Be My Lover Read online

  “Tits? Tits, is it? Good heavens! Such language from a lady.” He daubed the soap-drenched cloth against her nose.

  “A lady who’s getting very impatient to see about this riding lesson we’re going to have in your bed,” she taunted, cuffing his chin. “Very well. Wash my back, if you must.”

  “As my lady wishes.”

  She scooted around so her back was to him and he made quick work of scrubbing it and only it. “Tease,” she accused, turning around again, snatching the washcloth from him.

  He sat with his knees up, draping his arms over the sides of the tub. “Wash me,” he commanded.

  “Is that your most duke-like voice?”

  “One of them.”

  She applied soap to the cloth once more and ran it over his chest with one hand while tracing the fine dark hair with the other. She slid the cloth lower to scrub his belly before reaching his cock. “Do I wash that, too?” she asked.

  “You’ll hurt his feelings if you don’t,” he said plaintively. “Don’t forget my balls while you’re at it.”

  Her free hand gently cupped him. “You mean these?”

  “Those are the ones,” he agreed, releasing his own sigh of contentment. “They feel good in your hand, Emily. But I think we’re almost clean enough.”

  “Not quite, Your Grace. Not quite.”

  She moved her hand to hold his shaft while she gently ran the cloth up and down its length. Anthony groaned in blissful agony. “Damnation,” he gasped. “I really think we better get out of this tub right now or I’m going to embarrass myself.”

  “What about your back?” she teased.

  “I’ll let you wash it later.” Anthony grabbed two towels from the stack on the chair next to the tub. Stepping out, he wrapped one around his waist before draping the other one over his shoulders. He helped Emily out, grabbed another towel and began to dry her. The soap had perfumed her skin and, after dropping the towel, he ran his hands over her shoulders. “Like satin,” he murmured, placing a kiss on her neck.

  “Come,” she said softly, taking his hands. “Let’s not waste another minute.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, following her back into the bedroom. “Let me show you how much fun making love in the late morning can be.”

  Her brow wrinkled as they stretched out on the bed. “Fun?”

  “Of course. Why bother otherwise?” He inched back so he was lying against the pillows. “Straddle me.”

  She swung one leg over him and braced her knees on the mattress, supporting herself on her palms. “Like this?”

  He put his hands on her hips. “Yes, but move up.”

  Walking on her knees, she made her way up the bed until they were face to face. “Stop,” he said. When she halted, he moved his hands across the cheeks of her bottom. “You have the loveliest arse,” he praised.

  She giggled. “I had a kitchen maid once who called it her bum. ‘I fell down and ’urt me bum, ma’am’.”

  “Ye’ve the loveliest bum, me lady,” he intoned, playfully slapping it. “Or would you rather me call it your arse?”

  She laughed, and then her expression turned quizzical. “Do men like it when their lovers use words like bum and arse and tits?”

  “Sometimes,” he admitted, trying to ignore his throbbing cock. “Some women are aroused when their lovers use coarse words.”

  Her fingers slid through his chest hair again. “Are men aroused when women use them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Her eyes pinned him to the stack of pillows. “What do you like?”

  “What do you want, Emily?”

  She blushed but her gaze was steady. “I want to feel wanton,” she whispered. “To lose myself in the pleasure you’ll give me.”

  “You’re off to a good start,” Anthony praised, moving his hands to cup her breasts. “Right now I want to touch these. Your beautiful, incredible tits.”

  Fingers working in tandem, he gently traced the edges of her areolas before stroking her nipples. They darkened from rosy pink to dark mauve and he moved down, bringing the pillows with him until he was almost beneath her. “Lean forward,” he said. “Lean forward so I can taste you.”

  She hovered over him and he held her right breast steady, fastening his mouth on it, relishing the taste of her softness as he gently massaged her left breast. Her sighs filled his ears and he nibbled and sucked the hardened nipples while his hand gave her other breast the same attention.

  “Do my tits taste good?” she asked shyly.

  “Incredible,” he said, reluctant to move his mouth long enough to answer. “Delicious. Wonderful.”

  She leaned down to kiss him. “You don’t think my tits are too small?”

  “For what? Making a man happy?” Anthony kissed each one with a loud smack. “They’re perfectly shaped and just big enough to fit into my hands and my mouth. They don’t need to be any bigger.”

  She swayed from side to side, her breasts swinging with the movement. “Why did you want me to straddle you?”

  “I’ll show you.” Anthony slid one hand down her breasts, past her flat belly to between her legs. His fingers touched her moisture, warm and slick. He slipped a finger inside her and her juices coated it. Slowly he pulled it out, being sure to stop and stroke her clitoris. She gasped and he smiled. “Do you like that?”

  Her back arched slightly. “Yes.”

  He ran his finger across her lips. “Taste them,” he commanded.

  She did and then he put his finger to his own mouth to savor her essence. “I love the way you taste, Emily. “Dark and sweet and pungent.”

  He replaced his hand between her legs, his finger tickling her nubbin, and she gasped again. “Do men really want to use their mouths on women like that?”

  “Do you mean do they want to ‘eat’ them? If they don’t, they’re fools. Mouths are just as much a part of making love as cocks slipping in and out of love pots.”

  A groan issued from her throat. “Is that what men call the place between a woman’s legs? Her love pot?”

  “There are other words,” Anthony said, watching the play of passion spread across her face. “But that’s for later. Now is for this.”

  He slowly eased the head of his cock inside her. Her walls closed around him like the softest of gloves and he expelled a harsh breath. “Damnation,” he said. “Just being inside you makes me harder.”

  She moved her hips forward and then back ever so slightly, sliding up and down his penis. “Mmm…” she whispered. “I like how this feels.”

  “Do it again,” he rasped.

  Nodding, she moved back until he was almost out of her then slid forward. Anthony clutched his shaft and made sure this time his entire length was lodged inside her. “Faster,” he said. “And harder.”

  “I don’t want to break you,” she said, her hips starting to take on speed.

  “Believe me, Emily, you won’t.”

  Her eyes glittered. “Then help me,” she said. “Drive yourself into me as hard as you want. I want all of you. Every last sweet inch of your lovely cock banging away.”

  “Your wish is my command,” he groaned. Grabbing her hips, he steadied her as she moved back and forth, burying his prick deep inside her. Faster and faster she moved until Anthony’s hands fell to the sheets, twisting them between his fingers while his heart threatened to explode.

  “Sweet Jesu!” he cried, his back arching as he hit the pinnacle and his seed spilled inside her. Her finishing cry echoed his and she collapsed on top of him, arms outstretched, knees on either side of his hips, her face buried against his chest.

  “I can hear your heart beating,” she said after a moment. The only other sound in the room was that of their rapid breathing slowing down.

  “I thought I was going to die from joy,” he sighed.

  She propped her chin on his chest. “I’ve never done it like that before.”

  He stroked her cheek. “There are a lot of things you’ve never done before, ar
en’t there?”

  “When one is a vicar’s wife, there are limitations to what one can do.” Her mouth took on a prim set, but her eyes sparkled like one who had tasted a forbidden fruit for the first time.

  “Not anymore,” he said, kissing her long and deep. “Not anymore.”

  Chapter Six

  “Nervous?”

  Emily raised an eyebrow at Anthony’s question. “Why should I be? I’m only going to meet half the ton tonight. By tomorrow’s breakfast, they’ll all know we’re lovers.”

  “And every man will be dying of envy because you’re with me,” Anthony added. “You look stunning, Emily.”

  They had never made it to Hyde Park or even the stable housing their new horses. Instead they had continued to make love until Emily had to meet with her hairdresser—an altogether pleasant way to spend the afternoon.

  He followed her glance down to her dark-rose gown. Touching the flowers pinned at the nape of her chignon, she said, “How many eligibles do you think will be at the rout tonight?”

  Anthony fingered his cravat. “Two dozen at least. While not a patroness of Almack’s, Lady Featherstock’s word can make or break the reputation of a girl who has just made her bow. Her standards are incredible and more than one man has been known to consult her on choosing a wife.”

  Emily leaned forward and moved his hand. “Davis will kill you if you mess up this beauty of a knot,” she warned. “As to choosing a wife, I have my own set of standards. Though they may not match with what our hostess has to say.”

  “And what might your standards be?” Anthony teased.

  “Actually, they’re more for what makes a good husband,” Emily amended. “A good husband doesn’t laugh at his wife when she expresses an opinion about something, or criticize her even if she doesn’t know a great deal about the subject. He should have no secrets from her unless he has a wonderful surprise for her. They should share all financial planning for their household and she should never be kept in the dark if there are problems. He shouldn’t refuse to attend activities she enjoys just because he doesn’t prefer them, no more than she should refuse for the same reason. And he should always, always, always admit when he has made a mistake.”

  “What about him saying he’s sorry?”

  “That too,” she agreed. “But I’ve yet to meet a man who will admit he is wrong even when he is.”

  “You’re a strict judge,” Anthony drawled. “Did you ever advise young women when you and Isaiah were married?”

  “Yes.”

  He couldn’t be sure in the dim light of the carriage’s interior, but he could’ve sworn a blush crept across her face. “Go on,” he prompted.

  “It was part of my duties as a vicar’s wife and there was sometimes the devil to pay for it, if you’ll pardon me speaking so boldly.”

  I’ve seen you naked, heard you scream my name while I made love to you, let you wash my prick and you’re worried about speaking boldly?

  “I’d like to hear what happened,” Anthony said cautiously.

  “As a vicar’s wife, I helped more than one young woman decide if she should marry, especially if she had no female relative to advise her,” Emily told him. “And many of them had received proposals from men they found less than desirable. The men, of course, thought the young women would be overjoyed by the offer. And too many of them had families who would have loved to have their eligible daughters married and out of the house.”

  “I suppose if the family ran high to daughters, a young woman’s parents might want her to be provided for,” Anthony said. “What did you tell them?”

  “Several things. I’d ask her to imagine day-to-day life with her prospective groom. Asked her if they enjoyed the same things, shared the same goals and dreams. Asked her if he made her laugh and if he respected her opinions, or at least let her voice them. But no matter how she answered, I would give her one last piece of advice.”

  Anthony feigned a shudder. “I’m almost afraid to ask. What did you tell them?”

  “To never, ever settle.” Emily raised her chin. “To never accept anything but their heart’s desire. That to marry for anything less than mutual affection would be the death of their hearts and souls, trapping them forever in a loveless existence.”

  “Like yours?” Anthony asked gently.

  She nodded. “If I could keep one young woman from entering such an existence, I could rest a little easier.”

  Then why did you marry Isaiah? Why didn’t you wait for me?

  “What about what the man wants?”

  “Well, I think I can guess what a man in your position wants. You need a young woman from a good family.” Emily tilted her head in thought. “Not necessarily rich, but one would expect girls who had just made their bow to be from families of means. But you wouldn’t want to marry someone who didn’t truly care for you. And with my experience, I think I can help you find someone like that.”

  “You would do that for me? Make sure the woman I marry loves me?”

  “I can’t guarantee that,” she answered. “But I’m an excellent judge of character and between Jocelyn and me I think we can ferret out the best candidate to be your duchess, someone who will at least care for you, not just your title or your inheritance. And one who will be a good mother to your children.”

  Recalling his parents’ love-filled marriage and his father’s heartbreak when Anthony’s mother died unexpectedly the year before he went to Cambridge, Anthony nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”

  The carriage stopped and the tiger jumped from the back to pull down the steps and open the door. Anthony alighted first and let the servant assist Emily to the pavement. Before them, a great, white stone mansion gleamed in the moonlight. A line of torches blazed at the top of a set of marble stairs, beckoning the guests forward, and from a line of long windows, candlelight flickered in invitation.

  Anthony held out his arm. “Come, madam. Let’s go charm the ton.”

  Her gloved hand on his arm started an unusual sensation of ownership surging through him. He darted a glance at her and his heart swelled with pride. He’d bet a fiver there wouldn’t be a woman in the room with her humor or good sense.

  Or her beauty.

  They climbed the porch and the doors to the house swung open before Anthony could raise his hand to knock. Voices rolled out across the foyer from a candlelit room. Two footmen, identically clad—from their silver and black livery to their powdered wigs and buckled shoes—took their wraps. Another man, dressed even more gorgeously and carrying a long staff, led them across the foyer. At the room’s entrance, he pounded the staff three times and called, “His Grace, Anthony Dyson, the Duke of Bradford and Mrs. Emily Martin.”

  As they walked down a small flight of stairs, every female present watched them, making Emily’s pulse pick up even more. Some of their eyes were merely curious, while a definite jealousy shone in others. Here and there, several young women—marked as debutantes by their white dresses—stared at her in open challenge. She gave them her kindest smile and was rewarded by their blinking and a lowering of their heads. They could be as rude as they liked. She was with Anthony and, for tonight, the ton would have to accept that.

  “Lady Helen Featherstock.” Anthony’s voice broke into her thoughts. They had stopped before an older woman in a dark-blue gown holding a quizzing glass. “Thank you for inviting me to your spring rout so soon after my return from Florence. No one wants to miss it.”

  “Are your sisters with you, Dyson?” The woman offered Anthony her free hand.

  “They remain in Paris, ma’am. With my aunt, the Dowager Countess of Arden.”

  Lady Featherstock’s blue eyes narrowed. “But shouldn’t the eldest be making her bow this Season?”

  “Grace refuses to do so until Tabitha can be with her,” Anthony explained and a loving note entered his voice. “Her shyness is such that she cannot imagine making her bow without Tabitha beside her. They will be presented together next year. Lady Hele
n Featherstock, may I introduce my good friend, Mrs. Emily Martin, who arrived in London only a few days ago. Emily, this is Lady Helen Featherstock, also a good friend. Her husband is Admiral James Featherstock, retired.”

  “One of Nelson’s finest,” Emily said, sinking into a courtesy. “My late husband had a cousin who served in the navy. He keenly followed all reports of naval activities while we were at war.”

  The older lady’s eyes sparkled and she kept her quizzing glass lowered. “On which ship did your husband’s cousin serve?”

  “The Hyacinth, my lady. Isaiah was very proud of his cousin.”

  “As well he should have been. It was a fine ship with a good crew.” Lady Featherstock sighed. “Well, I mustn’t keep my other guests waiting, but I’d enjoy talking with you later, Mrs. Martin. Welcome to London.”

  Anthony led Emily away and only when they were out of earshot did he say, “Nice touch, Emily, bringing up Isaiah’s cousin. I think you pleased her.”

  “I was only trying to be polite,” Emily said. “Certainly not to curry favor.”

  “A good thing, too, because she would have seen that at a glance. Having Helen Featherstock as a friend will be helpful as you move about Society.”

  “She called you ‘Dyson’ and not ‘Your Grace’,” Emily teased. “Aren’t you offended?”

  Helen Featherstock knew me when I was in leading strings,” he answered with a grin. “We’ve never stood on ceremony.”

  “There’s someone over there trying to get your attention.” Emily gestured her fan at two splendidly dressed men standing at the refreshment table on the far side of the crowded room. The taller of the two—and he was very tall indeed—waved and beckoned to them.

  “The waving fellow is Brandon Hightower, Viscount Pemberton,” Anthony said as they moved between the guests. “The other is Gregory Keller—Sir Gregory Keller I should say as he has just been awarded a baronetcy for service to the Crown during the wars.”

  “Really?” Emily studied the slender, dark-haired man. “What service did he render the Crown?”