Forbidden Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  “My dear girl, surely you understand that while the Channel may allow you to live your fantasies, it cannot substitute for, um, certain realities in your life,” the duke said.

  “Such as?” Emily asked him.

  “Your novels of Georgian and Regency England have always been warm family dramas, dear girl. Your heroines have been chaste, your heroes manly, and when they are finally wedded the door has always closed on the nuptial chamber. There have been kisses and caresses, but never have you permitted a hero to put his hand below the waist of one of your maidens. And never before have you begun a book with the hero and heroine a married couple. You have observed marriage enough to write about it, but have you experienced passion or bald-faced lust enough to write about it? I think not.”

  “I have quite a few books on the subject, thank you,” Emily replied sharply.

  He laughed aloud. “Not good enough, dear girl,” the duke told her. “If you have not rolled amid the tangled sheets, sweaty and naked with a man you at least liked, the pictures in one of those books you have will not suffice. What experience will you draw upon to write of such an emotional encounter, dear girl? What knowledge? No, no, your virginity will not do. It simply will not do.”

  “I did not say I was a virgin,” Emily snapped, but she was blushing.

  “But you are, aren’t you?” he responded. “There is no shame in it, dear girl. Actually it’s quite charming.”

  Emily sighed. “But if you make love to me then I will be able to write what they want of me, Trahern,” she told him. God! She never thought she would use the Channel for sexual gratification, like some of the women she knew. It was embarrassing.

  “I can’t,” he said quietly. “Oh, I could go through the motions, dear girl, but you would feel nothing at all, because in reality you would remain exactly as you are. You will have to lose that tiresome virginity of yours in your own reality before we may begin to enjoy each other here within the Channel, I’m afraid,” Trahern told her.

  “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?” Emily demanded of him. “Perhaps I should put an advertisement in the Egret Pointe Times. ‘Wanted: Studly gentleman to relieve me of my virginity so I may write sexier books.’ ” She stood up, reaching for the nearest objet d’art to throw. This whole situation was infuriating.

  The duke stayed her hand. “No, no, dear girl, that vase is one of Josiah Wedgwood’s newest creations. I’d prefer if you didn’t destroy it in your pique. The answer to your dilemma is really quite simple. You have imagined me as someone you know. Obviously you are attracted to him. Seduce him, dear girl, and your problem is solved. I do not know why you didn’t think of it yourself. And afterward when the deed is done, you and I will embark upon a delicious and—I promise you—a most wickedly delightful adventure.”

  “I don’t know how to seduce a man,” Emily said almost sadly.

  “Within each woman, my lovely duchess, is the knowledge and the skill to seduce any man she desires,” the Duke of Malincourt said. “Just this once, dear girl, wouldn’t you like to enjoy the Channel as a visitor, and not an observer? Entice this man who attracts you, and you will gain everything you have ever wanted.”

  “But I just want to write good books and earn my living.” Emily sighed, sinking back into the big wing chair.

  “Unless you write more sexually detailed novels, dear girl, it seems you will not be able to do that. Have you any idea how that sad and woebegone little face of yours cries out to me to kiss you?” he asked her. “You have been kissed, haven’t you?”

  Emily nodded, and when she had the duke touched his lips to hers gently.

  “You are very sweet, dear girl, and I will admit to longing for more than just the touch of your lips. Seduce the gentleman in question so we may begin our adventure.”

  “You say nothing of love,” Emily noted.

  “Nor do you,” he replied with a small smile. “Is there such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily answered honestly. She closed her eyes. “Farewell for now, Trahern.” She sank away, and when she opened her eyes again she was in her own bed. Reaching for the channel changer Emily turned off the television. But she could not sleep. It was close to four a.m., and the sky outside her window was already beginning to grow light. A mourning dove cooed softly in the large pine by the corner of the house nearest her bedroom.

  Seduce the man, Trahern had said. All well and good for him, but how the hell was she going to entice Mick Devlin into making a woman of her? To begin with, it had to be totally inappropriate for an author to sexually harass her editor. Still Devlin was, if the gossip was to be believed, a man who could be tempted. She had called her old friend Savannah Banning yesterday afternoon. Savannah also published with Stratford, and lived outside of London with her husband. Savannah knew everything of interest there was to know about in the world. Her curiosity, like her libido, was insatiable. If Mick Devlin had a reputation, she would give Emily the whole story, chapter and verse.

  “Em!” Savannah had squealed when she answered the phone in her plummy British accent, flavored with South Carolina. “How are you? What’s the news from New York?”

  And Emily had told her.

  “So old Rachel has been put out to pasture. Well, high time, darling. Nice as she is, she really is quite past it.”

  “Rachel is a wonderful editor,” Emily defended Rachel.

  “But Mick Devlin! Darling, you are just the luckiest girl. He’s been editing me for several years. If I didn’t love being old Reggie’s wife so damned much I would have tried for Mick myself. Damn! If he’s back in New York who is going to take care of me? I’ll probably get stuck with old Prunella Baines-Harrington. She’s a decent enough sort, but darling, she is the most boooring woman.”

  “Tell me about Devlin, Savannah,” Emily said softly.

  “What’s to tell?” Savannah replied slyly, and then she giggled. “The women flock to him like flies to jam, darling, but he is very particular about his women. And no one has ever gotten close enough to slip a bridle on him. There was one little Sloan’s Ranger who thought she had the inside track until he showed up at her birthday party with a really smashing model. Lady Something-or-other-hyphenated. The birthday girl proceeded to get very drunk, picked a fight with Lady whoever, and got shoved into her own birthday cake for her trouble.” Savannah chortled. “Why do you ask?”

  “I have to work with the man, Savannah, and Aaron told me a story about J.P. and Devlin. I’ve never worked with a man. Rachel and I got on so well.”

  “The story about J.P. and Devlin is true,” Savannah said. “What else?”

  “Stratford won’t renew my contract after this book unless I write sexier,” Emily wailed. “The rumor is that Martin wants to semiretire, but he can’t decide into whose hands to put the company, J.P. or Michael Devlin. That’s why he was brought back.” She sighed. “I’m screwed, Savannah. I can’t write sexy. And especially for a male editor. I worked perfectly with Rachel. What am I going to do?”

  “Darling, I should only be in your slippers,” Savannah said, sighing dramatically. “What should you do? Throw yourself on his mercy, is what you should do. You’re really just his type, you know, Em. You’re intelligent, funny, and quite lovely. And I expect he’s at that vulnerable age when he might even be considering settling down.”

  “What are you saying?” Emily asked her friend, surprised.

  “Look, darling, if Mick has to turn you into a sensuous instead of a sweet author, and he fails, the evil J.P. gets Martin’s nod. But if he succeeds, Mick will get the company, and you’ll both live happily ever after. His future is every bit as much on the line as yours is, Em. Use that to your advantage,” Savannah advised.

  “What exactly are you saying, Savannah?” Emily repeated.

  Savannah laughed her low, husky laugh. “You know exactly what I’m saying, Em. Have a love affair with the guy. Seduce him! You might even win a gold ring.”

  “Seduce my editor? I
wouldn’t know where to begin, Sava.”

  Savannah laughed harder. “Sure you do,” she said.

  “It’s inappropriate!” Emily protested.

  “Oh, pooh! If you do it’s going to make it all the more fun, especially when you run into J.P. You’ll have that glow that a well-fucked woman gets, and she’ll know Mick is going at you like a mastiff in heat. But you aren’t a girl to kiss and tell. And J.P. won’t ask, but it’ll kill her anyway.” Savannah choked on her laughter. “Revenge is so sweet.”

  “You are really quite dreadful,” Emily told her, but she was smiling.

  “He’s a lovely man, darling. Enjoy yourself. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever known a time when you did enjoy yourself with a man. Any man. Either you are the most discreet woman in the world, or ...” And then Savannah gasped.

  “I have to go, Sava,” Emily said quickly. She did not want to get into a discussion about her virginity with Savannah Banning, whose novels, it was rumored, were printed on fireproof paper. “Say hi to Sir Reginald for me. Toodles!” And she rang off.

  Emily turned restlessly in her bed, and asked herself for the third time just how she, inexperienced as she was, was going to seduce a sophisticated and urbane man like Michael Devlin. And he would be coming to Egret Pointe, to her house, for the weekend in just a few days. And suddenly she heard her grandmother O’Malley’s voice as plain as day, saying, “The way to a good man’s heart is through his stomach, Emily.” She almost laughed aloud, remembering how he had gobbled down those two beef-and-cheddar wraps at Felicity’s. The man had a good appetite on him.

  “I’ll bet no woman ever cooked for you, Mick Devlin,” Emily said aloud.

  Outside her window a cardinal started calling, and the sparrows in the pine tree were chattering noisily. The clock on her fireplace mantel struck five a.m. She was not going to go back to sleep. Emily sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had menus to plan for the weekend. And shopping to do. And she would ask Rina and Dr. Sam to dinner Friday night to help her get over any shyness with Devlin. She had a man coming for the weekend whom she had only met once. And she was going to seduce him. Well, she was going to try. With his reputation it would probably be easy. A prime rib, a good red wine. Chocolate mousse or trifle. He would be putty in her hands. If there was one thing Emily Shanski could do as well as write, it was cook.

  Michael Devlin swung off the parkway onto the Egret Pointe exit. Turn right at the bottom of the ramp, Emily had told him. He did. When he’d heard her voice on the phone, his cock had tingled, and he was again surprised by the effect this woman was having on him. He was forty years of age come August, not some kid in heat for the first time. Two miles down County Road 3 he saw the sign: WELCOME TO EGRET POINT. FOUNDED 1723. He was enchanted, for it had the air of a New England village, yet it wasn’t New England. He was just seventy-five miles from the city.

  The main street was lined in ancient maples just now greening up. There was a village green with a gazebo; a duck pond, on the far side of which were pink Kwanzan cherry trees in full bloom. The shops were deliberately small, and charming. Some had offices above them, for he saw a sign that read, JOHNSON AND PIETRO D’ANGELO, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW. And the streetlights were real antique gas lamps, not those faux modern ones you saw in so many places now. Devlin almost missed his turn onto Colonial Avenue at the far end of the village. He paid closer attention to his driving so that he was prepared for the turn onto Founders Way.

  “It has just five houses on it,” Emily had told him. “The first two are genuine Colonials. The next two are Empire, but one is modern. I’m the big Empire at the bottom of the street. It’s not really a cul de sac, but similar to one. You can park your car at the very end of the driveway. I’ll be watching for you.”

  He made the turn and drove to the end of the little street, pulling all the way up into her driveway, and catching his breath as she came out from the house to greet him. Damn, she was lovely! She was wearing khaki slacks that hugged a very round little butt, and a cream-colored silk shirt. She wore no lipstick, and it tickled him. Emily Shanski was obviously not a girl who doted on her appearance. It told him she had enough confidence in herself not to worry about such things. All the women he knew did.

  “You drive a Healy!” were the first words out of her mouth, and she hurried by him to admire his car. “It’s a ’sixty?” Emily ran her hand over the cream-colored fender.

  “’Sixty-one,” he said. “I brought it with me from Ireland to New York to England, and back to New York again. They are very rare now, I’m told.”

  “I have a ’sixty-three in the garage,” she told him. “I just found it about five years ago, and had it restored. Mine is Racing Green, but I’ve got the roll-up windows.”

  “A distinct advantage when it’s about to rain,” he admitted.

  “Oh, I’m being so rude,” she exclaimed, blushing. “Welcome to Egret Pointe, Mr. Devlin. Grab your bag, and I’ll show you to your room. I hope you don’t mind coming in the kitchen door, but it seems silly to drag you around to the front at this point.”

  “Mick,” he said. “My friends call me Mick. And I prefer the kitchen door. Back in Ireland when I grew up only the priest came in the front door.” He pulled the elegant bag from the back of the car and followed her up two small steps into the house. His nose twitched. “Is that roast beef I smell cooking?” he wanted to know.

  “I took the chance you didn’t keep a meatless Friday,” Emily admitted. “But if you do, I have some salmon in the freezer I can cook.”

  The look on his face was beatific. “No, I do not keep a meatless Friday, Emily, and rare beef is my favorite meal. There would not, by chance, be some potatoes roasting around that meat, would there?” The hopeful look on his face made him appear boyish.

  “Now, sir, what kind of an Irish girl would I be if I didn’t have the potatoes roasting about the beef?” she teased him.

  “It’s O’Shanski then, is it?” Devlin teased back.

  Emily laughed. “My mother was an O‘Malley,” she explained, “and this was my Grandma O’Malley’s house once upon a time. Both she and Granny Katya taught me to cook. I do a mean kielbasa and pierogies too.”

  “I think you may be the perfect woman, Emily,” he flattered her. “You write wonderful novels, and cook as well.” And I’ll bet you fuck like a dream, too, he thought to himself, his eyes briefly sliding over the twin mounds beneath the silk blouse. He had never been more tempted in his life, and he was going to have a difficult time keeping his hands off of her, which surprised him. He had always managed a strong reserve where women were concerned. Enjoy what they offer, but don’t get emotionally involved was his longtime motto.

  “Reserve your judgment until you’ve tasted my dinner,” Emily advised him. “Come on. I promised to show you to your room.” She hurried from the kitchen, and he fell into step behind her.

  The home had a gracious center hallway with a graceful staircase. As they reached it the doorbell chimed, and then the door opened to admit an older couple.

  “Rina, Dr. Sam,” Emily greeted them, turning. Then, looking back at Michael Devlin, she said, “Upstairs to the left, second door. And come back down to meet my friends.” She gave him a smile before she moved away to welcome her other guests.

  He mounted the staircase, and as he went he heard the newly arrived woman say, “My God, Emily, he’s even more gorgeous close up! Are you sure you want us to stay for dinner? If I were in your shoes I’d want him all to myself.” Devlin grinned to himself.

  “Rina, he’ll hear you,” Emily said, and felt her cheeks growing warm.

  Dr. Sam Seligmann chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere, Rina. I smell roast beef.”

  “Like I never cook?” Rina Seligmann said as they entered the gracious parlor of the house. She plunked herself into a comfortable club chair.

  “You cook fine, but not like our Emily,” Dr. Sam answered his spouse. “Shall I make everyone a drink?”r />
  “For you and Rina, and Mick when he comes back down,” Emily said. “We’re having wine with dinner, and you know me—two glasses of anything is my limit.”

  Dr. Sam stirred up a pitcher of martinis, and had just poured one for his wife and for himself when Michael Devlin entered the room. Catching his eye, Dr. Sam held up the pitcher and tilted his head to one side quizzically.

  “Martinis?” Devlin asked.

  “Yep,” Dr. Sam said.

  “We’re having wine with dinner,” Emily put in quickly.

  “Then I shall satisfy myself with a sherry, if you have it,” Devlin replied.

  “One sherry coming up,” Dr. Sam answered, putting the martini pitcher down. “I’m Sam Seligmann, town doctor. My wife, Rina.”

  “You were the driver for Emily the other day in the city, weren’t you?” Devlin asked, now remembering the brief glimpse he had had of Rina Seligmann. “You’re Aaron Fischer’s sister. Am I right?”

  “His little sister,” Rina responded with a grin. “He was almost eight when I came into the world. The prince of the family until my arrival.” She chuckled.

  “And he’s terrified of her,” Emily said, laughing.

  “As well it should be,” Rina Seligmann answered smugly.

  Devlin laughed too. “I’m an only child,” he told them. “I envy you a sibling.”

  The small talk continued back and forth, with Emily running in and out of the kitchen overseeing her meal. Finally she announced it was ready, and they all trooped to the table. Taking her place at the head of the table, she asked Devlin to sit at the other end, and the Seligmanns took their place on either side, as was their custom.

  “Will you carve the roast beast?” she asked him, and he saw she had placed the platter with the meat before him. Before it was a carving knife and fork with bone handles. They were obviously very old.