Suddenly You (13 page)

Devlin smiled and sucked the sticky spot the raisin had left on his finger, then replaced his glove. The children congregated around the bowl once more, resuming their game. They gave little pretend shrieks of pain as their fingers hovered over the scalding liquid. “What next?” he asked, leading Amanda away from the punch table. “Would you like some wine?”

“I shouldn't like to monopolize your time—surely you should be receiving your guests.”

Devlin took her to a corner of the drawing room, taking a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant. He gave the glass to Amanda and lowered his head to murmur in her ear. “There's only one guest who matters to me.”

Amanda felt a prickling blush rise in her cheeks. She felt as if she were in a dream. This couldn't be happening to Amanda Briars, the spinster from Windsor…the sweet music, the lovely surroundings, the handsome man whispering seductive nonsense in her ear. “You have a beautiful home,” she said unsteadily, in an effort to break the spell he seemed to have cast on her.

“I take no credit for it. I bought the place as I found it, furnishings and all.”

“It's a very large house for just one person.”

“I entertain a great deal.”

“Have you ever kept a mistress here?” Amanda had no idea why she had dared to voice the shocking question that had popped into her mind.

He smiled, his voice gently mocking. “Why, Miss Briars…asking such a question on a sacred holiday…”

“Well, have you?” she persisted, having ventured too far to retreat now.

“No,” he admitted. “I've had an affair or two, but no mistresses. From what I've observed, it's too damned inconvenient—not to mention expensive—to get rid of a mistress once a man tires of her.”

“When did your last affair end?”

Devlin laughed quietly. “I'm not answering any more questions until you tell me why you've taken such an interest in my bedroom activities.”

“I may decide to base a character on you someday.”

The remnants of a delicious grin lingered on his lips. “Then you may as well learn something else about me, my inquisitive little friend—I like to dance. And I'm rather good at it. So if you'll allow me to demonstrate…”

He removed the wineglass from her hand and set it on a small table, then led her toward the drawing room.

For the next few hours, the dreamlike feeling remained as Amanda danced, drank, laughed, and participated in holiday games. Devlin's duties as host occasionally took him away from her side, but even when he was standing on the other side of the room, Amanda was aware of his gaze on her. To her amusement, he sent her frankly brooding stares when she talked too long with any particular gentleman, for all the world as if he were jealous. In fact, Devlin actually dispatched Oscar Fretwell to intervene after she had danced twice with a charming banker named “King” Mitchell.

“Miss Briars,” Fretwell exclaimed pleasantly, his blond hair gleaming beneath the light of the chandeliers, “I don't believe you've danced with me yet…and Mr. Mitchell cannot be allowed to keep such a charming lady all to himself.”

Regretfully Mitchell handed her over to the manager, and Amanda smiled at Fretwell as they began a quadrille. “Devlin sent you, didn't he?” she asked dryly.

Fretwell grinned sheepishly and didn't bother to deny it. “I was told to inform you that King Mitchell is a divorced man and a gambler, and is very bad company.”

“I thought him quite entertaining,” Amanda replied archly, and moved through the next figures of the quadrille. She caught sight of Devlin, standing in the wide arch between the drawing room and the parlor. Returning his frowning gaze with a cheerful little wave, Amanda continued the quadrille with Fretwell.

When the dance concluded, Fretwell escorted her to the refreshment table for a cup of punch. As a servant ladled the raspberry-colored liquid into a crystal cup, Amanda became aware of a stranger standing at her elbow. She turned and smiled at the man.

“Have we met, sir?”

“To my great regret, no.” He was a tall, rather plain-looking man, his ordinary appearance enhanced by one of the close-trimmed beards that had recently become fashionable. His large nose was balanced by a pair of handsome brown eyes, and his mouth curved in an easy, comfortable smile. A full head of cropped russet hair was threaded with silver at the temples. Amanda judged him to be at least five or even ten years older than she…a mature man, established and quietly confident.

“Allow me to make the introductions,” Fretwell said, adjusting his spectacles more securely on his nose. “Miss Amanda Briars, this is Mr. Charles Hartley. As it happens, the two of you write for the same publisher.”

Amanda was intrigued by the fact that Hartley was also employed by Jack Devlin. “Mr. Hartley has my sympathy,” she said, making both gentlemen laugh.

“With your permission, Miss Briars,” Fretwell murmured with clear amusement, “I'll leave the two of you to commiserate while I go to greet some old friends who have just arrived.”

“Certainly,” Amanda said, sipping the tart, sweet punch. She glanced at Hartley as his name struck a chord of recognition. “Surely you're not
Uncle
Hartley?” she asked in delight. “The one who writes books of children's verse?” Receiving his nod of confirmation, she laughed and touched his arm impulsively. “Your work is wonderful. Truly wonderful. I've read your stories to my nieces and nephews. My favorite is about the elephant who complains all the time, or perhaps the king who finds the magical cat—”

“Yes, my immortal verses,” he said in a dry, self-deprecating tone.

“But you're so clever,” Amanda said sincerely. “And it's so difficult to write for children. I could never come up with a thing that interests them.”

He smiled with a warmth that made his ordinary face seem almost handsome. “I find it difficult to believe that any subject would be beyond your talent, Miss Briars.”

“Come, let's find a private corner and talk,” Amanda urged. “I have many questions I would love to ask you.”

“That is a most appealing suggestion,” he said, presenting his arm and leading her away.

Amanda found his company to be restful and soothing, different in every way from the dazzling stimulation that Jack Devlin's presence offered. Ironically, although Hartley made his living by writing books for children, he was a widower and had no children of his own.

“It was a good marriage,” he confided to Amanda, his large hands still cradling a crystal punch cup, even though he had drained it several minutes earlier. “My wife was the kind of woman who knew how to make a man feel comfortable. She was very unaffected and agreeable, and never put on the silly airs that most females seem to have nowadays. She spoke her mind freely, and she liked to laugh.” Hartley paused and considered Amanda thoughtfully. “She was rather like you, as a matter of fact.”

 

Jack managed to extricate himself from a deadly dull conversation with a pair of classical scholars, Dr. Samuel Shoreham and his brother, Claude, both of whom were earnestly attempting to convince him that he should publish their manuscript on Greek antiquities. Striding away from the pair with poorly concealed relief, Jack found Fretwell nearby. “Where is she?” he asked the manager curtly. There was no need to explain who “she” was.

“Miss Briars is occupying the settee in the corner, with Mr. Hartley,” Fretwell said. “She is perfectly safe with him, I assure you. Hartley is not one to make improper advances to a lady.”

Jack glanced at the pair and then moodily surveyed the brandy in the glass he held. A strange, bitter smile pulled at his mouth, and he spoke to Fretwell without looking up.

“What
do
you know of Charles Hartley, Oscar?”

“You're referring to his situation, sir? His character? Hartley is a widower, and he is known to be an honorable man. He is of moderate wealth, born of a good family, and his reputation is completely free of scandal.” Fretwell paused briefly and smiled. “And I believe he is adored by children everywhere.”

“And what do you know of me?” Jack finally asked softly.

Fretwell frowned in confusion. “I'm not certain what you're asking.”

“You know my business practices—I'm not honorable, nor am I scandal-free. I've made a fortune, but I'm illegitimate and I come from bad blood. On top of that, I don't like children, I abhor the idea of marriage, and I've never managed to have a relationship with a woman that lasted longer than six months. And I'm a selfish bastard…because I'm not going to let any of that stop me from pursuing Miss Briars, despite the fact that I am the last thing she needs.”

“Miss Briars is an intelligent woman,” Fretwell said quietly. “Perhaps you should allow her to decide what she needs.”

Jack shook his head. “She won't realize her mistake until after she's made it,” he said grimly. “Women never do in these matters.”

“Sir…” Fretwell said uneasily, but Jack walked away, rubbing the back of his neck in the unconsciously weary gesture of a man who was driven by a ferocious will that dominated his better instincts.

 

Christmas dinner was superb, as course after course of remarkable dishes was served to guests, who all exclaimed in delight. The uncorking of wine bottles provided a steady rhythmic undertone to the clinking of glassware and the hum of animated conversation. Amanda lost count of the various delicacies that were offered to her. There were four kinds of soup, including turtle and lobster, and several roast turkeys dressed with sausages and herbs.

A never-ending parade of servants brought platters of veal in béchamel sauce, capons, sweetbreads, roast quail and hare, venison, swans' eggs, and a dazzling array of vegetable casseroles. Puddings made of exotic fish and game were presented in steaming silver bowls, followed by trays of luxury fruits and salads, and crystal plates laden with truffles in wine. There were even tender stalks of asparagus, well out of season and therefore highly prized at Christmastime.

As much as Amanda enjoyed the marvelous meal, she was barely aware of what she was eating, so enthralled was she by the man beside her. Devlin was extraordinarily charming, telling stories with a droll wit that certainly came from his Irish heritage.

A heavy, sweet ache formed inside Amanda, one that had nothing to do with the wine she had drunk. She wanted to be alone with Devlin, wanted to lure and possess him, if only for a little while. The sight of his hands made her mouth go dry. She remembered the incredible warmth of his body against hers…she wanted to feel it again. She wanted to pull him inside herself…she wanted the peace of physical release to encompass them both, to lie relaxed and happy in his arms. She'd had such an ordinary life, and Devlin seemed as brilliant as a comet streaking across the sky.

After what seemed an eternity, dinner was concluded and the guests separated into groups, some men remaining at the table for port, some ladies congregating in the parlor for tea, whereas many of both sexes gathered at the piano to sing carols. Amanda prepared to join the latter group, but before she could reach the piano, she felt Devlin's hand close around her elbow, and his deep voice murmured in her ear.

“Come away with me.”

“Where are we going?” she asked pertly.

His polite social expression did little to mask the vibrant desire in his eyes. “To find a convenient bower of mistletoe.”

“You'll cause a scandal,” she warned, caught between laughter and alarm.

“Are you afraid of scandal?” He guided her through the drawing room door and down a darkened hallway. “You'd better stay with your respectable friend Hartley, then.”

Amanda made a sound of amused disbelief. “You almost sound jealous of that kind, gentlemanly widower—”

“Of course I'm jealous of him,” Devlin muttered. “I'm jealous of every man that looks at you.” He pulled her into a large, shadowy room that smelled of leather and vellum and tobacco. It was the library, she realized dimly, while her heart thundered in excitement at the prospect of being alone with him. “I want you all to myself,” Devlin continued gruffly. “I want all those damned people to leave.”

“Mr. Devlin,” she said shakily, her breath catching as he backed her against a bookcase and stood with his powerful body almost touching hers. “I think you've had too much to drink.”

“I'm not drunk. Why is it so difficult for you to believe that I want you?” She felt his warm hands come to either side of her head, clasping her skull gently. His lips touched her forehead, cheeks, nose in soft, scorching kisses that drew fire to the surface of her skin. He spoke quietly, his rum-scented breath caressing her. “The question is, Amanda…do you want me?”

Words fluttered and collided inside her, while her body strained toward him so willfully that she could no longer keep from pressing forward into the large, muscular shape of him. He took her against him, urging her hips forward until their bodies were molded together as tightly as the layers of their clothing would allow.

The relief of being clasped firmly, held close by his hands, was so great that Amanda couldn't hold back a sudden gasp. He nuzzled into her bare throat, kissing, tasting, and her knees wobbled at the sensations that streaked through her. “Beautiful Amanda,” he muttered, his breath rushing fast and hot against her skin. “
A chuisle mo chroi
…I said that to you once before, remember?”

“You didn't tell me what it meant,” she managed to say, resting her soft cheek on his shaven, faintly scratchy one.

He pulled his head back and stared down at her with shadowed eyes that looked black instead of blue. His broad chest moved jerkily from the force of his breathing. “The very pulse of my heart,” he whispered. “From the first moment we met, Amanda, I knew how it would be between us.”