Free Be My Lover by Cecily French

such.
    He hoped.
    He was not without influence and, while he had a few
detractors, was usually regarded as an amiable man. The pile of invitations on
his desk spoke to that. He would use his charm to be sure he was invited to the
same events as Anthony and attend every one of them.
    Moving to his desk, he sat, read over the first invitation
and penned a reply before ringing for the footman. After giving instructions
for its delivery first thing tomorrow, he returned to the window and gazed out
at the quiet London street. The Season would provide him an excellent and
foolproof way to study Dyson unobserved and guess his plans.
    And decide whether or not there would be reason to kill
again.
    * * * * *
    “So what did you think of Miss Crawford?” Emily’s finger ran
down the list in her hand.
    “What did you think?” Anthony continued working her
brush through her curls. Soft and light, they caressed his hands like a bolt of
raw silk waiting to be woven. Recalling how they felt spilling over his skin,
his cock hardened in anticipation.
    “She talks a great deal, but that might be from nerves,”
Emily commented. “Many young girls chatter when they’re nervous.”
    “Really?”
    Her glance met his in the dressing table mirror. “Oh come,
Anthony. You have sisters. You should know that.”
    “That’s true,” he conceded, leaning down to kiss the top of
her head. “Grace and Tabitha are champion chatterers. And gigglers. Who’s next
on the list?”
    Larissa Studer, second daughter to Baron Carlisle. Rather
tall and rather thin.”
    “Too thin, I think,” Anthony commented. “A man likes to have
something to get his hands around. Something curvy.”
    “Well then, Abigail Gloucester would be perfect.” Emily
pointed at the third name on the list. “She’s very curvy.”
    “Good Lord, Emily, Abigail Gloucester just made her bow a
week ago. She’s a child. ”
    “But she’s from a family of nine children,” Emily said. “And
according to Jocelyn, her married sisters have all produced three children
each. That suggests she could certainly provide an heir as well as more to
spare.”
    “That may be,” Anthony agreed, laying down the brush. “But a
man wants to be able to talk to his wife about things. I can’t see myself
discussing the day’s events with Abigail Gloucester.”
    She sighed. “Then who do you want?”
    “You. Right now. In the bed.”
    Swatting his hand, she asked, “What about Margaret
Stanhope?”
    “The Season just started. That gives me almost two months to
find the right bride. And even though I find Miss Stanhope the most charming
young woman I’ve met since my return—with the exception of you, of course—I’ve
been back in London less than a week. One shouldn’t be too hasty. After all,
marriage is forever. You don’t want me to marry some silly little twit, do
you?”
    A quiet rap on the closed door interrupted Emily’s answer.
Anthony stifled an oath and pointed at the bed. “Wait for me.”
    “Yes, Your Grace.” She touched two fingers to her forehead
in a quick salute.
    Anthony padded across the room, enjoying the soft weave of
the carpet against his feet, and wondered if he could convince Emily to make
love on it provided they used pillows and blankets. That would no doubt be
another first for her.
    Pulling the door open just enough to peer into the sitting
room and find his valet, he whispered, “This better be important, Davis.”
    “You have callers, Your Grace.” Davis returned his whisper.
    “Tell them I’ve gone to bed.”
    “They say it’s a matter of great importance, sir.”
    I don’t care if Napoleon has escaped and is riding through
the streets of London. Tell them—”
    “It’s regarding your father, sir.”
    Shock hit Anthony hard and fast, chasing away the warmth of
the room. Clutching the door, he stared at his servant’s tight-lipped grimace.
“My father?” he repeated. “Who the hell are these guests?”
    “Mister Amos Quincy and