“I will never be all right again,” Emily said. “That was incredible!” She pushed herself up. “God, what must my ancestors have thought of us?” And she laughed softly, gazing at three portraits on the parlor wall.
“I suspect the arm of this sofa has been used in the past for such sport, angel face,” he told her. “Those Victorians were very lusty people, despite their protestations otherwise. Well, if I wasn’t hungry before I sure as hell am now,” he said.
“Me too,” she admitted. “Give me a few minutes for a quick cleanup, and you might want to get rid of that,” Emily said, pointing to the full condom on his penis.
“Agreed,” he said with a faint smile. “You do bring out the best in me, angel face.”
“You’re just a horny fellow, Devlin,” she told him, and then hurried off.
Fifteen minutes later they were tucked into his Healy and pulling out of her driveway. The porch light had been left on for their return. Following her directions he piloted them onto a lovely two-lane country road that ran along an expanse of blue water that was Egret Pointe Bay. The yellow-green May foliage was lush along one side of the road. He noted osprey platforms with nests already inhabited with tenants. It was lovely country, and he wondered if he could find a summer rental in Egret Pointe. It seemed a quieter place than Montauk was going to prove come summer.
They spoke very little as he drove. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for an editor who had spent the entire day fucking his author. And how quickly Emily was learning. She had understood his subtle prompts in that semibondage scene that they had just played out in the elegant little parlor of her house. He was intrigued with and fascinated by her. The thought of spending summer weekends working with her caused his cock to twitch. He forced his thoughts to something less volatile.
“Better start slowing down,” she suggested. “East Harbor Inn is on our right just around the next bend, Devlin. Parking lot is on the edge of the road.”
The Healy banked around the curve and swung into the parking area. He got out and hurried around the low-slung sports car to open the door for her. East Harbor Inn was charming, very Colonial, with touches of Laura Ashley. The dining room had beamed ceilings, and lots of candles, from those in the pewter chandeliers hanging from the beams to those on the tables. To Emily’s relief it was not crowded, and she didn’t recognize anyone from Egret Pointe. So far, so good.
“Not busy tonight?” she said to the waiter who came to take their order.
“Heavy bookings late,” he said. “First performance of the spring musical at the Egret Pointe Playhouse. We’ll be crowded after ten thirty. May I suggest the lobster? They just came off the trawler at our dock in midafternoon.”
They ordered. Devlin wanted raw oysters as a starter, and then the lobster and the baby field greens. Emily ordered a fruit compote with a miniscoop of homemade strawberry sherbert, a spinach-and-cheese ravioli, and salad. The waiter suggested a Lenz Blanc de Noir, and Devlin ordered a bottle. The service was leisurely, but they were never left waiting long between courses. When the dessert menu came they both ordered the homemade crème brûlée and coffee.
“If it were July I’d get the plum cake,” Emily said. “It’s outrageous. They make it only when the plums are fresh from one of the local farms.”
“I’ll have to try it then,” he said. “I’ve been wondering, Emily, if you know of a summer rental around here. I was planning to go to Montauk, but Egret Pointe is more my style. Quiet. No faux celebrities, and no bother of getting through the Hamptons just to get there.”
“Won’t you be coming to me on the weekends?” she asked him.
“I’m taking most of August off,” he said. “You’ve been making a very concerted effort all weekend not to be seen with me, and you’re not going to be able to keep that up for too long. An editor coming on the weekends to work with you is one thing, and we can probably get away with that reasonable explanation even when one of your neighbors finally notices the Healy in your drive every weekend. But if I spend several weeks with you, your reputation is going to be compromised, angel face.”
“I’ll ask Rina,” Emily replied. “She knows everything.”
And Rina did. She came up with the perfect solution as she and Emily sat talking over coffee on Monday morning. “Aaron and Kirk’s cottage,” she said, reaching for a jelly stick. “The boys are going to Italy in August. They’ve rented a place in Tuscany for a couple of weeks on a friend’s recommendation. And Aaron wants to go to Capri for a few days. Kirk says it’s a zoo in August, but you know how he indulges my brother’s little whims. I’ll call Aaron today, and then he can call Mr. Hot Stuff. They can make their own arrangements. And speaking of your editor, when is he coming again?”
“He’s coming every weekend for the time being. Not next weekend, though. It’s the long one, and he’s flying to London to check up on his tenant. He has a house there, and he’s let it out to an American for a year,” Emily explained.
“Will you miss the sex?” Rina asked frankly. “Oh, Sam says you dodged the bullet this time, but to be careful, and start on the pill.”
“I won’t have time to miss anything,” Emily told her friend. “I have to start writing. Today. And please thank Dr. Sam for me.” She leaned over and hugged the older woman. “And thank you for not telling me what an idiot I am.”
“The grans never said a thing to you?” Rina was surprised. Katya Shanski was, of course, a reserved woman, but Emily O hadn’t seemed like that at all.
“Sex was definitely taboo in both houses. I think they were still trying to get past the fact that their kids had sex once, and I was the result. They were both pushing fifty when I was born, and the grandfathers were over fifty. It had been a bad year too. Joe’s big brother had been killed in ’Nam, and Grandpa Frank went into a decline that killed him before I was three. I don’t even remember him.”
“Yeah, Frank Shanski really loved his older son. Nothing Joe did after that pleased him either. I remember Frank was always saying, ‘Well, Frankie would have done it better, or faster,’ or whatever. The truth was, Frankie was a big dumb jock, and it was Joe who had all the brains. Water under the bridge.” Rina sighed. “So how did you learn what little you knew about sex?”
“We had to take a health ed class in high school,” Emily said. “I found it embarrassing. I just learned what I needed to pass the course, and then forgot it.”
“You weren’t curious beyond that?” Rina was amazed. It had been all she could do to keep her kids from asking and reading about sex. And doing a little hands on investigation as well.
Emily shook her head. “I was afraid of being like Katy and Joe and disappointing the grans,” she admitted.
“Well,” Rina said with a sigh, “they did a wonderful job raising you, even if they weren’t perfect. And Michael Devlin must be one hell of of a lover, sweetie. I’ve never seen you glow like you are right now.”
“Rina,” Emily said slowly, “what if I fall in love with him?”
Rina shrugged. “Then you do,” she said fatalistically. “What’s the worst that could happen? You end up with a broken heart. Hearts mend. Trust me. I know.”
“I don’t think I could have sex with him if I didn’t like him. And, Rina, I really do like him so much,” Emily said softly.
“Don’t let him know that, sweetie. The second you go all mushy on a guy like your Mr. Devlin, he’ll panic, bolt and run. He’s a wily bachelor, a ladies’ man. Only if he tells you that he likes you first can you suggest that the feeling might—just might—possibly be mutual,” Rina advised.
Emily went home. She climbed up into the widow’s walk of the house, where she had her office and library. She used a computer as a word processor, but wasn’t connected to the Internet. Now she sat in front of the large flat-paneled screen and stared. Finally, knowing that the only way to start a novel was to put her fingers on the keyboard of her PC and write, she did so. She centered the title: The Defiant Duchess. Then s
he scrolled down and typed out on the lower left side of her paper, A novel by Emilie Shann, clo Aaron Fischer, Browne and Fischer, 500A Park Avenue, New York City 10022. (212) 477-1548, [email protected]. She went to the next page. Prologue. And then she began the backstory of how Caroline, Duchess of Malincourt, became Lavender, a daring woman who rescued the oppressed from the Reign of Terror in Revolutionary France. It was dark before she had finished.
For the entire week and into the first official weekend of the summer, Emily worked. Essie, her housekeeper, saw that she was fed, and even left food in the freezer for the weekend. To her annoyance Devlin called only twice: on Monday morning to thank her for the weekend, and on Thursday to tell her he was off to England and would give her a ring on Tuesday when he was back in the office. He told her to thank Rina for her suggestion: He had rented Aaron and Kirk’s cottage August through Labor Day, when they would be away in Italy.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m doing?” she asked him Thursday.
“Working that cute little butt off on your book, I hope,” he said.
“I’m in bikini panties, and a lace bra,” she said teasingly. “The ones you made me take off last Saturday before we went out to eat. Remember?”
“Umm, I have a faint recollection,” he admitted. “Pull the panties down, Emily.” They were on his cell, and he felt safe speaking with her this way.
“Why?” she asked softly.
“Because I want you to play with that naughty little clit of yours, and tell me exactly what you are doing and how it feels,” he said in a husky voice.
“I’ve got them off, Devlin,” she murmured low. “I’m brushing my right hand over my pubic curls. It’s almost, but not quite, as if you were here.”
“Touch yourself,” he told her. “Tell me which finger you’re using.”
“The middle finger. Ohh, I’m getting wet already, Devlin. I wish it were your tongue there. Ohh. Ohhh, that is so nice. Are you getting a hard-on?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“And I’m not there to soothe it away,” she murmured. “Will you teach me to suck your cock next time, Devlin? Ohhhhh. Ummmm. That feels soooo good. Not quite as good as your tongue, but it will do for now.”
He groaned. “When I get my hands on you, Emily, you will regret teasing me like this,” he threatened.
“I’ve taken my bra off, Devlin. I’m totally naked up here in my office. I’m cupping my tits in my hands, and the nipples are all puckered because I’m imagining you sucking on them.”
“Put your hands back on your cunt,” he said. “Play with yourself again, Emily. I want you to come. I want you to think about my cock inside of you, thrusting and thrusting, hitting that little spot that sets you afire, making you scream. I’m going to bring you a present from England to help you relax when I’m away from you. There’s a shop in London that carries some very wicked sex toys, and I’m going to find a special one just for you, Emily.”
“Ummmmmm.” She sighed into the telephone as she gave herself a delicious little clitoral orgasm. “Nice, Devlin, but not as nice as you,” she told him. “Yes, bring me a toy. I’ve never had one.”
“Good-bye, angel face,” he said, and the line went dead.
Irritation had raced through her. She had wanted more dirty talk from him. She hoped his hard-on lasted for half an hour, Emily thought, piqued. And now it was two a.m. Sunday morning, and she missed Devlin. And she missed the unbridled sex that they had enjoyed last weekend. Getting up, she went downstairs to her bedroom and, finding the channel changer, picked it up. She had ordered the Channel for the entire weekend earlier in the day. Because she was a single woman she could get it like that. There was no danger of some young girl flicking it on and finding her fantasy in her face before she was ready for it. Emily hit the correct numbers and clicked enter. She was immediately within the candlelit bedroom.
Yes, it was perfect, she thought, but shouldn’t the velvet curtains be green, and not red? And with the thought the curtains and bed hangings were a perfect forest green, with heavy tasseled gold ropes holding them back. She was wearing pants and riding boots, and her cape was wet with the rain outside the windows.
“Oh, m’lady!” The duchess’s maid ran into the room. She was a young girl, as opposed to an older, more seasoned woman. “The duke arrived an hour ago. I told him I didn’t know if you would be down to dinner, as you weren’t feeling well.”
“Well-done, Mary!” the duchess replied. “Help me out of these wet garments.”
“Was the trip to France successful, m’lady?” Mary asked. She was in on the secret of what her mistress did to aid others, and admired her tremendously for it. Indeed, she helped her mistress with the refugees when they arrived in England, dealing with any servants who might have been rescued with them, comforting the children.
“Indeed it was,” her mistress replied. “We rescued the Duchesse d’Almay, her sister, and their children right from under the nose of Madame la Guillotine. Monsieur Robespierre will have some explaining to do to his citizens committee.” She laughed as she pulled off her boots and wet stockings.
“I have a hot bath ready for you, m’lady,” Mary said. “You’re always punctual, even when the roads are bad.”
The duchess removed her garments and climbed into the tub that her maid had set up before the fire in her bedchamber. She was no sooner ensconced than the door to the room opened and the duke walked in, lifting his quizzing glass to gaze at her curiously.
“Mary said you were not feeling up to par, madam, yet I find you in your bath,” Justin Trahern remarked, his green eyes flicking over her lazily.
“I have been quite fatigued most of the week, milord,” the duchess answered him. “But it does not prevent me from keeping myself clean. Actually, I shall feel better for a bath, and may even join you for dinner. How are things in London?”
“Dull,” he replied, and then he feigned a yawn. “We might have dinner here in your chambers, madam. I should not like to tax your strength. Is there a chance you might be breeding? Malincourt could use an heir, as I have none.”
“That is not entirely so,” the duchess replied. “There is your sister’s son.”
“He will not do,” the duke told her. “Mary! That is your name, isn’t it?”
“Yes, milord,” Mary said, bobbing a curtsy.
“Go and tell Cook her ladyship and I shall dine here. But not for an hour. No one is to disturb us until then. Do you understand, Mary?”
“Yes, milord,” Mary said, blushing to the roots of her yellow hair. Then she turned and ran out of the room.
“Really, Trahern, that was not particularly subtle,” the duchess said.
“I am not of a mind to be subtle, madam. The most delicious women in London have been importuning me, yet I want no woman but my wife. I am forced to return home to Malincourt. A shocking state of affairs, madam, wouldn’t you agree?” He removed his bottle-green linen tailcoat and laid it aside. He undid his wide white cravat and laid it atop the coat. Then he slowly undid his frilled shirt and set it with the coat and cravat. Sitting down, he pulled off his beautifully polished riding boots, then stood again.
“Trahern, what are you about?” the duchess demanded of her husband.
“I mean to fuck you, my dear,” he answered pleasantly, undoing his tight riding breeches, pulling them down and off along with his drawers. “I am not ready to keep a mistress yet, and you have not given me an heir. Once you have produced two sons, Caro, I shall leave you to your own devices, if that is what you wish. Until then I will curtail my own social life, devoting myself to you and the production of our nursery.
“I know why your father married you to my late uncle. It was to protect you and your fortune from his own impecunious brother. And it was my uncle’s wish that I take you for my own wife when he died and I inherited. As there was no other woman in my life I felt suited to be my duchess, I agreed. I waited through a year of mourning, Caro, and we wed. Your first marr
iage was a celibate one. But this union is not, nor is it meant to be such a marriage. In an effort to consider your sensibilities I have been patient. I do not mean to be patient any longer. Now, get out of that tub, madam!”
“I have not denied you your rights, milord,” the duchess said coolly.
“But neither have you joined into our bed sport with any enthusiasm,” he complained to her. “You lie beneath me like a board. Do you feel nothing of passion? Is your heart a stone? Do you even have a heart?”
The duchess arose from her porcelain tub. The water sluiced down her lush body. “I have a heart, milord,” she told him. “I am just not ready to fill a nursery. The three years I was married to your uncle I spent nursing him. Then I spent another year mourning him. I was married to you but a month after my mourning ended. We have been wed but six months. You spend much of your time in London. I prefer the country. Am I not entitled to a few months of peace for myself, milord, before I must take on the great responsibility of our family? And how, she wondered silently, can I allow myself to become enceinte when I spend my time traveling back and forth between England and France in order to rescue the innocent?
“Damn it, Caro, I am in love with you,” the duke said. “I always have been, since the day my uncle introduced you to me as his new wife. The old duke knew how I felt. And he also knew that neither of us would ever betray him. We never did. He realized that you would be safe with me after he was gone. That was why he gained our promise to wed then. He wanted you to have a normal life. The kind of life a woman should have. And he wanted me to have you.” The duke lifted a large towel from the rack by the fire and, coming close to the duchess, wrapped her in it, lifting her from the water. “It has been almost two years since my uncle died. I want children, and I want them now!” He dried her roughly and then, picking her up, carried her to her bed.
“Trahern!” she protested. “You are behaving like a barbarian.”
“I am behaving like a husband who desires his wife,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you dare to refuse me, madam?”
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