Authors: Cecily French
Idiot! Suggesting to Anthony that you become lovers! Why
didn’t you just take your clothes off in his carriage and offer yourself to him
there?
Emily sat before the dressing table mirror, watching Jocelyn
weave a coronet of flowers into her hair. The search for a house had been
unsuccessful even though they looked at several. Anthony had stayed in the
background, but Emily had not missed the lending agent’s constant appraisal of
him. She had no doubt that by nightfall it would be all over town the recently
returned Duke of Bradford was already searching for a house for his new
mistress. Their stopping for refreshments at a coffee house and him introducing
her to several people would probably add fuel for the wagging tongues. Life was
about to become very interesting, indeed. He had taken her back to Jocelyn’s
house with more than enough time for Jocelyn’s lady’s maid to make minor
alterations to no less than half a dozen dresses, which Jocelyn insisted on
giving Emily as a “welcome to London” present and having sent over to
Twickenham’s.
Now, dressed in a gown of dark-plum silk, she was preparing
to attend her first London event and wondering what Anthony’s answer to her
request would be. Her pulse hammered beneath her gloves and, unexpectedly, her
nipples tightened under her chemise and moisture gathered between her thighs.
“Jocelyn?”
“Mmm?”
“When did Anthony’s father die?”
Her friend’s hands stilled their work and caution entered
Jocelyn’s eyes. “Why do you want to know?”
“Anthony was only a marquis when I knew him,” Emily said.
“If he’s the Duke of Bradford now, that means his father passed away.”
Jocelyn sighed and put down the brush. “You’ll hear it soon
enough so it’s better you hear it from me. Emily, the old duke killed himself
last year. That’s why Anthony and his aunt took his sisters to Florence. To get
away from the scandal.”
Her answer chilled Emily’s skin as though a winter wind had
swept through the room. “Why did the old duke do that?” she whispered.
“After his death, he was accused of leading friends into bad
investments and some of them lost a great deal of money.” Jocelyn smoothed the
back of Emily’s gown. “He couldn’t stand the shame so he killed himself.
Anthony still refuses to believe it, but the evidence seemed beyond doubt.”
“Oh dear,” Emily murmured. “How awful.”
“Anthony’s only just come out of mourning,” Jocelyn said.
“Some think the scandal will prevent him from finding a wife but trust me, with
his title, fortune and good looks, the new crop of debutantes won’t care. Or at
least their mamas won’t. After all, a duke is a duke.”
“Anthony has always wanted sons,” Emily said slowly,
recalling a conversation they’d had long ago…
I shall have five sons! Maybe ten! And half a dozen
daughters!
You’ll need more than one wife. Having that many babies
would kill her.
Well, since the Church of England—not to mention my
mother—would never allow that, perhaps just two of each then. Two sons, two
daughters. Four is a nice number of children for a family, don’t you think?
“Why don’t you marry him?” Jocelyn teased. “You knew each
other before so what’s stopping you?”
“I’m barren, Jocelyn,” Emily said, willing away the tears
that always threatened to fill her eyes over this particular subject. “I spent
years trying to conceive to no avail. And as that was the only reason Isaiah
came to my bed, I was glad when he stopped. Not that I missed him.”
Jocelyn’s brows rose. “Isaiah was a bad lover?”
Emily spread her gloved hands. “I wouldn’t know any
different. I’d always heard making love could be pleasurable, but that’s not a
memory my late husband left me.”
“Well then, until Anthony finds a nubile young bride, you
should be his mistress,” Jocelyn said with an air of practicality. “He’s
rumored to be a generous lover and I don’t just mean financially.”
From downstairs came the ringing of the doorbell and Jocelyn
glanced at the small clock on the dressing table. “A quarter to eight,” she
said. “Count on Anthony to always arrive early.”
She offered Emily a fan and led her from the room.
Downstairs they found Anthony in the foyer, talking to
Orlando who was holding their cloaks. Upon turning to face them, Anthony’s eyes
lit up and a smile slowly crossed his face as his gaze slid first over Jocelyn,
then Emily. Her fingers gripped the fan as that gaze penetrated her gown, stripping
the fabric from her body, peeling back the thin chemise to rest on her naked
skin. Heat exploded between her legs in an aching, tightening coil and she
barely suppressed a shiver. Who knew a pair of eyes held that kind of power?
“Well,” he drawled at last. “It’s not often a man has the
pleasure of arriving at a soiree with two goddesses. I shall be the most envied
escort at Lord Barclay’s tonight.”
His voice slid down her spine in a lazy spiral met by a rush
of desire flaming over Emily’s skin, and she longed to apply the fan hanging
from her wrist. Anthony’s elegant black-and-white attire made the phrase
“simply dressed” a description of the newest deadly sin—one a woman would
gladly commit. His exquisitely tailored clothing outlined a physique women
dreamed of having beside them—in bed or out. Broad shoulders and a strong chest
filled the evening jacket while his breeches encased a flat belly and long
legs. Emily bit her lip in a futile attempt to drive away what this perfect
male body would look like without its fine clothing.
He accepted one of the cloaks from Orlando and draped it
over Emily’s shoulders. It might have been her imagination, but a wave of heat
radiated through his gloves as his hands lingered on her. Standing so close,
she could not help but breathe in a scent like autumn sunshine, rich and
masculine.
His
scent.
“Thank you, Orlando,” Jocelyn said after Anthony had put her
cloak around her shoulders. “We’ll be back by midnight. And for mercy’s sake,
if my husband comes home send for me at once.”
“Very good, my lady.” Orlando withdrew and Jocelyn gave them
a glittering smile. “Come, my dears. Let’s introduce Emily to the
ton
.
The sooner they know London’s newest heiress is under the protection of the
Duke of Bradford, the better.”
* * * * *
“Are you sure about this, Emily?” Anthony peered at her
through the darkness of his carriage as they clattered through the near-silent
streets. “Going back to my hotel, I mean.”
“Well, since Jocelyn got her wish and Hugh returned, we
wouldn’t want to disturb them, would we?” A playful note entered Emily’s voice.
“I’m quite sure they’ve long retired, aren’t you?”
“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Anthony said. “Are you
sure that you want—”
“Us to be lovers? Yes. We’ve always been friends, Anthony. I
know you would never hurt or betray me. I trust you implicitly. Who else but
you to help me experience pleasure? It’s the perfect arrangement.”
“So it is,” he agreed. “And you’re right about not going
back to Jocelyn’s. Hugh Rolfe would kill anyone interrupting him making love to
her after being gone so long. So to save our own lives we should let them have
the house to themselves and go back to my hotel for the night.”
Her soft laugh rippled over him. “You see? You’re the
perfect protector.”
Leaning forward, Anthony clasped her hands between his.
“I’ll try to be everything you want me to be,” he promised. “In bed and out of
it as well.”
For a moment, concern pulled her eyebrows together. “What
will the other guests at your hotel think when they see us arrive at this time
of night?”
“It’s a private residence, Emmie,” he said, using her
childhood nickname. “The only people who live there are my friends who also
keep rooms and the staff who are, of course, completely loyal to us, the
owners. They won’t say a word. But if you’re worried, we can use the entrance
in the back so no one will see us.”
Relief chased the concern from her face and she nodded. “I’d
like that.”
Opening the window, Anthony called out her wish to the
coachman. Closing it again, he smiled at her. “There you are,” he said. “Easily
accomplished.”
They settled into the companionable silence that had been
theirs years ago. Soon enough the carriage began to slow and the horses’ trot
became a walk before coming to a stop. Anthony opened the door, stepped down
and helped Emily to the sidewalk. She slid her hand into the crook of his arm
and smiled at him. For a moment, her warmth kept Anthony from moving and a
tightness spread through his chest as he thought of what was to happen between
them.
“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “Shall we go inside?”
* * * * *
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, thank you, Davis. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Anthony’s valet inclined his head. “Very good, sir. Good
night. Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night, Davis. Thank you.”
“Your servant, ma’am.” Davis bowed before exiting the room.
When the door clicked behind him, Emily’s gaze drifted back to Anthony.
“He’s very discreet, isn’t he?”
Recalling just how much Davis knew about his personal life,
Anthony chuckled. “He should be. I pay him enough.” He poured them each a glass
of wine from the bottle on the table and handed her one. “Did you enjoy
yourself tonight?”
“Yes,” Emily said, after taking a sip. “But so many people!
And all those girls! They seemed so very young.”
“Did any make a particular impression on you?”
“Margaret Stanhope,” Emily said promptly. “The girl seated
next to you at dinner. She was pretty, well-spoken and didn’t seem at all
intimidated by your title.”
“Two points to you, Mrs. Martin,” Anthony praised. “You
noticed that, did you? But her father is the Earl of Chesterfield so titles are
something she’s known all her life. Anyone else?”
“Not that I recall,” Emily admitted. “As I said, so many
people were there. I’ll be lucky if I remember even a few of their names.”
“You have all Season,” he reminded her. “But there is no
doubt you were much admired. Baron Ragsdale certainly was impressed. He
practically undressed you with his eyes.”
“Do you think they all thought—”
“That I’m your lover? I don’t know. Perhaps not yet. After
all, you
have
just arrived in town.”
“They’ll think you work very fast then, won’t they?”
Even in the flickering candlelight he could not miss the
humor dancing in her eyes—and he recalled just how very much he had liked her
all those years ago. “I suppose they will.”
“Then you approve of my idea that we be lovers?”
He set his untouched glass on a nearby table. “Are you quite
sure about this, Emily?” he asked again.
“I’ll need a protector, Anthony, to keep the Ragsdales and others
like him away. So before the
ton
start to
suspect
we’re lovers,
let’s make it a truth.”
“And you want to start now?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? You don’t have a mistress, do you?”
Recalling the disastrous “audition” with Lily Cabot, Anthony
was relieved to be able to say, “Not at the moment. Indeed not for a long
while.”
A soft sympathy entered her eyes. “Is that because of your
father?”
“Yes.” He took the glass from her and put it on the table.
“But let’s not talk about that tonight. Tonight is about us.”
“Yes,” she whispered, offering her hand. “Yes.”
He accepted it, turning it over to trace his lips against
her wrist. Beneath his mouth, her pulse skittered and leapt in an erratic
frenzied storm as he tasted the sweetness and warmth of her skin—an invitation
he could not refuse.
Raising his head, he found a matching invitation in her
eyes. She stood and withdrew her hand only to place both of them behind his
head and gently bring it down until his mouth hovered above hers. He gathered
her into his arms, she pressed herself to him and his cock hardened.
“I wonder,” she said softly, “if your lips will taste the
same after all these years.”
In answer, he brushed his mouth against hers before
outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue in a careful exploration, and
then lowered his mouth again.
Her lips met his and he tasted the wine lingering there,
flooding his mouth with its heady allure, matched by her own sweetness.
“Oh yes,” she gasped, breaking their kiss. “Just the same,
only better.”
He stepped back to wrap an arm around her waist and lead her
into his bedroom. As if knowing they would end up there, Davis had drawn back
the coverlet and propped the pillows against the headboard. Racks of shimmering
candles pierced the darkness of the room while outside the window a pale,
silvery moonlight filtered through the gauzy drapes, casting rays across the
carpet.
They halted by the bed and he kissed her again. “Do you want
me to undress you?” he whispered.
She lowered her eyes. “Well…I…that is to say—”
“There’s a dressing screen over there,” he said, pointing
toward a corner of the room. “Why don’t you use that?”
She hesitated and he added, “Take your time, Emily.”
“Would you unlace my gown, please?”
Before he could answer, she turned and waited. Releasing a
long, slow sigh Anthony brushed his lips against the skin of her neck, sending
a volley of heat over her body. He moved his lips to kiss her shoulders as he
unlaced the back of her gown and she shivered as her bare skin met open air.
“Are you cold?” he whispered. “I can build up the fire if
you like.”
“No.” Emily turned and smiled at him. “I’m fine.”
She hurried toward the screen and stepped behind it. Someone
had thoughtfully put a small table and a chair there. On the back of the chair,
that same someone had left a white nightgown. Gratefully, she sat as her knees
gave way. The pounding of her heart roared in her ears as she gripped the sides
of the chair, trying to remember how to breathe.