Forbidden Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  “It’s done,” Savannah replied. “Night, darling. See you next month.”

  “Good night, Sava,” Emily said, and hung up. She was actually relieved that Lord Palmer would be up in London while she was staying with Savannah. The last time she had been at the manor he had come into her room, and then pretended he had made an error, being somewhat foxed, as he had so quaintly put it. But Emily had known her friend’s husband knew exactly where he had been going. He was a hound dawg, to use an Americanism, she thought. Savannah probably knew it too, but she did love Reg and their children, and she loved being Lady Palmer, Baroness Tilbury. And Reg, even if given the opportunity, would never leave his wife. In his way he loved her too.

  Love. What a funny emotion, Emily thought. It’s physical, and it’s emotional. It’s delicious lust, and at the same time it’s emotions for which there are no words. At least that was how she felt about Devlin. Rina said he loved her. But Devlin had never said it. Not even in the deepest throes of passion had he uttered the word love. The closest he had come was to say he adored her. Adore meant to worship. To be extremely fond of. So he was fond of her. It was something to build upon, wasn’t it?

  She had entrapped him into seducing her back last spring so she might learn just what sex was all about. She hadn’t planned on falling in love with Michael Devlin; nor had she even considered that he would fall in love with her. But she had fallen in love with him, and more than anything in the whole world Emily Shanski wanted Michael Devlin to be in love with her. She wanted a happily-ever-after, complete with a small but fancy wedding, a honeymoon, and two or three children. If her heroines could have it, why couldn’t she? She had gotten him into bed. Now could she get him to the altar?

  The telephone rang and, surprised, she picked it up.

  “Emily, it’s Aaron. I’ve been trying to get you for hours,” he said dramatically.

  “Aaron, welcome home! How was Italy? How was Capri?” she asked him.

  “Tuscany was heaven. Capri overrated. Too many pretty boys. Dancing, dancing, dancing, and drinking twenty-four /seven. We were supposed to stay a week, but we left after two days. Kirk was right,” Aaron Fischer said. “But the Blue Grotto was divine! Now, how is the book coming, and are you getting along with Michael Devlin? You seemed to be content before we left.”

  “We’re lovers,” Emily heard herself say.

  There was a long pause, and then Aaron said, “Is that wise, sweetheart? I mean, this kind of a relationship between an author and editor has always been a forbidden kind of thing. What happens when it’s over? Will you be able to work with each other? And how will you explain it if you can’t?”

  “Rina says he’s in love with me, and Aaron, I am in love with him. Don’t I get to be happy too?” Emily asked softly.

  “Rina! I should have known! The busybody of the Western world! Don’t listen to my sister, Emily. She has no touch with reality.”

  “The book is three-quarters done,” Emily told him. “It will be in on time. I’m going to England next month for a week. I’ll be down at Barrow seeing Sava.”

  Aaron Fischer sighed audibly. “So you don’t like my concern,” he said. “Sue me. I promised Emily O when I took you on as a client that I would look after you like a daughter, if I had a daughter. I reiterated that promise just before she died. What kind of a father would I be if I weren’t concerned? Michael Devlin is charming, and he’s a wonderful, talented editor. But he has never shown any inclination to settle down. If you understand that and can live with it, then so be it.”

  “It isn’t just the sex, Aaron,” she began. “We get on together. We like the same things, laugh at the same jokes, and he loves my cooking.”

  “Everyone loves your cooking,” Aaron replied. “I can’t believe that Mick was so cavalier as to seduce you. I thought he was more professional.”

  “I seduced him, Aaron. He did try to resist, but I was determined,” Emily said.

  “Oy vay!” her agent replied. “Well, if nothing else, the misery you’re going to find when this madness is over will hopefully translate into even better writing.”

  Emily laughed. “You really are a wretch, Aaron. But what if he decides it’s time to settle down, and he wants to marry me?”

  “If Michael Devlin asks you to marry him, sweetheart, then I will walk you down the aisle at St. Anne’s and give you away,” Aaron Fischer said. “So maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” he reasoned. “Now, I just called to see that you were all right, and to tell you that tomorrow I will make an appointment with J. P. Woods for a little negotiation session. E-mail me what you’ve written so far so I can read it before we meet.”

  “First thing in the morning, Aaron. And Aaron—no one in the business knows except you and Sava. I don’t want Devlin embarrassed by any gossip.”

  Aaron chuckled wisely. “So having seduced him, you are now setting about to stalk him and get him to the altar,” he said. “Well, good hunting, sweetheart. I’ll call you in a few days and fill you in on what’s happening. Good night.”

  “Night, Aaron. Say hi to Kirk for me.” Emily hung up the phone. Then, locking up the house, she went upstairs to bed. She wasn’t going to stalk Devlin. No. She was going to run him to the ground and hog-tie him. It was time they were both married.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What will happen to me when you have finished the book?” Justin Trahern, the Duke of Malincourt, asked his creator. They were standing in his library.

  “Why, Trahern, you’ll be immortalized forever,” Emily told him.

  “You really ought to write another book about Malincourt,” he said. “Am I not the most fascinating and interesting hero you have ever created, dear girl?”

  “Well, you are certainly the most arrogant.” Emily laughed.

  “You are a magnificent duchess, madam,” he remarked.

  “I have given you a duchess worthy of you, my lord,” Emily said. “Caro is the perfect woman for you. To please you I made her look like me, as I have made you look like Michael Devlin. But you are not Devlin, and I am not Caro.”

  “You are Caro when you are in my arms,” he replied wickedly. “How else could you know the emotions she feels, dear girl?” Reaching out, he took her hand in his and drew her toward him. “Tell me where you go when you disappear from Malincourt, madam? I do not believe it is to a lover, for your own sense of honor is too great.” He wrapped strong arms about her and looked down into her small heart-shaped face.

  “My lord, do not ask, I beg you, and allow me to do what I must,” the duchess said breathlessly. “I do not cuckold you, and with that you must be content.” The feel of his hard body against hers was intoxicating. She wanted to remain safe in his arms forever. If only she could, but it was not to be. She had yet to wreak her full revenge on those who had first dishonored her mother and then murdered her. And her aunts. Especially her beloved youngest aunt, Louisa.

  The duchess pressed herself against her husband’s broad and comforting chest. He did not know of that summer three years ago when she and her mother had visited her grandparents in France. Her father, the Earl of Chetwyn, had not wanted them to go. The political situation in France was growing worse by the day. But her beautiful French mother, Claudine, had laughed at his fears.

  “Most of the difficulty is in Paris, mon chou,” she had said. “Caroline and I go no farther than Normandy. There has been little trouble there. Besides, Papa is in agreement with the Marquess de Lafayette and the others. Great changes are needed if France is to survive, and Monsieur le Roi and Madame la Reine must be brought around. I always felt sorry for that poor little Austrian princess who had to marry fat Louis. But everyone knows that my father, the duke, and all his extended family support the revolution. We will be perfectly safe, ma cœeur.”

  And so they had sailed in the Earl of Chetwyn’s yacht across the Channel to Normandy to spend a few months with the countess’s parents. And at first it had been just like every other summer Lady Caroline
Thornton had spent in France at the charming little château of her maternal grandparents. Her mother’s two sisters had been there with her. The elder and her family lived in the Loire region. The younger was Caroline’s age but for a few weeks. They were seventeen, and they spent their days out of doors riding, or walking beneath the trees in the orchards. Caroline was to have a London season next year, and the lovely Louisa had been invited to share it, as society in France nowadays was precarious at best. The two girls giggled together as they imagined the gowns they would have, and the husbands they would soon find among the ton. The weather had been hot and sunny. It had been so perfect, and neither had even considered that it would be the last time they would be happy together.

  And then one afternoon a ragged band of men had appeared at the the door of the château demanding entry. Seeing them, the duke had been hesitant at first, but then he permitted the men entry. He was a good son of the Revolution. But they had arrested her grandfather and charged him with treason against the Republic. An anonymous complaint against him had been put into the box set up by the Committee for Public Safety in their village. The duke was accused of hoarding, and of mistreatment of one Citizen Agramant. Searching the château, they claimed the supplies in the pantry were evidence of his hoarding.

  The duke protested. What was in his pantry was an average supply of foodstuffs for his large family and his servants. As for Citizen Agramant, he had been in the duke’s employ as a stableman. He had been caught in the pantry stealing food, and there had been a bottle from the duke’s cellar beneath his coat as well. He had been whipped, ten lashes only, and dismissed from the duke’s employ. Had Citizen Agramant been hungry, the duke declared, had he come to his master, the duke would have given him food from his own stores. But he was not going hungry, and the duke had evidence that the stableman had stolen from him before, and was selling what he stole in the village at inflated prices.

  But the band of men would not listen. The duke was taken away, and his household imprisoned within the château. Several days later they received word that the duke had been tried, found guilty of crimes against the republic, and taken to Caen to be executed. His body was never returned to them. Upon hearing the news the duchess had clutched at her chest and collapsed. She died several days later. As their servants were now forbidden from waiting upon them, the family of women had dug her grave in the family cemetery. A coffin had mysteriously appeared in her bedchamber. No one spoke of it or asked from where it had come. The old duchess was wrapped in a shroud and put into the coffin. And her two daughters and her grandchildren had gone to request that some of their manservants be allowed to carry the coffin to the grave.

  The man who called himself the captain of the ragged band, one Captain Arnaud, had looked them over, licked his lips, and then said, “For every favor there is a price, my pretty aristos. What have you to offer?”

  Caroline’s mother had immediately removed the gold-and-pearl chain and crucifix she wore about her neck and handed it to him. “Will this do?” she asked quietly.

  “For now,” Captain Arnaud had answered with a leer.

  They had not known what he had meant then, but several days later Caroline, her mother, her aunts, and all the younger woman servants were taken to the château cellars, and imprisoned. Every night Captain Arnaud would come with his righthand man, Citizen Leon. They would pick two of the young serving girls, and return them in the morning. Now and again a girl would not return for several days, if at all.

  “What is happening to them?” Caroline had asked her mother.

  “Better you not know,” her mother had replied.

  And it had been better, until the night that Captain Arnaud had pointed his thick finger at Caroline and beckoned her to him.

  “Non!” her mother had said, standing up and facing their captor. “My daughter is the only child of an English lord. He will pay you a very generous ransom for her safe return.” The countess had put emphasis on the word safe. “I have told you this before, Captain Arnaud. My husband will pay for all the women here. You have but to send to his yacht, which by now lies anchored in the village cove, waiting to return us to England. Ask what you will. My husband, the Earl of Chetwyn, will pay. Have you no desire to be a rich man?”

  “Why is it that all you damned aristos think money is the answer? I’ve come to get a woman for a night’s entertainment. If you do not want me to take your daughter, then come with me yourself. And your sister will do for Leon.”

  Lady Caroline Thornton had not known then the terrible sacrifice her mother and her aunts had made for her that night—and in the nights that followed, for Captain Arnaud and Citizen Leon delighted in degrading the two women. Yet the two sisters retained their dignity in spite of it all. Her mother managed to write a note to the earl, and with the aid of the château cook it reached the yacht captain, who sailed immediately for England. And the Earl of Chetwyn had come immediately to rescue his family from the hands of the Revolution.

  But it had been too late. Now bored with the two sisters, Citizen Leon had had them restrained by his men as they were taken from the cellars to the main salon. They were then forced to watch as the youngest of them, Louisa, had been raped first by Captain Arnaud, then Citizen Leon, and finally the other six men in their ragtag band. Her aunt had at first struggled and screamed to her sisters and then to the Holy Virgin to save her. The taking of the girl’s virginity was a painful event, made more so by her eager rapist. Her pitiful cries had set Caroline’s tante Justine into a frenzy of hysterical fury. She fought against her captors wildly, and then to their surprise she managed to break free. Snatching a knife from one of the men’s waistband, she stabbed him to death before she was subdued by the others and her own throat was slit.

  By now Caroline was numb with her fear of what was to come. But then, to her surprise, she was returned to the cellars of the château. She did not see her mother again. One of the serving women returned in the morning and told her that they had strangled pauvre Madame Claudine, but not before the countess had been forced to endure every possible indignity a man might visit on a woman. She had been raped over and over again, and beaten. As for her tante Louisa, she had not survived long after Caroline had been taken from the chamber. Now Caroline was alone. But Captain Arnaud did not point his fat finger at her again. And several weeks later she was led from the cellars to the château’s elegant salon, where she found her father waiting with the captain. A ransom had been paid, and she was free to leave France.

  The Earl of Chetwyn, while heartbroken at losing his wife, never knew how she had really died. He had been told she and her two sisters had suffered from the damp and cold of their prison. And Caroline had never told her father the truth. How could she? And if she could not tell her father, how could she tell her husband? How could she explain that when she disappeared from Malincourt it was to travel to France on her father’s old yacht, which now belonged to her? Would he understand that she was the rescuer, Lavender, whom all the ton was talking about, and that at least half a dozen of her close friends were Lavender’s Ladies? She had a mission to rescue those poor souls caught up in the Terror of the Revolution. It didn’t matter if they were aristocrats or bourgeoisie. But most of all she wanted her revenge upon Captain Arnaud and Citizen Leon. But she had yet to be able to find them again. They had disappeared from her grandfather’s château.

  “Tell me where you go, Caro,” the duke said once again.

  She looked up at him with desperate eyes, and shook her head. “You must trust me, milord,” she told him.

  “How can I when you do not trust me, my love?” he asked, anguished.

  And then there was the sound of a tinkling bell, and Emily awoke in her bed. The television screen had gone to snow, as it always did when the Channel closed for the night. She gazed briefly out of her window. The leaves were turning, and in just a few days she would be off for England. Devlin had left for Frankfurt last Thursday, and she missed him. Sighing, she closed
her eyes and willed herself to sleep. She had a busy few days ahead of her, and in the morning she would rewrite the scene that had just played out in the Channel. It was much better than her first draft. It seemed she was hardly asleep when Essie was shaking her awake.

  “Honestly, Emily,” she said, “you’ve got to stop all this burning of the midnight oil, girl. It’s past nine o’clock. The phone in your office has rung twice now. Can I fix you some breakfast? I’m washing windows today, and getting the slipcovers off in the living room. October is my turnover time.”

  “Bring me a yogurt and an English muffin up to the office,” Emily said, swinging her feet over the edge of the bed.

  “Coffee?” Essie asked as she turned to go.

  “God, yes!” She stumbled into the guest bathroom and started the shower. Essie was right: She had to stop burning the midnight oil. Essie, however, would have been shocked to know why she was burning it. With Michael Devlin away, Emily had discovered a need for daily sex that she had never anticipated. Ever since he had gone back to the city after Labor Day and his visits were limited to the weekends, her insatiability had been growing. She was in the Channel every night he wasn’t with her, sporting with her duke. And then in the morning she would translate it into pages for the book. Emily was frankly amazed by her own appetite for fucking.

  She stepped into the shower. Just thinking about it made her hot as a firecracker. She slicked the body wash over herself and thought it felt like a rough tongue. Her nipples grew tight, and an ache began between her thighs. A hand moved to push between her labia to play with her clitoris. It felt so damned good, Emily thought with a sigh, and then she caught herself. Her hand reached out, quickly turning the shower lever all the way to the left. She gave a little yelp, and winced as the icy water hit her, but it sure as hell took her mind off of endless sex. This had to stop! She needed Devlin—not just on the weekends, but forever after.