Be My Lover

  Be My Lover

  Cecily French

  Book 2 in the Rogues’ Gallery series.

  Anthony Dyson, Duke of Bradford, doesn’t believe his father committed suicide, even after the scandal drives him from London. Now he’s back, ready to face his responsibilities and carry on the Dyson name. When an enticing invitation from childhood sweetheart Emily Martin lands in his lap, he agrees to be her lover. He’s secretly desired Emily for years and this is his chance to fulfill his utmost fantasies, but her inability to produce an heir stays him from proposing to the one woman who has captured his heart.

  After inheriting a fortune, Emily Martin vows to remain single—and as the widow of a country parson she has only one goal in mind. Ultimate pleasure. Who better to help her experience wantonness than her dear friend, Anthony Dyson? In exchange for his protection, she’ll help him find a suitable bride. But being with Anthony—in bed and out—proves to be more than she bargained for, especially once she uncovers the dangerous truth behind his father’s death.

  Be My Lover

  Cecily French

  Chapter One

  Downby, Northumberland 1817

  “I’ve inherited how much?” Emily Martin clenched the arms of the chair, her grip all that kept her from sliding to the hotel’s parlor floor.

  Solicitor Jasper Jenkins resettled his glasses on his nose. “Ten thousand pounds a year.”

  “A year,” Emily repeated.

  “Yes, Mrs. Martin.” Jenkins pushed the documents across the polished desk for her inspection. “A year. That includes a house in Devonshire, a thirty percent ownership of a china factory in Sussex and fifty percent of a tea plantation in India. Here is a check in the amount your aunt’s will stipulated you receive as a first payment.”

  “Good heavens,” Charity Graham, Emily’s friend, whispered. She cleared her throat. “And this legacy is from Emily’s maternal aunt?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Jenkins affirmed with a nod. “It appears, Mrs. Martin, that your late aunt’s husband, though from a middle-class family, was a financial genius. When he died your aunt proved herself his equal in investing and over the years substantially increased his considerable fortune. As they had no children and he was an only child himself, you are the sole heir to the Hopkins’ fortune.”

  Emily’s brain reeled she tried to remember how to breathe. “Mama said that after Aunt Grace eloped, Grandpapa forbade the family to correspond with her in any way. Papa forbade it too. He was a good man, but said his parishioners would be scandalized to learn his wife’s sister had eloped to Gretna Green. Growing up, I never even knew where Aunt Grace was much less that she was still alive.” She stared at the documents, the check beside them, and back at Jenkins. “I may begin to use this money…when?”

  “As soon as you identify the bank where you wish the funds deposited,” he said. “At the moment they remain safely in the Bank of London. Shall I arrange for their transfer here to Downby?”

  “No, leave them where they are,” Emily said faintly as she put the check into her reticule. “You’re sure there’s no mistake?”

  “Quite sure.” The glow from the oil lamps on either side of the massive desk threw a light on Jenkins’ glasses and from behind them his eyes twinkled in obvious delight. “The money is yours, Mrs. Martin. Every bit of it. I’m only sorry your late husband, the Reverend Isaiah Martin, isn’t here to enjoy it with you.”

  Considering Isaiah would have given most of it to foreign missions, I’m not.

  A spark of excitement shuttled over Emily’s skin. “Thank you, Mr. Jenkins, for coming all the way from London to tell me of my legacy.”

  “Such news is best delivered in person. And, of course, there were the documents for you to look over.” Mr. Jenkins put them back into the leather portfolio then rose and handed it to her along with a card. “Please write me if I may be of further assistance to you.”

  Outside the hotel, the two women gaped at each other then pulled together in an enormous hug.

  “Oh, Emmie,” Charity said, using Emily’s pet name. “After working as a governess for that wretched Mrs. Dooley since Isaiah died last spring, you have ten thousand pounds a year!”

  “Poor Isaiah,” Emily felt compelled to say. “He was always so concerned for the welfare of others he hardly allowed himself any pleasure at all.”

  “Or you,” Charity said, tartly. “Making you wear the same dresses three years in a row.”

  “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Emily recited. But oh, how I could. Her steps faltered and she grabbed at her friend for support. “Charity,” she said, her voice breaking, “I have ten thousand pounds.”

  “A year,” Charity added, slipping an arm around Emily’s waist. “I can hardly wait to see Dragon Dooley’s face!”

  Emily laughed at her friend’s description of her employer. “Indeed,” she said. “If it wouldn’t cause a scandal, I would dance right here in the streets.”

  Charity squeezed Emily’s hand and twirled her about. “Shall it be a gavotte or a reel?”

  “Both,” Emily declared and, in spite of the passersby, broke into a little dance before linking arms with her friend to return to her employer’s house.

  “So what will you do now?” Charity asked.

  “After telling Dragon Dooley what she can do with her fifteen-pounds-a-year salary? I’m going to move to London as soon as I can pack and hire a coach to take me there.”

  “And what will you do then?”

  Emily’s brain raced over the possibilities. With ten thousand pounds a year to call her own, what could she do? Buy clothes? Go to the theater? Drive a carriage through Hyde Park?

  She smiled and said, “I’m going to take a lover.”

  * * * * *

  “I hear you’re looking for a mistress.”

  Anthony Dyson, Duke of Bradford, stared at the blonde beauty across the table. Hudson, the hotel’s manager, had prepared the private bedchamber for a post-performance supper. The low-cut bodice of her gown stopped just above where her nipples jutted in clear outline against the thin white silk, while her unshod foot—rubbing up and down his boot—threatened to harden him like a green boy about to bed his first woman.

  It had been months since Anthony had seen a woman’s breasts, or any other part of her body for that matter. Mourning the death of one’s beloved father and clearing up the mess after his suicide—something Anthony still refused to believe—was enough to make a man live like a monk.

  “You have heard correctly,” he said. “Is that why you asked me to arrange this private meeting?”

  Lily Cabot, the current darling of the London theater, gave him a glittering smile. “Yes,” she said. “And given that I know a thing or two about auditioning—”

  “Now that our dinner is finished, you’d like to do so for that particular role?” Anthony asked.

  She smiled again. “I like a man who comes straight to the point. They say you’re one of the most skilled lovers in London, a man who actually concerns himself with a woman’s pleasure.”

  Taking a moment to refill their glasses with a chilled white wine, Anthony said, “I enjoy being in bed with a woman. It only seems fair she should experience the same enjoyment I do.”

  Her hand curled around his. “Then bring the glasses and let’s start the audition. Follow me, my lord.”

  She rose and crossed the room to stand by the waiting bed. The sway of her hips suggested their bedding should bring a mutual arousal and more than mutual satisfaction. Beneath his breeches, his cock stirred. A year had passed since it had done that.

  After removing his boots, he joined her, setting the glasses on the bedside table. Looking her over, he asked, “May I start by taking the pins from your hair?”

  “No
pins,” she whispered. She pulled the matching combs from her chignon and the blonde curls fell to her shoulders. Turning around, she said, “But you may undress me.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Anthony’s hands made quick work of the laces and he slowly moved the gown down her body. Her skin held no warmth, but he’d take care of that soon enough. To his surprise, her only undergarment was a thin chemise. He turned her round again. “No stockings?”

  “Why waste time with stockings when I’m just going to take them off?” she asked, putting her hand on his swollen member. “Lord, I’ve heard it said you were big.”

  “Well…” Anthony barely got the word out past his groan. “Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself.”

  In answer, she stripped him bare in seconds, starting with his stockings and ending with his breeches. His cock sprang free and her hand immediately curled around it.

  “Oh, yes,” she hissed, moving her hand up and down. “I do like what I see.”

  “I think we might do some other things first,” Anthony gasped. Sweet Jesu, surely his seed wouldn’t spill over in her hand before they even got started?

  He managed to settle them on the bed and wrap his arms around her. “You’re uncommonly eager, my dear,” he murmured. “Lovemaking shouldn’t be so fast and furious.”

  “But I’m on fire,” she countered, rolling him onto his back. “And I want you inside me now. We’ll get to the fancy bits the second time around. A good hard fuck is what I’m going to give you.”

  Straddling him, she seized his cock and eased him inside her.

  A groan broke from Anthony’s throat as she began to rapidly move back and forth. Her heat warmed his length as he filled her and his heartbeat took off at an alarming rate.

  “It’s customary for lovers to at least kiss one another,” he said between gasps. “Don’t you think we ought to give it a try?”

  She lowered her mouth to his and thrust in her tongue inside, her hips still working at a furious pace against his. She moaned, then raised her head and screamed out her pleasure. Only her quickly rolling off him prevented Anthony’s seed from exploding inside her. She lay on her back, one arm flung across her eyes.

  Several moments of silence passed before he covered them with the sheet and said, “Well. That was certainly interesting.”

  “I like good, hard sex the first time I fuck a man.” She yawned. “It lets me know what kind of lover he’s going to be and if it will be worth my time and energy.”

  “How about a little post-coital conversation, then?”

  She turned her head to stare at him. “What?”

  Trying to ignore the sinking in his chest, Anthony said, “I mean, let’s talk about your work. How long does it take you to learn a part? Do you read over it several times before you start memorizing it?”

  She sat up and reached for a wineglass. Taking a long sip, she regarded him over the rim. “Since I can’t read, I have to have someone read my part to me over and over again until I know it. But once I know it, I never forget.”

  Suddenly cold, Anthony pulled the sheet higher around him. “What do you mean, you can’t read?”

  “I can’t read,” she repeated. “Maybe a few words like my name, but that’s all.”

  “Can you write?”

  “I can sign my name,” she said. “Why should that matter? Do you want a scholar or a real woman as your mistress?”

  “Perhaps not a scholar, but at least someone who can read more than her signed name.” Anthony eased out of bed and dressed as her astonished gaze raked over him.

  “I thought you wanted a mistress,” she complained as he moved back to the table to pull on his boots.

  “I do,” he said, standing. “But a man wants to be able to do more with his mistress than just have a ‘good hard fuck’ as you put it. I’ll see you’re compensated for your time this evening, Miss Cabot. Good night.”

  And gathering his cloak and hat, he left.

  Chapter Two

  Grosvenor Square, London. Ten days later…

  “Mrs. Isaiah Martin for you, my lady,” Orlando announced.

  “I can hardly believe it!” Jocelyn Rolfe hurried across the drawing room and past her butler to pull Emily into a welcoming hug. “First your letter telling of your good fortune and now here you are!”

  “Coming to London seemed the best thing to do,” Emily said, stepping out of her old school friend’s embrace. “And as you are the only person I know here, I must count on you to help me learn my way about.”

  “Absolutely!” Jocelyn declared. “Orlando, be a good fellow and bring a tea tray as quickly as you can.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The butler bowed and left.

  “Your sense of timing is perfect,” Jocelyn said, leading Emily back to sit on a long sofa. “You’ve arrived in town just in time for the Season. We must get you introduced as soon as possible. Have you finished with your unpacking?”

  “Such as it is,” Emily said. “After Isaiah died, I put most of my things in storage in Downby. Perhaps after I find a house of my own to rent, I’ll send for them. There wasn’t much to bring anyway. For now, I’m staying at Twickenham’s Hotel for Ladies in Mayfair.”

  “Staying in a residential hotel until you find a house that suits your needs is a good start,” Jocelyn agreed. She paused and the twinkle Emily recalled from their days at school appeared in her friend’s eyes. “But of course, there is no neighborhood like Grosvenor Square.”

  “I would love to have you as my neighbor.” Emily sighed. “And the homes on your street are beautiful.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” Orlando had returned. “His Grace, the Duke of Bradford, is here. Are you at home?”

  Anthony? Anthony Dyson? Emily’s pulse took off like a rocket. Dear Lord, how many years has it been? And how much has he changed?

  Jocelyn laughed. “At home to Anthony? Of course I’m at home. As if he needed to ask. Show him in, Orlando.”

  “Very good, my lady.” Orlando returned her smile and left again.

  Her heart pounding like a cavalry drum, Emily folded her hands and waited for her past to come through the door.

  Anthony showing her how to bait a fishing hook. Anthony daring her to race her horse against his. Anthony with whom she shared her very first kiss beneath the rose arbor in her mother’s garden, under the moon’s soft glow the night before he went back to Cambridge…

  “His Grace, Anthony Dyson, the Duke of Bradford,” Orlando announced and stepped aside for “His Grace” to enter. How odd to think of Anthony like that.

  Emily had nearly forgotten how tall he was. A dark blue coat with gold buttons stretched across the impressive expanse of his chest and shoulders while buff breeches encased his long, well-sculpted legs. Emily swallowed the lump rising in her throat. He had filled out nicely since she had last seen him. His dark-brown hair looked newly trimmed and his simply tied cravat would have made Brummell proud.

  But his eyes were what drew Emily’s attention. In spite of his pleasant expression, sadness reflected in their umber depths and they widened as he appraised her with shock and surprise. “Emily?” he asked, stopping his long stride. “Emily Caldwell?”

  “Martin,” she corrected. “It’s Emily Martin now.”

  He bowed. “Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten.”

  Jocelyn’s eyebrows rose as she darted a glance between them. “The two of you know one another?”

  “Yes,” His Grace answered, still staring at Emily as if she were a newly discovered creature more suited to a remote island than a Grosvenor Square drawing room. “Her brother Ronald and I were at Cambridge together.”

  “His Grace stayed with us one summer in Basingstoke while his parents and sisters were stalled in Edinburgh by…” She hesitated, not so much from not remembering, but to give her heart time to slow its furious pace. “Was it a sweating sickness, Your Grace? It was so long ago.”

  His smile erased the sadness from his eyes. “Indeed it
was. I have the fondest memories of that summer in Hampshire. And let’s dispense with this ‘Your Grace’ nonsense, Emily.” Not waiting for his hostess’s invitation, Anthony finished crossing the room to take Emily’s hand and raise it to his mouth. He brushed his lips in a feathering sweep across the back of her hand, sending a flash of heat spiraling up her arm.

  He paid the same attention to Jocelyn, who Emily doubted was nearly as affected.

  Their hostess gave him a warm smile and waved at a high-backed chair. “When did you get back from Kent, Anthony?” she demanded. “If you’ve visited someone else before me, I shall be quite vexed at you. You barely spent fifteen minutes with Hugh and me when you first returned ten days ago.

  “I’ve only seen my solicitor here in London and my estate manager in Kent, Jocelyn.” Anthony settled his long frame into the indicated place and crossed his legs. “Of course I’d call on you first.”

  “Have you been away, Anthony?” Emily asked.

  “I returned to England ten days ago after leaving Florence early last month. We…that is to say, my family and I moved there last year.”

  My family. Emily’s heart sank a bit. Of course he would be married and have children.

  “And your Aunt Dorcas and your sisters, Tabitha and Grace? Where are they?” Jocelyn asked.

  “In Paris, waiting for their new wardrobes to be completed. Such are the duties of a bachelor brother. Thank goodness Aunt Dorcas insisted on paying half the bill. If not, I might be selling matches on a street corner.”

  He’s not married. A strange sense of relief flooded Emily’s senses and the tension in her shoulders eased. Odd, she hadn’t noticed the tightness there.

  “But enough about them for just now. I must learn more from my friend long missed here.” He turned to smile at Emily. “So, Emily Caldwell-Martin, what brings you to London? Is your husband with you?”

  “The Season, of course!” Jocelyn interjected.

  “I’m a widow, Anthony.” Her eyes were steady, but a faint tremor shook her voice. “Isaiah died over a year ago.”