“Just the usual.” Greg sighed. “Everyone is pairing everyone else up. I always forget just how dangerous the Season can be. A bachelor isn’t safe anywhere.”
“Emily is looking lovely tonight,” Brandon observed. “I dare say she’s the most beautiful woman in the room. You could do no better if you asked her to marry you.”
Anthony followed Brandon’s gaze. Emily was dancing with Sir Edgar Lennox. She was giving the physician her complete attention and the old anger flared in Anthony’s heart. His dislike for Lennox was unreasonable, illogical and completely without foundation. The man was not to blame for his father’s death.
But if only he had arrived a few minutes sooner, Lennox might have seen his father’s killer.
The music stopped and the dancing couples drifted to other parts of the room. Laughter rose and fell, and under the conversations came the gentle clink of glasses. From across the room, a smiling Emily was coming toward him. Spotting a waiter carrying a tray of wineglasses, Anthony signaled him forward.
“I didn’t know Laramore was in the habit of inviting the sons of thieves to his home.” The loud voice cut through the surrounding conversations as Sir Charles Abernathy pushed through a group of young dandies to stand in front of Anthony. Silence descended, spreading like a wave over the room.
Anthony looked at his friends. “Did someone let in a fly? I seem to hear the most annoying buzz around me. That’s what happens when one leaves the doors to the garden open.”
“Do you think just because you fled London with your tail between your legs after your father killed himself, people will forget how he swindled money from others?” Abernathy shouted. He grabbed Anthony’s arm. “I lost five hundred pounds!”
An angry murmur rose from the surrounding guests and several of the women exchanged anxious glances. With calculated deliberation, Anthony removed Abernathy’s hand from his arm. “Any investment is a risk. Your losses are your own fault. My loss was far greater than yours.”
“Your loss? Ha! What loss? You’ve got more money than the king!” Abernathy sneered.
A cold rage started behind Anthony’s eyes and he straightened his back while considering a variety of ways to dismember Abernathy, starting by ripping off his ballocks and shoving them down his throat. “I was referring to the loss of my father.”
“A loss that bettered all of London!” Stumbling, Abernathy grabbed Anthony’s arm again. “At least that’s one less liar and thief in the House of Lords!”
The murmurs rose to angry shouts and protests. A sticky, sweet aroma caught Anthony’s attention and he jerked back, sending Abernathy to the floor. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Did you bathe in brandy before you came?”
The other guests laughed, and then laughed again as Abernathy’s efforts to stand failed and he fell at Anthony’s feet. A shove from Anthony’s shoe sent Abernathy sprawling on his backside and the crowd cheered.
“I didn’t realize garbage was being delivered to parties this Season. I shall have to remember to speak to my wife.” The Duke of Laramore was suddenly at Anthony’s side. So were two of his footmen, formidable in the height and strength required by their position.
“Duncan, Forbes, take this filth away and put it outside with the rest of the refuse where it belongs, please.” Laramore’s voice rang out over the rising conversations. “Or send it back to its owner without my compliments.”
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.
&nb
sp; Chapter Fourteen
“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 refu
se 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.
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