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.

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.

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.”

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I didn’t know.” He wondered if
she knew of his own family tragedy.

She’s a widow. At long last, you might have a chance to
finally win her.

“How wonderful, Emily, that the first person you meet in
London since coming into your fortune should be an old friend.” Jocelyn’s voice
took on an amused note and Anthony could almost see the wheels turning in her
head.

“Fortune?” he asked.

“Emily has recently inherited an income of ten thousand
pounds a year,” Jocelyn told him. “Amazing, is it not?”

“You have a talent for understatement, Jocelyn,” Anthony
said dryly. “With such a fortune at her disposal, Emily will be the toast of
the
ton
. We shall have to come up with a plan to keep her safe from the
vultures who will soon be circling.”

“Then we must count on you to help protect her,” Jocelyn
said. “But first things first. When and how shall we introduce her?”

Orlando and a footman entered with the tea trays, stopping
the conversation. As the servants unloaded the refreshments, Anthony tried not
to stare at the woman who had once captured his heart as memories of that
long-ago summer filled his head. Memories of warm days with picnics and boat
rides to what passed for an island in the middle of the lake at her home.
Memories of first loves and first kisses and Emily. Always and only Emily. If
they had given in to their desires that youthful summer, he would have married
her without hesitation.

But by that autumn she had married and was lost to him
forever. Then the wars came and the start of his diplomatic career—using his
family name and reputation to ferret out secret information about and from the
enemy. As a duke’s only heir, he could hardly go into combat.

And now
he
was the duke and foolish, schoolboy
memories had no place in his life. Years separated him from the woman seated
opposite him, and he could only guess at her experiences as another man’s wife.

A fine film of sweat broke out on the back of Anthony’s neck
as images of the quiet beauty before him, sharing her bed with another man,
flooded his head. A naked Emily on top of her husband, that beautiful chestnut
hair cascading down her back. Emily beneath him, her legs pulling her husband
deeper and deeper into her sweet depths. Countless nights of making love over
and over. Sweet heaven, his member was beginning to harden as if he were
preparing to bed Emily Caldwell-Martin right this minute.

“Anthony? Have you fallen sleep on us?”

He blinked and smiled at them. “Not at all. Just enjoying
the pleasant company of two beautiful women.”

“Tell us about your journey from Florence to Paris,” Jocelyn
said, filling a plate and handing it to him.

For the next half hour, he described his family’s travels by
boat and hired carriage, spending time on the scenery and descriptions of the
people they had met and, after swearing them to secrecy, about his Aunt Dorcas’
perpetual seasickness.

Finally, he said, “But now let us give our attention back to
Emily’s situation and your question, Jocelyn When and how shall we introduce
her?”

“Are you going to Lady Featherstock’s soiree tomorrow
tonight?” Jocelyn asked, pouring them more tea.

Anthony nodded. “As are you, no doubt. Is Hugh still in
Scotland?”

Jocelyn pouted. “Yes. It appears our steward has been less
than honest in running our estate outside Edinburgh. It’s terribly inconvenient
to have to go to these events without him. May I count on you to take both of
us?”

“Of course. Emily, are you up to a soiree?” Anthony asked.

“Well…” Emily fingered the fraying lace on her cuffs. “I
have nothing suitable for such an affair. My dresses are those of a country
parson’s wife.”

“Oh fiddlesticks,” Jocelyn scolded. “We’re nearly the same
size. I’ll have my maid turn up the hem of one of my gowns for you. But
tonight, I’ll take you both along with me to dinner at Sir Harold Barclay’s.
I’ll just send his wife a note.”

“Won’t that indispose her?” Emily asked.

Anthony traded glances with Jocelyn and they both laughed.
“
My
dear Emily,” Jocelyn gasped, wiping her eyes with her napkin. “Anthony is the
Duke of Bradford. Bringing him will be a social coup for Felicia Barclay who,
by the way, Anthony, has only sons so there will be no daughters for her to
dangle before your eyes.”

“I knew there was a reason I was grateful for your
friendship, Jocelyn.” Anthony sighed.

“Very well,” Emily agreed. “Dinner at Lord and Lady
Barclay’s house tonight it shall be. But I’ll need to go back to the hotel and
collect my other things. I have an appointment with a lending agent to see
about a house near Hyde Park in an hour.”

“May I take you there in my carriage?” Anthony asked. “We
can collect what you need and bring it back after your appointment.”

“That would be lovely,” she said. “May we go now?”

“As you wish.” Anthony rose and bowed to their hostess.
“I’ll have her back here later this afternoon, Jocelyn.”

They exchanged goodbyes and minutes later Anthony helped
Emily into his closed carriage and then took the seat opposite her. The wheels
rolled forward and they settled against the upholstered squabs.

“Where is your appointment?” he asked.

“Marlborough Street,” she said. “Do you really think the
‘vultures’ will be circling around me once they learn of my inheritance?”

“You can count on it,” Anthony told her. “Beauty and wealth
are always popular calling cards.”

A pretty blush covered her face and her mouth turned up in a
smile. “Then will you be my protector?”

“If that is what you wish.”

“Because if the
ton
knows I’m under your protection,
no one is likely to bother me too much,” she said. “And as a widow, I’ll have
far more freedom than a young girl. Men can call on me whenever they wish
without any gossip.”

“That’s true,” Anthony agreed. “But if the
ton
knows
you’re under my protection, they’ll most likely assume we’re lovers.”

“What would be wrong with that?”

Her question stunned him and a hundred fantasies of this
woman in his bed slowed his reply. “Such a belief might prevent you from
marrying,” he said at last. “Don’t you want to marry again?”

She shrugged. “Not particularly. Especially since I can’t
have children.”

Disappointment clutched Anthony’s heart. “You can’t have
children?”

“No.” Sadness entered her voice. “It might have made my
married life more bearable if I could. But enough about the past. Will you help
me?”

“In what way?”

“To experience pleasure. Pure, physical pleasure. No
obligations, no expectations, no promises. Just pleasure.”

“Emily, are you asking—”

“You to be my lover? Yes.”