t it?” she asked as she settled back.

“I had it custom made just in case I met a woman with a
sense of adventure in her lovemaking,” he told her, enjoying the feel of the
silk stockings.

“Have you ever used the chair like this before?”

“No, it’s a virgin chair.” Kneeling before her, he
whispered, “You wanted me to surprise you, Emily. And so I shall.”

He slipped his hands under her bottom and held her in place
while working his mouth over her mound, sliding his tongue along her folds. Her
juices were warm and faintly tart and the dusky scent of her femininity filled
his head, making even his balls ache.

“Oh my,” she gasped from above him. “Oh my.”

He flicked his tongue against her nubbin and she squirmed,
her steadily increasing breathing the prettiest song he had ever heard. He
began to suck, drinking in the moisture flowing past his lips, and she moaned
again.

“
That
,” she panted, “is quite a surprise.”

“Now you surprise me,” he said, continuing to taste her.
“Tell me what you want.”

“Kiss me,” she commanded. “I want to taste my essence on
your mouth.”

Her words flamed over his skin. Sitting up, Anthony inched
forward and slowly slid his finger in and out of her while he leaned in to kiss
her. Her tongue met his in a furious tangle, her breathing becoming more and
more rapid while his finger continued its slow journey in her sweetness.

She moved her head, breaking their kiss, and he stared into
her love-glazed eyes. “I taste good, don’t I?” she asked shyly.

“Incredible,” he whispered. “There’s no other taste like it
in the world.”

“It must be because I’m tasting myself on your mouth, my
sweet Anthony.”

“I’m glad my lady is pleased.” He removed his finger and
moved his mouth to capture first one breast, then the other. She sighed and
raised her arms over her head like a cat shifting in the summer sunlight.

“Mmm…” she sighed. “Oh, yes. I do like doing it in my shoes
and stockings.”

“We’ll do it any way you wish, as often as you wish. You
have my promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that. But now I want you, Anthony. I want
to feel you joined to me. I want to feel you moving deep inside me. I’m aching
to be filled by you.”

Abruptly, Anthony stood and led them to the bed where she
removed her shoes.

“I like adventure,” she said. “But I must draw the line at
wearing shoes in bed.”

“Whatever you want, Emily.”

They stretched out and he rolled her onto her back,
spreading her legs so he could enter her. Her heat closed around him and
without prompting she folded her legs around his ass, holding him deep inside
her.

“Is this what you want?” he asked as he ran his fingers
through her hair.

She held his face between her hands. “Yes. You feel so very
hard and strong, my Anthony.”

“You make me that way.”

Her smile was like an invitation to the best party in the
world. “I have a good teacher,” she said as her hands squeezed his bottom and
she shifted beneath him. “Make love to me, Anthony. Let me feel your seed inside
me.”

His kiss against hers became primal and he drew back to
plunge into her again and again. Her slickness coated his penis, the heat of
her increasing the strength of his thrusts. Her hands guided his hips and ass
as he tried to keep his moves firm and steady to ensure both their pleasures.

But then she slipped her hand between them to grab his cock
and guide him in and out and a wave of ecstasy hurtled toward him, catching and
throwing him forward into the abyss. He cried out her name as she released her
own song of completion. His seed exploded and the world shattered, leaving them
the only two people in it.

Smoke shrouded the air, already foul with spilled ale and
sweat. At the doorway, Mallory pulled his battered hat lower, but not so low
his sharp eyes could not canvas the occupants of the East End alehouse. Most of
the patrons seemed too drunk to notice anything but the contents of their
mugs—which suited Mallory just fine. No one here ever paid him any attention,
but he wasn’t about to make himself noticeable now.

Shoreditch Bill had told him of a man who might know
something about the old Duke of Bradford’s death. Bill traded information for
money and on more than one occasion his information had brought criminals to
heel. Amos Quincy made sure Bill was well paid for his efforts to keep the
information flowing.

Mallory scanned the room again. A lone figure wearing a
dirty white scarf—the one he’d been told to look for—sat hunched over his mug
at a table in the back. After getting his usual serving of hard cider, Malloy
shuffled toward the figure and sat at his table. “Bill sent me,” he began,
adopting an East End accent. “Wha’ cha got?”

A bone-shaking cough slowed the man’s answer for several
seconds. He wiped his mouth on the back of one worn sleeve and sneezed into the
other. “Bits and pieces here and there.” His dirt-caked hands shook as he
lifted the mug to his mouth. “’Course, there might be more if the price is
right.”

“Them I works for don’t pay for ‘bits and pieces’,” Mallory snapped.
“‘Bits and pieces’ ain’t worth a shilling to them and Bill knows it. What’ve
you heard?”

“Awright, awright,” the man grumbled. “Word is a someone
might be after that there redheaded lady’s new diamond necklace. Gonna nip it
at a house party in the country she’ll be ’tending.”

The Countess of Aler
. Mallory bit back a grin at the
man’s description. Everyone in the
ton
knew her red hair came from henna
and not nature. They also knew of her excessive love of jewelry. “What else?”

“Barnabas Scofield’s been marked for roughing up,” the
contact continued. “Tried to rape his children’s guv’ness and her papa ain’t
happy at all. ’E’s got a wicked temper and the fists to go with it, so her papa
has.”

Barnabas Scofield is so cheap he’d rather go after a
servant than pay for mistress
. Mallory had half a mind to let the girl’s
father do his worst. He had a sister in service. “What else?”

“’Eard the new Duke o’ Bradford come back to London and it
were murder done to his father not a suicide.”

Trying to ignore his quickening heart, Mallory raised his
cup and said casually, “Heard that myself so it ain’t worth anything.”

“What if there was a witness? What would that be worth?”

Mallory forced himself to slowly drain the cider while
considering his next question. “Might be worth a lot,” he said, putting down
the cup. “
Was
there a witness?”

“Mebbe. You come back with a price and we’ll see.”

Mallory shot his hand across the table to clamp the man’s
grimy wrist. “You tell your witness if he don’t help find out who killed the
duke’s father, he just might find hisself danglin’ from the end of a very long
rope.” Mallory tightened his grip. “Magistrates don’t deal kindly with
accessories to murder.
You’d
do well to remember
that
.”

Hatred gleamed in the man’s dark eyes. “Right,” he said.

Shouts from the front of the house and splintering glass
brought their conversation to a halt. The man in the battered hat across from
Freddie stood, tossed some coins on the table and left. After waiting long
enough to be sure the man was gone, Freddie put the coins in his pocket and
slipped out the back way into the alley. He’d been mad to come here in the
first place. He should have let Henry come instead since he was the one who had
given Freddie the tidbits of gossip.

So what Henry had heard at the club was true. The new Duke
of Bradford planned to find out who had killed his father. That meant it was
only a matter of time before the killer came looking for Freddie. Freddie’s
sudden shiver had nothing to do with the cold or the damp and he slowed his
steps to listen for anyone else moving through the alley’s dark, narrow space.

He fingered the coins in his pocket, counting. With what he
had saved, it might be almost enough to get him on a coach to Scotland. Another
day or two of scavenging for coins dropped from pockets should do the trick and
buy him the ticket that would save his neck. As much as he had liked the old
duke, he wasn’t worth dying for. And his son was no more likely to believe
Freddie was as innocent of murder as the day he was born. The more distance
between the new duke and Freddie, the better.

And the sooner. Freddie quickened his pace, stepped onto the
street and into the enveloping fog.

* * * * *

“Timmons, may I ask you something?” Emily put aside the copy
of
The Mystery of Blackwood Hall
as he addedmore logs to the
fire. Outside, heavy gray clouds shrouded the afternoon sky. From his cage in
the corner, Zeus swung on his perch. In the time since Emily moved into the
house, she had gained enough of the macaw’s trust to open the cage and gently
stroke his feathers, and just this morning she had fed him. He had nipped at
her fingers, but his bite was playful and Emily was proud of her progress with
the great bird.

Her new butler rose and bowed. “Yes, ma’am. How may I be of
service to you?”

“Do you believe Lord Anthony’s father killed himself?”

Timmons’ jaw tightened and he blinked. “No, ma’am,” he
finally said. “I most certainly do not.”

“You’ve worked for the Dyson family for a very long time,
haven’t you?” Emily asked.

“I started out as second footman and worked my way up to my
present position,” Timmons said, the pride unmistakable in his voice. “Like my
father before me.”

An unexpected fondness for this most recent acquaintance
warmed Emily’s heart. “You’re very fond of Lord Anthony, aren’t you, Timmons?”

“And why should I not be? His family has always treated me
with the greatest kindness and only asked that I carry out my duties to the
best of my abilities. Not many in service can say as much of those who employ
them. And anyone who believes the old duke killed himself is either crazed or
an idiot.”

A quiet fury replaced the pride in Timmons’ voice, drawing
his mouth into a tight grimace, and Emily and was very glad she was not the
object of his anger. “Then what do you think happened?”

“Murder, ma’am. Murder most foul, though like His Grace I
have no way to prove it.” Timmons smoothed the neatly tied stock around his
neck. “There were those who were so enraged by their financial losses—ones they
claimed His Grace’s father had suggested to them—I do believe they would have
killed because of it.”

“But Sir Lennox, the doctor who found the body, declared it
was suicide,” Emily recalled. “He arrived just before the body was found.”

“Yes ma’am,” Timmons said with a nod. “And that is why
people believe it to be true. But I know in my soul it was not. I simply can’t
prove it. His Grace’s father would never do that to his family. And he most
certainly would not commit fraud. Someone killed him…or had him killed.”

His last words brought a chill to the room and, in spite of
the healthy fire, Emily shivered. Reaching for her shawl from the back of her
chair, she asked, “Who do you think might have killed His Grace’s father? Or at
least had him killed?”

Impassivity returned to Timmons’ face. “I really couldn’t
say, ma’am.”

“Oh come, Timmons,” Emily coaxed. “You knew almost
everything there was to know about His Grace’s family and their day-to-day
lives, including their friends. After Lord Conrad died and news of the
fraudulent investments came out, who was the most angered by their losses?”

“Well…” Timmons’ eyes narrowed in concentration. “Sir
Charles Abernathy lost five hundred pounds. He was furious and threatened legal
action against Lord Anthony. Mordicah Stopover who owns the Falcon Importing
Company, one that deals in silk and other precious items, lost three hundred
pounds. Others lost as well, but not quite so much.”

“And were they questioned?”

“Mrs. Martin, after Sir Lennox examined the body and
declared the death a suicide, there was no need for questions. The case was
closed.” Timmons expelled a sigh of impatience. “Bunch of damn fools. Begging
your pardon, ma’am.”

“No need.” Emily released her own sigh. “No need.” An air of
sadness settled over the sitting room. Overhead, rain hit the roof in a steady
tattoo before running in rivulets down the mullioned windows.

“When does His Grace return from his fishing trip?” Timmons
asked, breaking the silence.

“This afternoon or evening unless the rain delays him.”
Emily said, reaching for her book again. Miss Stanhope had sent it yesterday
with a note saying she hoped Emily would enjoy it. The plot was as twisted as
the secret labyrinths and hiding places the author so loved to describe. If she
didn’t believe her to be innocent of such machinations, Emily would think Miss
Stanhope was trying to gain Anthony’s affections by seeking Emily’s friendship.

“Timmons,” she said. “Tell me something about His Grace’s
father. A favorite memory, something you enjoy recalling.”

Timmons cocked his head. “Well,” he said, “there is one
thing. But I hesitate to mention it because I believe I was the only one who
knew.”

Emily sat up. “Do tell,” she pleaded.

“His Grace’s late father liked gothic novels.”

A laugh escaped Emily, easing some of the ache in her heart.
“Really?” she gasped. “His Grace read
The Mystery of Udolpho
and books
like that?”

“
Udolpho
was one of his favorites,” Timmons said. A
broad grin crossed his face. “But I must ask you not to tell anyone, ma’am, not
even the present duke.”

“But why wouldn’t the duke’s father want anyone to know he
liked gothic novels?” Emily asked. “Mister Horace Walpole wrote one to great
acclaim.”

“Mister Walpole was not a duke,” Timmons did not bother
trying to hide his disdain. Then he softened his tone. “The late duke was worried
his peers wouldn’t take him seriously if they knew he read such things. He even
had some kind of arrangement for the books to be secretly delivered to his home
so no one would see him buy them, or risk the clerks at the bookstores telling
others of the sale. I only mention as much myself because of the book you are
currently reading.”

“His arrangements for the secret delivery of the books were
certainly gothic,” Emily said. Her earlier fantasy of Anthony reading such
things returned and she laughed again. “Thank you for sharing that with me,
Timmons. And don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Timmons bowed. “Will there be anything
else?”

“Some tea, perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Very good, ma’am.” Timmons bowed again and crossed to the
door. He stopped and turned back. “There is one more thing about that night,
Mrs. Martin. The night the old duke died.”

Emily’s heart quickened. “Yes?”

“Zeus was in His Grace’s library, where he always was. His
Grace was very fond of that bird. After we heard the shot—” Timmons choked back
something between a sob and an attempt to stop it. He nosily cleared his
throat. “We heard Zeus shrieking just after the shot. It sounded as if someone
was ripping out his feathers. I’ve often wondered…”

“Wondered what, Timmons?”

“What Zeus saw,” Timmons said sadly. “I’ve heard some birds
can learn to talk. I’ve often wished that of Zeus so he could tell us what
happened. Forgive me, ma’am. It’s just a foolish fancy to think such things.
I’ll bring in your tea presently.”

Emily waited until the door closed behind him before going
to Zeus’ cage. The great bird swayed on his perch and regarded her with his
bright eyes. Reaching her fingers through the bars, she gently stroked the
cobalt and yellow feathers.

“What did you see that night, my bright-plumed friend?” she
whispered. “Are you the only creature in London who knows what really happened
to Anthony’s father? If I taught you to talk, would you tell me? Would you
reveal the name of your late master’s killer? Or like Miss Stanhope, have I
fallen under the spell of gothic novels?”

Zeus dipped his head but remained silent. With a sigh, Emily
went to stare out the windows at Amos Quigley’s house. From here, she could
almost see through the large windows into what might be his sitting room.
Anthony’s departing instructions included sending for the man if any problem
should arise in his absence. After weeks of teas, theater and dinner
parties—not to mention making love in almost every room in the house—Anthony
had announced it would keep people from gossiping about them too much if they
were not seen together for awhile. So he, Brandon Hightower and Gregory Keller
had gone fishing at a spot twenty miles south of London.

At first, she had welcomed having the house—and the bed—all
to herself for a few days.

But since his departure, she found herself listening for his
step in the hall, his cheery voice calling out in welcome or making her laugh
as he shared some delicious piece of gossip.

And the space in the bed beside her felt quite, quite empty.

She had not expected to miss him so much.

Of course, at every social occasion they had attended, Miss
Margaret Stanhope was also a guest. And while Anthony gave equal attention to
every unmarried lady present, the
ton
had noticed his interest in Miss
Stanhope. The gossip sheets were already talking of the great marriages that
would be made at the Season’s end. Which, Anthony said, was another reason for
leaving town and swearing Emily to secrecy regarding his whereabouts.

“My abrupt departure will drive the
ton
mad with
curiosity,” Anthony had proclaimed as he climbed into Brandon Hightower’s
carriage before leaving. “Try to be mysterious if they ask questions about
where I am. No need for them to be sending out my wedding invitations quite
yet.”