The d.u.c.h.ess blushed prettily. "Sir, you are too bold," she half whispered.

He leaned over and murmured in her ear, "Surely you know how much I want to make love to you, Caro, my darling. I know you are an innocent, and I shall be patient and gentle. But come tomorrow morning you will be a woman in every sense of the word. I am not my uncle G.o.dric. I am a man in the full flush of his manhood. I desire you very much, Caro. I only hope you desire me too." He kissed her ear softly.

Her cheeks felt very warm. "I have no knowledge of what you expect of me, sir. I would not have you disappointed, but in matters of the heart I am lacking in education."

"And it will be my supreme pleasure to educate you, my darling," he told her.

She could not stop blushing, and was quite relieved to reach the house. There a light repast had been set out for them in the magnificent dining room. They ate in silence, and when they had finished repaired to the family salon. It was late afternoon. The servants had seen to the fires, and the room was comfortable.

"Why do you not repair to your chamber and take a little nap?" the duke suggested. "I am going to read. I will join you later."

She stood up quickly and curtsied, saying, "The day has been fatiguing, milord. I shall take your good advice."

"It will probably be one of the few times you do, Caro," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. Then he chuckled at her expression of surprise. "Run along, my dear."

Well, Emily thought as the d.u.c.h.ess hurried upstairs to her bedchamber, you are turning out to be an interesting man. My d.u.c.h.ess will have to be very clever to avoid her husband discovering what mischief she has been up to for almost three years. Poor G.o.dric had never known, but then he was old and sick, and only wanted his comforts. As long as he had them, and Caro visited him when home from London, which was where she always claimed she had been, G.o.dric Trahern was contented. He had married her to protect her, and she certainly had never realized that he would see to her future when he was gone. But he had, arranging first with his nephew and heir, and then with her, that she would marry Justin Trahern after a single year of mourning.

"No longer, Caroline," he had said. "You are a very wealthy woman in your own right, and your father did not want you taken advantage of; nor do I. You know little of the world, my dear. You must be protected."

Yes, her first duke had been a good man.

Emily shifted her mind-set back to the d.u.c.h.ess, who reaching her own chamber, had her maid, Nancy, help her to disrobe. Bathing in a basin of perfumed water, she let the young girl help her into a delicate pale peach silk negligee.

"I shall not need you again tonight, Nancy," she said as she lay down to rest. "When the d.u.c.h.ess was once again aware of herself, the sky outside of her bedchamber window was dark. She heard the door connecting her room with the duke's open, and she turned over to see him in the light from the fireplace.

"Do not get up," he said quietly. "I have come to join you, Caro."

The d.u.c.h.ess swallowed hard. Of course, this husband would want to claim his connubial rights as soon as possible, and it was their wedding night. "You will have to lead me, sir. As I have previously told you, my experience is nil." She saw in the firelight that he was wearing a red paisley silk robe, but she suspected that beneath was naught.

"Under the circ.u.mstances of your first marriage I would not expect you to have had any experience, my dear. I know you are a virgin. My uncle a.s.sured me of it before he died." He slid beneath the coverlet next to her. "There are many men in my position who would take from you what they believed was their due without so much as a by-your-leave. But I have found a woman who enjoys the act of copulation is a far better partner in bed sport." He pressed her gently back among the pillows and touched her lips with his. "Tonight I will make love to you slowly and with great care, Caro. And tomorrow night I will begin to teach you how to respond in kind." He kissed her gently again, his tongue tracing the outline of her mouth.

"Oh!" the d.u.c.h.ess murmured softly.

He raised himself up, balancing upon an elbow, and carefully undid the ribbons at the neckline of her negligee. The garments opened to reveal her snowy-white bosom. The duke's dark head bent, and he began to kiss the flawless flesh. His free hand pushed the fabric aside further, his mouth closing over a perfect little pink nipple. His tongue licked. His teeth carefully worried the sensitive nipple.

She could sense it all, Emily realized, delighted. She felt everything her d.u.c.h.ess was supposed to be feeling: a tiny, almost imperceptible tingle between her legs, a longing she had not understood before. Her arms wrapped about the duke. "Oh, Trahern," she murmured in his ear. "What is this magic you are making with me?"

In answer he ripped the delicate silk of her negligee open so he might have total access to her lovely body. A hand cupped her breast. He nuzzled it, and kissed the sharply pointed nipple. "I adore you, Caro!" he murmured against her ear. "I only want to give you pleasure, and more pleasure."

She found her hands fumbling with the tie about his robe. "Take it off, Trahern," she begged him. "I find your kisses and caresses have made me curious for more. For everything! Hurry, milord!"

He untangled himself from her briefly in order to shrug the robe from his muscular body. And while he did Caro pulled the shreds of her negligee from her own body and threw them carelessly on the floor. Then, gathering her into his arms, he began to kiss her until her head was spinning. "Do you know what I am going to do to you, my adorable bride?" he asked her low.

"You are going to f.u.c.k me," she whispered back. "And I want you to, Trahern! Oh, how very much I want you to f.u.c.k me!"

But he was true to his intent. He began to kiss every inch of her body available to him. He turned her this way and the next, his lips caressing, his tongue licking her flesh until she was afire. She gasped when his finger invaded her body, a tiny bit of fear touching her nerves, but he sensed her anxiety, and soothed her even as a second finger joined the first, and he began to move them back and forth.

She was burning with a desire she had never known existed. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh!" as the fingers slipped from her, and the tip of one of them touched the rosebud hidden between the folds of her nether lips. The fingertip worried the sensitive little nub until she was almost weeping with the burning hunger she felt.

He mounted her naked body, his big hands first pushing her milky thighs open, then guiding his lover's lance into her body. Her virginity quickly gave way, and he rode her fiercely. His big c.o.c.k flashed back and forth within her, and her low moans grew in intensity until she was almost screaming with the pleasure he was giving her. Then, just as the world exploded around her, the duke bent low and whispered in her ear, "I promised you, Emily, that we would begin a grand adventure, and we now a.s.suredly have, my darling."

Her o.r.g.a.s.m came in hard, hot bursts even as her eyes flew open and widened at his words. "Trahern!" she cried, and then fell into unconsciousness as his own l.u.s.t spurted forth in the great jets of his love juices. And when she opened her eyes again she was in her own bed. The dawn was beginning to break outside of her windows, and the screen of the television was blank with snow.

Emily Shanski lay quietly on her back. Her sleep shirt was up to her waist, and she was sticky and wet between her thighs. My G.o.d! What had happened to her? She had slipped into the d.u.c.h.ess Caro's skin, or so she thought. But the duke had known that she was there. And in that moment of perfect pleasure he had told her so by addressing her by name. Briefly she was frightened. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to interact with her characters. But she had to admit that she felt more relaxed now than she had when she had turned on the Channel eight hours previously. Her s.e.xual tension had completely vanished.

Emily climbed out of her bed and, barefooted, hurried out into the hall and up the stairs into her office. She had to get the scene she had just played out with the duke down on paper before it faded. With luck she could have the story line right up to that scene before Devlin arrived Friday night. Would he be pleased with her? G.o.d, she hoped so! Her career was the one thing in the world now that meant everything to her. If she had to write explicitly s.e.xy love scenes to save it, then she was going to learn how to do it. And now, Emily realized, she had two lovers to learn her craft from.

She turned on her PC, and sat down. Two lovers. Of course, Devlin was going to take full credit for her metamorphosis, she chuckled to herself. Well, let him. The Channel was something special that belonged only to women. Men didn't have to know about it. At least, that was what Rina had told her when she had introduced Emily to it. It was a delicious and dirty little secret, and while Emily had enjoyed being an observer as she imagined her novels in order to make certain they were believable, she had to admit that being an active part of the fantasy was even more fun. And for the first time in her life Emily decided that she wanted to have fun. She began to write, and it wasn't until four hours later that she came down from her aerie.

The day was as clear and warm as the previous had been rainy and chill. She was hungry, and decided to fix herself a Sunday style breakfast even if it was Monday. Rina and Sam were coming by to take her to the Memorial Day parade, and then they were all going out to the club for lunch. French toast! That was what she wanted. French toast with lots of b.u.t.ter and syrup and sausages. She had begun to pull the ingredients together when the phone rang. Answering it, Emily heard Devlin's voice, and her heart beat just a little faster.

"I took the red-eye home. London was lonely. I think I needed you with me," he told her. "How about if I take Friday off and come out Thursday night, angel face?"

"Only if you'll eat lamb chops and asparagus in bed with me," she said with a happy smile. "And local strawberries. I dip them in dark chocolate laced with Grand Marnier. And we'll have a bowl of whipped cream."

"I won't promise to confine the whipped cream to the strawberries," he told her.

"Where do you want to put it?" she asked. She could almost hear his grin.

"All over you, and then I'll slowly lick it off," he said.

"Come early," she told him.

"I will." He chuckled, and then he rang off.

Reality was better, Emily decided happily as she turned her sausages in the frying pan. He had missed her. Well, she had sure as h.e.l.l missed him too.

Chapter 5.

The Tuesday-morning editorial meeting at Stratford Publishing was coming to a close. At one end of the conference table Martin Stratford sat considering, as he swirled the remaining coffee at the bottom of his cup, just how many of these meetings he had attended over the last forty years. He was anxious to get to his summer home on the North Fork of Eastern Long Island. It was mid-July, and the city was untenable. At the other end of the table his company's president, J. P. Woods, sat looking as cool and unruffled as she always did. Martin considered for a moment whether J.P. ever broke a sweat. There was never a hair out of place on the d.a.m.ned woman, but she knew how to run a publishing house. He'd give her that. Still, she wasn't the best-liked person in their industry, which was why he was considering someone else to sit in his chair next year.

"Devlin!" J.P.'s voice grated on her employer's ear. "What about Emilie Shann? How is her book coming? Are we going to have another three hundred and fifty pages of treacle? Or is she finally letting her heroine get screwed?"

Martin Stratford raised an eyebrow at J.P.'s crudeness. "Language, J.P.," he said in a warning tone.

"The book is coming along very well, J.P.," Michael Devlin answered coolly.

"You've seen it? Is it going to be on time? Or is Miss Prim and Proper going to be late, and have the vapors because she has to write about s.e.x?"

Some of the young editors about the table giggled.

"Has Emilie Shann ever been late with her work, J.P.?" Devlin asked softly.

"You've seen the book? Read some of what she's written?" J.P. persisted.

"I've been in Egret Pointe every weekend all summer," he replied. "And I've rented Aaron Fischer's cottage for August. Trust me, J.P. The book is going to be good, and the heroine is going to be s.e.xually satisfied. And we will increase her readership quite substantially for us all, with the right promotion and advertising."

"Miss Prim and Proper can sell on her name," J.P. said.

"Martin?" Devlin turned to the company head. "We've asked Emily to change her style and inject more s.e.x into her book. We need advertising and promotion to acknowledge that change in order to attract new readers. Sales need to reflect that change when they head out to sell The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess."

"She already has a readership, Devlin," J.P. said.

"You asked her to make this change to increase her readership. Secondhand sales put nothing in our pocket, J.P., nor in Emily's royalty statements to reduce her advance. This book has to be heavily promoted first with the distributors and chains, and then with the readers. May I remind you it's the last book on her current contract? This book is going to be very big, J.P. And if we don't have Emily tied up tightly for another few books, someone is going to sign her right out from under our noses. Aaron Fischer isn't a fool. Or maybe you're looking to get into a bidding war for the author who is responsible for at least a quarter of this company's revenues."

"It's that good?" Martin Stratford turned to look at the man on his right.

"It's that good, Martin," Michael Devlin a.s.sured him. "It's the best work she's done yet. She's stretching herself, and even I'm surprised at the depth and scope of this book. The readers are going to love it. And so will our bottom line."

"Then," Martin Stratford said, "we'll take your advice, and promote. Right, J.P.?"

"If you say so, Martin," J.P. answered him. She shot Michael Devlin a hard look. "You have to go to London before your vacation, Devlin. Prunella is having difficulties with Savannah Banning. I think she misses having you near her to keep her inspired," J.P. said with a double meaning intended to insult him."

"Lady Palmer does not need me for inspiration. She has her husband. I am not going to London. I will call Prunella and learn what she has to say, and then I will speak with Lady Palmer."

"If I say you have to go to London, Devlin, you will go," J. P. Woods snapped.

Around the table the young editors were shifting nervously in their seats and trying to avoid eye contact with one another. The tension between their editor in chief, who was a good guy, and the company president who scared the h.e.l.l out of them, was well-known. But until this moment they had never seen it so palpably.

"I think this meeting is over now," Martin Stratford said quietly. "Run along, people. J.P, Devlin. Stay!"

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" J.P. hissed furiously at her antagonist. "How dare you embarra.s.s me like that in front of staff?"

"Listen to me, you little b.i.t.c.h," Michael Devlin said angrily. "Don't you dare imply that I slept with Savannah Banning. For openers it isn't true, and you not only slander Lady Palmer and her husband, you slander me. Shoot your mouth off like that, and Stratford could be in for a lawsuit. And why the h.e.l.l are you gunning for Emily Shanski? What did that woman ever do to you? She's important to this company."

"Children, children," Martin Stratford said in a deceptively mild tone. "Play nice. Mick is right, Jane Patricia. You started it. It ends now! And Mick, I am well aware of Emily's value to Stratford. I've always taken care of her, and she has always taken care of us. She isn't going anywhere. Do you both understand me?"

"Thanks, Martin," Michael Devlin said, the fires of his anger easing.

"I'm not so stupid as to sabotage our writers," J. P. Woods muttered.

Devlin crooked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I would ask you two to kiss and make up," Martin Stratford said with some humor, "but I've succeeded in this business by never asking the impossible of my employees. Mick, if you can straighten out Prunella and Savannah Banning by phone that's fine with me. Do it. I know you only travel first-cla.s.s, and if I'm going to be spending my money to properly promote The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess then I have to save where I can," he said with a small smile. "Now, is it safe to leave the pair of you alone? I would like to get out to Orient in time for a late lunch. I've never been to Egret Pointe, Mick. What is it like?"

"New Englandy," Michael Devlin answered. "Charming little village, lovely, gracious homes. And the inn at East Harbor has a delightful restaurant. Aaron and Kirk's cottage looks like something out of the Devon countryside. I'm looking forward to August, even though it will be a working vacation."

"The book really is good?" J. P. Woods said.

"It's really good," Michael Devlin answered her.

"I'll look forward to reading it," J.P. responded. "I didn't think she could do it. She always struck me as overly genteel and prudish. I mean, she's in her thirties, unmarried, raised by two old ladies. What the h.e.l.l could she know about the down and dirty? She was so tight with Rachel I often wondered if she wasn't a lesbian."

Michael Devlin laughed aloud. He couldn't help it. "Haven't you ever heard that old saying about still waters running deep?" he asked her. My G.o.d! If she only knew how wild and pa.s.sionate Emily Shanski was. His d.i.c.k twitched, and he struggled to keep himself cool and under control. He couldn't think about Emily without wanting her.

"Old sayings are usually nothing more than old sayings," J.R replied.

"Not always," Martin Stratford murmured, looking at Michael Devlin curiously from over the top of his reading gla.s.ses. Mick, Mick, what are you up to? he wondered to himself. Was one of the best editors he knew getting involved with a writer? No. Mick was more professional than that. He would never do that. Would he? "If you two can refrain from killing each other," he said, "I'm going to head out to the Island now. Mick, keep me informed about the Lady Palmer problem. You have the number out there, or my a.s.sistant can give it to you." He stood up, and with a quick smile at them was out the door.

"The company is mine," J.P. said. "I've worked for it, and I'm not letting you come back from London and take it out from under me. Do you understand, Mick?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, J.P.," Michael Devlin told her. "I don't want the company. I'm an editor. A d.a.m.ned good editor. And that's what I want to keep doing. There will always be a job for me. Even in this corporate climate, J.P."

"I don't wear knickers," J. P. Woods said.

Michael Devlin laughed. "Why am I not surprised?"

"You really don't want Stratford?" She sounded almost anxious.

He sighed. "No, I don't. But don't tell Martin. Let him play out his little game with us, and believe that he really did make the choice all by himself. If you can't work with me I can go back to London and Random House. They never get tired of offering."

"It would be easier if you stayed," she admitted. "I know I'm not the most beloved person in this business. Besides, I can't afford to lose the editor who got Miss Prim and Proper to write s.e.xy. How did you do it?"

"Trade secret, J.P., but maybe I will tell you one day." He couldn't laugh. He couldn't give himself away. Not now. And he couldn't hurt Emily or put her in a difficult position. "Look, I'm good at what I do. There's really nothing more to it than that. I've always been good with writers. It's an empathy thing. Look how I got Lady Palmer to get her ma.n.u.scripts in on time when no one else had been able to do that."

"How did you do it?" J.P. wanted to know.

"Savannah's brain is usually cluttered with her stories. I showed her how to organize her time better. No magic. No smoke and mirrors. Every editor she had had before me was in awe of her. They let her get away with murder. I didn't. And as soon as we understood each other, it all fell into place," he explained. "Writers are human, J.P. But they need a little more cosseting in most cases than normal people."

"Do you cosset Emilie Shann?" J.P. asked slyly.

"As a matter of fact, she cossets me. She's a terrific cook. I'm going to miss my weekends just because of her cooking," he said. "I've had to work out harder at the gym after our working weekends." He chuckled. Information for J.P. to chew on, but safe information. It retained Emily's nonthreatening image in J.P.'s mind.

"Of course she would cook," J.P. said acidly. "Does she do trifle?"

"Trifle to die for, and her creme brulee is incredible," he answered.

"Jesus, don't say another word!" J.P. exclaimed. "I'm going to throw up." She looked at her watch. "c.r.a.p! I've got a distributor coming in shortly." She turned sharply, and was quickly gone from the conference room with, out another word to him.

Well, that was interesting, Devlin thought, and he headed for his office.

"Savannah Banning is on the line from England," his secretary said. "She's in high dudgeon, Mick. She insisted on holding until you came out of your meeting."

"How long?"

"Close to five minutes now," the secretary said.

"I don't want to be disturbed," he told her, and shut the door of his office behind him, then picked up the phone. "Savannah! How are you? I understand we have a spot of difficulty. How can I help you?"

"You can help me by getting your Irish a.r.s.e back to old Blighty, d.a.m.n it!" Savannah exploded. "That woman is an idiot, Mick! She doesn't understand me at all!"

"I'm not coming back to England, Savannah," he said quietly.