Be My Lover (13 page)

The crowd cheered and laughed as the footmen silently but
efficiently hauled a struggling Abernathy upright, slipped their hands under
his armpits and headed for the stairs leading up to the foyer.

But not before Abernathy spit at Anthony’s feet. A purple
rage mottled his face while a fury not even the candlelight could mask flamed
in his eyes.

“Damn you, Dyson!” he bellowed. “I should have shot your
father myself only he beat me to it!”

The angry shouts and exclamations returned, louder this
time, replacing the laughter. Anthony dug his fingers into his palms and
managed not to choke on the bile flooding his mouth. Duncan and Forbes hauled
the still-protesting Abernathy from the room and Laramore held up his hand for
silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry for that little display of
ill manners,” he said. “I believe the buffet supper is about to be served in
the next room, but only after you waltz one more time. Considering how hard my
chef and kitchen staff have worked, do eat as much as you like once you’ve
finished dancing.”

The crowd issued a collective sigh of relief and began to
take to the floor once again.

Laramore looked at Anthony. “Dyson, I’m sorry. The only
reason I can think my wife invited Abernathy is because his wife is a distant
relation to the Prime Minister’s family. He gets himself invited to all kinds
of things, but after tonight, I assure you, his social-climbing days are
ended.”

With a bow, Laramore slipped back among his guests.
Frowning, Greg stared at Anthony. “Where was Abernathy the night your father
died?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” Anthony managed through gritted teeth. “It
wasn’t on my mind at the time to ask. Who the hell would know where he was
after a year?”

“Abernathy is a member at half a dozen gaming clubs,”
Brandon said grimly. “I’ll make inquiries as to his whereabouts. If he owed
them money at any time over the past year, they’ll know. We may need to pull
Amos on this as well.”

“Damn,” Anthony muttered. Would there ever be an end to
this?

“Will you call Abernathy out?” Greg asked.

“Dueling is still illegal,” Brandon reminded them.

“I wouldn’t waste the powder,” Anthony said. He glanced at
Emily who had silently joined them. Anger had chased the color from her face
and if he’d had a mirror with him, he was quite sure it would reflect the
answering anger in his own eyes. A sudden desire to hold her, to be alone with
her overcame him and good manners fought with his desire.

Good manners won and he made a quick bow to his friends.
“You gentlemen will excuse me, but I’m going to follow our host’s request and
dance. Mrs. Martin, will you do me the honor?”

Her smile absorbed some of the chill from his heart. She
slid her gloved hand inside the crook of his arm and its warmth spread like a
balm over an old wound newly opened. “I’d be delighted, Your Grace.”

Once on the floor, Anthony put his arm around Emily’s waist
and, taking her hand in his, swung them out among the dancers. Her scent,
floral and womanly, filled his head and strength radiated from her hand to his.

Ah God, why did you make this woman I desire above all
others barren? She would make a splendid duchess and an even better wife and
mother. But I promised my father to carry on the Dyson name. I promised.

“Where did you learn to waltz?” she teased. “Has it made it
as far as Florence?”

“All the rage there,” he teased back. “In the streets, in
the churches, in the vineyards—”

“What about the bedrooms?” she whispered. “Do they waltz in
the bedrooms in Florence?”

“Oh especially in the bedrooms.” He lowered his voice to a
silken purr. “And always quite, quite naked.”

“We’ll have to try that sometime.” Desire sparkled in her
eyes. “I’ve never heard of waltzing naked in England, in the bedroom or
anywhere else.”

“I always knew you were a trend-setter.”

But despite their banter, rage kept Anthony’s heart in a
rocking gallop.

Abernathy was a nobody, but his pronouncements sliced into
Anthony like an unskilled surgeon lancing a boil. The thought of anyone
actually believing his father was a thief threatened to bring his simmering
fury to the boiling point.

He would have to talk to Amos, and soon. Learn if his friend
or Mallory had discovered anything new about his father’s killer.

Because one more accusation like Abernathy’s and Anthony
might very well find himself in prison for assault or murder, with any chance
of finding the right kind of wife—or his father’s killer, for that matter—gone
for good.

“Anthony?” Emily sat up and peered through the faint
firelight. A tall figure paced back and forth in front of the fireplace as
though the room were a cage and he the imprisoned. His ragged breathing and
heavy tread drowned out the faint tick from the clock on the wall while his
eyes seemed focused on something only he could see.

“He didn’t kill himself,” Anthony addressed his unseen
audience. “By God, my father did
not
kill himself. And he was not a
thief. Whoever says so can burn in hell for all eternity.”

Trembling, Emily reached for her robe at the foot of the bed
and pulled it on. Anthony had been unusually silent on the ride back to her
house and claimed to have a “devil of a headache”, wanting nothing more than to
go to sleep. For the first time since the beginning of their arrangement, he
had curled up on his side of the bed with only a quick kiss goodnight.
Exhausted from listening to mothers extol their daughters’ talents and virtues
during dinner, Emily welcomed his suggestion.

But now where was her elegant and carefree companion? The
man pacing before her, clad in his nightshirt, was not Anthony, but a stranger
who looked and sounded like him. Rage, anxiety and sorrow had carved themselves
over his handsome features, making him almost unrecognizable.

“Anthony?” she called again, coming to stand at the foot of
the bed.

“My father loved me, loved my sisters.” He shook a fist at
his unseen enemy. “He would never cause us such grief by taking his own life.
He loved his life, loved us. I’d call you out if you were worth the powder, but
I promised him I would carry on the family name.”

Damn you, Charles Abernathy. Damn you for your
accusations.

Emily’s fingers bunched in her nightgown. “Anthony,” she
whispered, fearful an approach would unleash the rest of his pent-up fury or
drive him over the brink into madness. Her brain reeled as it frantically
searched for something…some clue to bring him back safely from the darkness
eating his soul.

And then, unbidden, came memories of summer days long ago.
Memories of days filled with warmth and calm. The summer Anthony had spent with
her family. Taking a deep breath, Emily began to sing the tune her brother had
written for their parents’ wedding anniversary, using the text from the
Song
of Solomon
.

Rise up my love, my fair one,

And come away.

For lo! The winter is past,

The rains are over and gone.

The flowers appear upon the earth,

The time of the singing of birds is come.

Rise up my love, my fair one, and come away.

Come away with me.

“What?” Anthony stopped his pacing. “What? Emily?”

“Yes, dearest. Come away from the darkness, my sweet
Anthony,” she sang, the music giving her courage to go and place her hand on
his arm. “Come back to the light. Come back to me. Please.”

With a loud keening moan, he pulled her against him and
together they sank to the floor. He buried his face against her shoulder as
sobs racked his body.

For a moment Emily’s arms about him were the stronger, and
she bit her lip to keep her own tears from starting. “I’m here, Anthony,” she
whispered. “I’m here.”

“Oh God,” he gasped between sobs. “Why did he kill himself?
Why?”

“He didn’t.” Emily sat back and put her hands on either side
of his beloved face. “I don’t know what happened that night, Anthony, but I
know this in my heart and soul. Your father did not kill himself. And he was
not a thief.”

With tears still running down his cheeks, he rested his chin
on her forehead. “How can you believe that when all the evidence said
otherwise?”

“Because you don’t believe it,” Emily said firmly, wrapping
her arms around him again. “And neither do any of your friends. That’s enough
for me.”

“Truly?” He choked out the single word.

“Truly. Now I think we need to have a drink and go back to
bed.”

She helped him stand and led him to the sofa before going to
pour them each a brandy. She carried the glasses back, sat and they drank in
silence. The heat of the brandy chased away the cold that fear had been stamped
on her skin and finally Anthony’s tortured expression faded and relaxed,
leaving only the face of the man she loved.

The face of the man who could never be hers.

“Are you ready for bed now?” she asked.

“Yes.” He took her glass and along with his and set them
aside. “But I’m not ready to sleep.”

He led her back to stand beside the bed and stripped off her
nightgown. Slowly, he ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, and
stroked her hips before reaching around to cup her bottom.

“It’s a lovely ass you’ve got, my lady,” he pronounced. “Not
seen better in all of London.”

Her heart lightened at his playful tone. This was the
Anthony she knew, not that sorrowful man just there. If it would keep that man
from returning, she would play along. Adopting her best Cockney accent, she
tilted her head back and smiled saucily. “’Ow many ladies’ asses ’ave you seen,
Yer Grace?”

“’Undreds. Thousands. But none as pretty as yours. It’s all
round and firm and soft like.”

“Your ass is pretty too.” She slid her palms over his
backside. “If one should call a gent’s ass pretty. But this—” She grasped his
cock. “This is nice. Very nice, indeed.”

“I’m glad you like it.” His gasp sent ripples of pleasure
over her.

She looked down at his shaft, warm and hard against her
palm. “Would you like me to kiss you there?”

“Yes.” He leaned forward to kiss her. “Please.”

Emily knelt before him, sitting on her feet, and an instinct
as old as time took over. Looking up, she said, “You’ll tell me if I’m doing it
wrong, won’t you?”

“You did just fine the first time.” He sighed, running his
hands through her hair. “Just don’t bite me.”

Carefully, she cupped his balls and grasped his prick in her
other hand while slowly closing her mouth over his cock head. It was smooth and
faintly salty, its scent sharp and pungent. Gently, she moved her mouth forward
to take in as much of him as she could, and then pulled back, running her
tongue along his length. She did it again and again. And again.

Above her, Anthony shuddered and dug his fingers into her
shoulders while releasing a long sigh. “Oh yes, my sweet Emily,” he murmured.
“Oh yes.”

She liked this. Liked knowing she had the power to bring him
such pleasure. She flicked her tongue over the end of his prick, circling the
ring of flesh and suckling the tip and he shuddered again.

“Sweet Jesu.” His breathing became labored. “Where did you
learn to do that?”

She closed her mouth over him again, moving more quickly
this time, easing back and forth, still fondling his balls. His moans increased
and it occurred to Emily his seed might spill into her mouth and she wondered
what it would taste like.

“Let go,” Anthony said.

She withdrew her mouth and he stepped back. Pulling her up,
he turned her toward the bed and she lay down. Hunger glimmered in his eyes as
he stretched out beside her.

She nestled against the pillows while he propped himself on
his elbows, his head just below her mound. “Did I make you happy?” she asked.

“Sweet heaven, yes. And now I’m going to do the same for
you.”

He lowered his mouth, first blowing on the thatch of curls
covering her mound and then sliding his tongue inside her, drinking the juices
with such greed her butt came off the bed. When he found her bud, he worked the
same magic and a scream hovered behind her lips.

“Anthony,” she panted. “Please no more, I beg you. I can’t…I
want…”

“Want what, my sweet Emily?” He looked up from his work.

“I want you inside me,” she coaxed.

His grin was past wicked. “Say ‘please’.”

“Please, Anthony. Please come inside me.”

Tenderness replaced the wickedness on his face. “How can I
refuse a request so sweetly asked?”

She opened her legs and he slid inside her. Emily sighed,
his length filling her. She moved her hips and he began a slow, steady rhythm
of thrusts, staring at her face.

She wrapped her legs loosely about his hips. “See?” she
whispered. “Not too tight or you can’t move.”

“You’re a good pupil, Emmie.” He brushed her hair back from
her face.

“Would you kiss me?” She swallowed the sob in her throat.

“Hard or soft?”

“Soft. Soft and gentle.”

His lips caressed, feathered and glided over her while his
fingers explored her face. He forged his body to hers, moved them in their own
slow, private dance—a dance he had created for them alone.

But then the dance became a tempest, whirling her into a
passion that hovered on the brink of madness. It drove her on toward the finish
as no whirlwind ever had, until her passion shattered and their twin cries of
joyful release echoed around the room.

Later, cocooned in one another’s arms, Anthony placed a kiss
on her forehead. “Thank you, Emily,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“Everything. Good night.”

He rolled her so her back was to him and wrapped his arms
around her. A few minutes later, his soft breathing filled the room.

But Emily continued awake, staring out the window, her tears
blotting the pillowcase. Only when the first slivers of dawn filtered through
the glass did her sorrow fade and she slept.

* * * * *

St. Ives Residential Hotel. The next morning…

“This just came for you, Your Grace. By special messenger.”
Henderson, the chief steward, presented Anthony with an envelope. “Do you
gentlemen need anything?”

“We have fresh coffee and this morning’s newspapers,” Greg
said. “I think that should suffice for now. Anthony, you look as if you just
bit into a lemon. What’s the news?”

Anthony held up the envelope. “It’s from my Aunt Dorcas. She
and my sisters are in Calais.” He broke the wafer sealing the letter and took
out the single sheet.

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “I thought they were in Paris.”

“So did I.” Anthony scanned the page and checked his sigh of
impatience.

“Then how in blazes did they get to Calais? Surely they
didn’t travel by themselves?”

Anthony resisted the urge to crumple the sheet and toss it
into the fireplace. “It seems my very resourceful aunt convinced a French
family traveling to Calais from Paris to share a carriage. They left a week ago
and according to this—” he held up the sheet, “have no one to bring them back
to London. They’re staying at the Duke of Wellington Inn. If they’ve left Paris
that can only mean the new wardrobes they insisted on having made—the ones I’m
helping to pay for—are finished.”

“But why the sudden rush to return?” Brandon asked from his
place against the sideboard, cup in hand. “The Season is more than halfway
finished and your sisters aren’t out yet.”

Anthony scowled. “Because somehow word has reached my aunt
of my impending engagement to Miss Stanhope and she wants to be here when it’s
officially announced.”

His friends’ bursts of laughter did not improve his mood.
“Have you set the date for the banns to be announced?” Greg chortled.

“A special license for our friend, the Duke of Bradford,”
Brandon corrected between gasps. “Of course they’ll have the ceremony at St.
George’s.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Anthony ordered. “I’ll speak to
Chesterfield when the time is right.”

“Which according to your aunt, is when? Next Tuesday?”
Brandon asked and he and Greg laughed again.

The door swung open and a grim-faced Amos Quigley joined
them. Tossing his hat onto an empty chair, he glared at the company. “What did
I miss?”

“Nothing,” Anthony said tersely, folding his letter and
putting inside his coat. “Good morning, Amos.”

“Not so good.” Amos sank onto a sofa. “Mallory was beaten to
a bloody pulp last night and left for dead in an alley in Seven Dials. A
passing prostitute happened upon them and her screams sent the bastard who did
it running. Mallory’s face looks like a punching bag. After splinting his leg
and arms, the doctor dosed him with laudanum to help him sleep.”

His words brought Anthony to his feet. “Had Mallory learned
anything new about my father?”

“Yes.” Amos rubbed his forehead. “Before he lost
consciousness, Mallory muttered something about someone secretly bringing your
father something the night he died.”

“The killer?”

“Mallory thinks not, and it wasn’t the first time such a
delivery was made.”

“Damnation,” Anthony began to pace the room. “And my
household staff didn’t know about this?”

“Apparently not,” Amos said. “And
that
was according
to your father’s wishes. It’s only a matter of time now, Anthony. The killer
must suspect someone has uncovered something, and it’s making him desperate
enough to do whatever it takes to stop you from finding him. Brandon, I’ll take
some of that coffee if you don’t mind.”

Anthony stopped and waited until Brandon had filled a cup
and carried it to their friend. Some of the weariness faded from Amos’ face as
he drank. When he had put the cup aside, Anthony asked, “You’re going to try to
flush out the killer, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Amos said, the fury returning to his eyes. “But until
Mallory can tell us more, I can’t move ahead. It might be days…even a week
before he can tell us anything.”

“Just enough time for you to get to Calais and back,”
Brandon said and told Amos about the impending arrival of Anthony’s family.
“Where is Mallory now?”

“Another of my agents has him under guard at Madam Terez’s
House of Pleasure. I’m paying her girls three times what they would normally
make to take good care of him. No patrons are to be allowed in or out. Terez
will see to that.”