"Okay," she responded, disappointed. Why couldn't he say it?

"I'll miss you," he managed to get out.

"Me too," she said. "Good-bye, Devlin." No use dragging it out.

"Bye, angel face," he replied softly, and hung up.

Emily put down the phone with a sigh. This was getting ridiculous. Suddenly she started to cry, and when she finally stopped she picked up the phone again, called her cable company, and ordered the Channel. She needed a friend. Not Rina, who loved her like a mother. Or Savannah, who was far too wrapped up in her own life right now. She needed someone who would sympathize with her and comfort her. And maybe even help her to decide what she was going to do next. She wanted Michael Devlin for a husband, and she was getting damned tired of waiting for him to come around and say what she saw in his eyes every time he made love to her these past few weeks. Words she sensed on the tip of his tongue. Until he could say them she was going to be driven crazy wondering why. Sometimes love stank, Emily thought.

She finished up her work for the day, went downstairs, and had the supper that Essie had left for her. She took a bath, smiling at the lilac fragrance that perfumed the room. Then, sliding into a sleep shirt, she climbed into bed. When the clock in the hall struck nine p.m. Emily picked up the channel changer, pressed the on button, and then programmed in the Channel. Almost at once the duke's library came into view. She hit enter, and there he was waiting for her.

"Caro, my love!" he said, coming forward to take her into his embrace. Then he stopped. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"No, Trahern," she said firmly. "No Caro tonight, damn it! Emily tonight. It's a sleep shirt. I need a friend, and you are elected."

The Duke of Malincourt looked somewhat horrified by her words. "A friend? My dear girl, men are not friends with women," he told her.

"Maybe not in your century, but in mine it happens all the time. My mother and father were best friends. You know what almost ruined that friendship? Sex. Me. But Mama went on to become a gonzo lawyer who married a man who became a senator, and together they produced two children. As for dear old Dad, he became a pediatrician with a nice Irish wife and three kids. I was raised by my grandmothers."

"Dear girl, I don't understand half of what you are saying to me, but I can see you are wretchedly unhappy. How can I help you?" He motioned her to a chair by the blazing fire, sat down, and drew her onto his lap.

"It's your doppelganger," Emily said with a sigh.

"My what?"

"The guy in my reality who looks just like you, Trahern," she explained.

"What is his name?" the duke wanted to know.

"Michael Devlin," Emily answered him.

"Irish. The Irish are always trouble, dear girl. Dispense with whatever services he provides for you. 'Tis the best advice I can offer you."

"I'm in love with him, Trahern! I want to get married!" Emily wailed.

"Ahhh," the duke said as understanding dawned in his green eyes. "Has he said that he loves you, dear girl?"

"Not in so many words. Sometimes I think he's going to say it, and then he can't seem to get it out," Emily said. "What the hell is the matter with him? Everyone says he loves me. And I sure as hell love him!"

"Have you told him so, dear girl?" the duke asked her.

"Of course not," Emily replied. "Women don't tell men that they love them until men tell women that they love them."

"Well," the duke said wryly with a small smile, "at least that much hasn't changed in the centuries separating our worlds. What does he do, this Michael Devlin?"

"He's my editor," Emily replied. "And he's a really good one."

"So you have something in common," the duke noted.

"Yes," she agreed.

"And he is your lover?" the duke inquired.

"Yes," Emily said softly.

"Is he as good in bed with you as I am, or have you endowed me with his qualities?" the duke wanted to know.

"Trahern! This is not just about sex. It's more for both of us, but I just can't seem to bring him up to scratch," Emily complained.

"Well, oddly I'm not particularly surprised by that," the duke remarked.

"You aren't?" This was interesting. "Why not?"

"You're too independent a woman, dear girl," the duke told her candidly. "Other than making love to you, is there anything else this man can do for you?"

"I don't understand," Emily said, puzzled.

"You earn your own keep, do you not? You own your own house. You manage your own funds, I would assume, as you are close to neither your father nor your stepfather, and you are certainly of a legal age to do it. What is there that Michael Devlin can do for you that you do not do for yourself? Men do not always think only with their cocks, dear girl, and a man has his pride, y'know."

"If it were this century I would agree with you, Trahern, but in the twenty-first century women in my country, even here in England, take care of themselves. We don't need to be cosseted and wrapped in cotton wool," Emily told the duke.

"More's the pity, dear girl," the duke murmured softly. "Perhaps if you were not so formidable a young lady, your Mr. Devlin would act upon his instincts and sweep you off to the parson. Even in your century the men surely want to be needed."

"In my century men sell their seed for pocket money at universities," she told him.

The duke actually paled at her words. "Tell me no more," he said.

"You're a man, Trahern. Surely men haven't changed that much in the past three centuries. Tell me what I can do so that Devlin will tell me he loves me. After that I can handle it just fine," Emily said.

"I have not a doubt that you can, dear girl. I honestly don't know what to tell you except to tell him how you feel and that you need him. A man who avoids declaring himself to the woman he loves is often as skittish as a colt in a pasture. He needs to be reassured, for one of the two things a man fears most is rejection by the woman he loves," the duke explained.

"What's the other thing?" she asked him mischievously.

The duke chuckled. "I believe you already know the answer to that, you minx, although it has certainly never happened to me."

"Perhaps I should make it so," she teased him.

"Dear girl!" he exclaimed shocked.

Emily slipped out of his lap. "I feel better now," she said. "I'm going back."

"You don't want to remain?" he asked her softly.

"Not really, Trahern. I don't honestly feel like stepping into the duchess's slippers tonight. I need to think."

"Don't think too much, dear girl," he said to her, rising to take her hand in his and kiss it. "Too much thinking could lead to disaster."

"Good night, Trahern," Emily said to him, and suddenly she was in her bed again, staring into the duke's library, which was still visible on her television.

"Good night, Emily, my sweet," he called to her from the other side of the television screen, and Emily clicked the off button, watching as the glass darkened.


***

In the days that followed Emily worked as she had never worked before. Although the book was not due in until year's end, she had promised Devlin it would be there right after Thanksgiving. While Aaron Fischer had worked out the terms of her new contract with Stratford, J. P. Woods wanted to read The Defiant Duchess herself before she signed off on the money involved, which was almost double what Emily had been getting. Carol Stacy, the publisher of Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine, had been pressing Emily on those terms and the advance to be paid in the new agreement, but Emily never discussed such things, even with friends like Savannah.

Thanksgiving was coming, and Emily always had a dinner party as her grandmother Emily O had had before her. There were a few more pages and an epilogue to write, but Emily put her work aside to prepare for the holiday. She went out to the local farm with Essie, and together they picked several pumpkins for pies, a half bushel of Mcintosh apples, another of mixed pears, both white and sweet potatoes, broccoli, two stalks of Brussels sprouts, carrots, beets, parsnips, a large bag of onions, and a couple of heads of cauliflower. Emily had a small root cellar where she would store the cold crops over the winter. She liked her veggies fresh, even if she did appear to be like Bree on Desperate Housewives sometimes.

Together she and Essie prepared the pumpkin filling for the pies. They cut up the apples for the apple pie. Emily made her Irish grandmother's poultry stuffing, using homemade bread crumbs, Bell's poultry seasoning, and onions and celery sauteed in butter. The turkey, all twenty-two pounds of it, was fresh from another local farm. Emily made the sweet-potato casserole with lots of butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and maple syrup. She cut the broccoli into individual florets, and sliced the parsnips into small rounds. While she put the pies together Essie made up two guest rooms: one for Devlin and the other for Rachel Wainwright, who was coming from Connecticut. Rachel had come for Thanksgiving for over ten years now.

Devlin called, but not as often as she had hoped. She thought he sounded tired, and even distant. When he called two days before Thanksgiving to announce he would be in London for the next few days, Emily felt the tears coming. She hadn't seen him in several weeks, and it was not just the incredible sex she missed; it was Michael Devlin.

"Why not? What happened?" she asked, her voice choking.

"The woman who's been renting my house had a fire in the kitchen. It was Harrington's day off, and instead of using the electric kettle for her tea she turned on the gas. Then she got a phone call, forgot the kettle, the water boiled off, and the kitchen caught fire, the damned stupid cow!" He sighed. "Jaysus, I miss you, angel face! What's for dinner besides the traditional Yankee turkey?"