Suddenly You (19 page)

“You look very tired,” she said bluntly. “You should sleep more.”

“I've been languishing for want of you,” he said in a voice so light and mocking that it implied just the opposite. “Is that the reply you were hoping for?”

She stiffened at the soft jeer. “Let me go. The strap on my slipper has come loose.”

“Not yet.” His hand remained at the center of her back. “I have some good news to share with you. The first issue of
Unfinished Lady
has sold out completely. Installment number two is in such high demand that I'm doubling the print order this month.”

“Oh. That is indeed good news.” But the pleasure she ordinarily would have felt was undercut by the terrible tension that stretched between them. “Jack, my slipper—”

“Dammit,” he muttered, stopping the swirling waltz and leading her away from the dancing.

Amanda held onto his arm as he guided her to a gilded chair set at the side of the drawing room. Silently she cursed the slipper and the delicate ribbon that tied it to her ankle, feeling it loosen until she could hardly keep the thing on.

“Sit,” came Jack's curt order, and he knelt beside her, reaching for her foot.

“Stop that,” Amanda snapped, aware that they were attracting many amused and curious glances.

A few guests were even tittering behind fans or gloved hands at the spectacle of proper Miss Amanda Briars being attended to by a notorious rake like Jack Devlin. “People are staring,” she said in a softer tone as he drew the slipper from her foot.

“Settle your feathers. I've seen slipper-ribbons come loose before. In fact, some women even arrange it on purpose as an excuse to show off their ankles to their partners.”

“If you are implying that I would use such a stupid pretext to—to—well, you are even more insufferably conceited than I thought!” Amanda flushed with embarrassment and glared at him as he glanced down at the flimsy slipper with a sudden smile.

“Why, Miss Briars,” he murmured. “How frivolous of you.”

She had purchased the dancing slippers on impulse. Unlike her other shoes, they had been designed with no thought to functionality or quality. They were hardly anything more than a thin sole and a one-inch heel held together with bits of lace and ribbon, and tiny embroidered flowers at the toe. One of the frail silk ribbons that affixed the shoe to her ankle had snapped in two, and Jack knotted the two frayed ends with a few deft twists of his fingers.

He assumed a properly impassive expression as he replaced the slipper on her foot and wrapped the ribbon around her ankle. However, there was a betraying remnant of laughter in his eyes, making it clear that he was enjoying her helplessness, and the attention they were attracting. Amanda kept her face averted, focusing fiercely on her hands as they twisted together in her lap.

Devlin took care to keep from exposing an untoward glimpse of Amanda's ankle as he replaced the shoe, his fingers cupped briefly around the back of her foot to hold it steady. She had never liked her legs, for they were sturdy and too short. Odes were never written to a woman with practical ankles, only to those who had slender, dainty ones. Yet her unromantic ankles were exquisitely sensitive, and she couldn't keep from quivering as she felt the clasp of Devlin's fingers, the heat of his hands penetrating the silk barrier of her stocking and burning the skin beneath.

The touch was fleeting, but Amanda felt it down to the marrow of her bones. She was confounded by the immediacy of her desire, the way her mouth turned dry, the nerve-rattling thrill of pleasure that went through her entire body. Abruptly she did not care that they were in a crowded drawing room. She wanted to sink to the polished floor with him, crush her mouth to his skin, tug his weight over her until she felt the intimate heat of him thrusting inside her. The primitive thoughts that raced through her head while she sat in these civilized surroundings made her horrified and dizzy.

Jack released her shod foot and rose before her. “Amanda,” he said quietly. She felt his gaze on her downbent head.

She could not look up at him, could barely speak. “Please leave me alone,” she finally managed to whisper. “Please.”

Strangely, he seemed to understand her dilemma, for, after giving her a polite bow, he complied.

Amanda took several long breaths to settle her thoughts. The time she had spent apart from Jack had not eased her desire for him…she was filled with a longing and loneliness that drove her close to despair. How was she to bear these infrequent encounters with him? Was she to suffer like this for the rest of her life? And if so, what was to be done about it?

“Miss Briars?”

A low-pitched voice fell pleasantly on Amanda's ears. Raising her troubled gaze, she beheld a familiar face. A tall, brown-and-silver-haired man had approached her, his plain bearded face enhanced by a smile. His chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as he saw her hesitation. “I don't expect you to remember me,” he said in a self-effacing way, “but we met at Mr. Devlin's Christmas party. I'm—”

“Of course I remember,” Amanda said with a slight smile, relieved that his name had come to her mind. He was the popular author of children's verse, with whom she'd shared an enjoyable conversation at Christmas. “How nice to see you again, Uncle Hartley. I had no idea you would be attending the party this evening.”

Hartley laughed at her use of his pen name. “I can't comprehend why the most charming woman present would not be dancing. Perhaps you would favor me with a quadrille?”

She gave a regretful shake of her head. “The straps on my right slipper won't tolerate it, I'm afraid. I will be fortunate if I can manage to keep the dratted thing on my foot for the rest of the evening.”

Hartley regarded her in the manner of a man who was uncertain if he was being rebuffed or not. Amanda alleviated his discomfort by giving him another smile. “However,” she added, “I do believe I could manage a trip to the refreshment table, if you would be kind enough to escort me?”

“I would be delighted,” came his sincere reply, and he proffered his arm in a show of courtesy. “I had hoped very much to see you again after our conversation at Mr. Devlin's Christmas party,” he said as they proceeded slowly to the refreshment room. “Unfortunately, it seems that you have not moved in society very often of late.”

Amanda threw him a sharp glance, wondering if he had heard the rumors about her affair with Jack. But Hartley's expression was kind and polite, with no trace of accusation or insinuation.

“I have been occupied with work,” she said abruptly, trying to dismiss a sudden pang of shame…the first time she had ever experienced such an emotion.

“Of course, a woman of your great talent…it takes time to create such memorable work.” Hartley brought her to the refreshment table and gestured for a servant to fill a plate for her.

“And you?” Amanda asked. “Have you been writing more children's verse?”

“I'm afraid not,” Hartley said cheerfully. “I have been spending most of my time with my sister and her brood. She has five daughters and two sons, all of them as bright-eyed and mischievous as a pack of fox cubs.”

“You enjoy children,” Amanda remarked with a questioning lilt.

“Oh, completely. Children have a way of reminding one of the true purpose of life.”

“Which is?”

“Why, to love and be loved, of course.”

Amanda was startled by his simple sincerity. She felt a wondering smile touch her lips. How remarkable it was to find a man who was so unafraid of sentiment.

Hartley's brown eyes were steady and warm, but his mouth softened with regret amid the neatly trimmed shape of his beard as he continued. “My late wife and I were never able to have children, to both our disappointment A house without children can be very quiet indeed.”

While they moved along the refreshment line, Amanda's smile remained. Hartley was an impressive gentleman, kind and intelligent, and attractive despite his lack of true handsomeness. There was something about his broad, symmetrical face, with its large nose and rich brown eyes, that struck her as infinitely appealing. It was the kind of face that one could view every day and never tire of. She had been far too dazzled by Jack Devlin to notice Hartley before. Well, she vowed silently, she would not make that mistake again.

“Perhaps you will allow me to call on you sometime,” Hartley suggested. “I would enjoy taking you for an airing in my carriage when the weather turns.”

Mr. Charles Hartley was no fairy-tale hero, no dashing figure from a book, but a quiet, steady fellow who shared her interests. Hartley would never sweep her off her feet, but help her to keep them planted firmly on the ground. Although he was not what anyone would call exciting, Amanda had experienced enough excitement in her brief affair with Jack Devlin to last a lifetime. Now she wanted something—someone—who was solid and real, whose main ambition apparently was to lead a pleasant and ordinary life.

“I would like that very much,” Amanda said, and to her relief, she soon made the discovery that while she was in Charles Hartley's solicitous company, she was able to put all thoughts of Jack Devlin from her mind.

Making his last rounds of the day, Oscar Fretwell visited each floor of the building to check equipment and lock doors. He paused before Devlin's office. A light was burning inside, and a peculiar scent emanated from behind the closed door…the pungent tang of smoke. Mildly alarmed, Fretwell knocked on the portal and shouldered his way inside. “Mr. Devlin—”

Fretwell stopped and regarded the man who was both employer and friend with barely concealed amazement. Devlin was seated at his desk, surrounded by the ever-present piles of documents and books, puffing methodically on a long cigar. A crystal plate loaded with burned-out stubs, and a handsome cedar box that was half filled with more cigars, attested to the fact that Devlin's smoking had been going on for some time.

In an effort to compose his thoughts before speaking, Fretwell took the opportunity to remove his glasses and polish them with scrupulous care. When he replaced them, he gave Devlin a measuring stare. Although he rarely used Devlin's first name, feeling it necessary to demonstrate his absolute respect for the man before his employees, he used it deliberately now. For one thing, everyone had gone home for the day. For another, Fretwell felt the need to reestablish the connection that had existed between them since boyhood.

“Jack,” he said quietly, “I didn't know you had a taste for tobacco.”

“Today I do.” Devlin drew again on the cigar, his narrowed blue gaze fastening onto Fretwell's face. “Go home, Fretwell. I don't want to talk.”

Ignoring the muttered command, Fretwell wandered over to a window, unlocked the frame, and opened the panel to admit a cleansing breeze into the stuffy room. The dense blue haze that hung in the air began to disperse slowly. While Devlin's sardonic gaze remained on him, Fretwell approached the desk, inspected the box of cigars, and drew one out. “May I?”

Devlin grunted his assent, picking up a glass of whiskey and downing it in two gulps. Extracting a tiny scissor-case from his own pocket, Fretwell tried to snip the capped end off the cigar, but the tough wrapping of leaves resisted his efforts. Diligently he continued to saw away at the cigar until Devlin snorted and reached for it. “Give me the damned thing.”

Producing a wickedly sharp knife from his desk drawer, Devlin made a deep circular cut around the cap, removing the ragged edge left by the scissors. He handed Fretwell the cigar and a matchbox, and watched as he lit and drew on it until the tobacco produced an acrid, aromatic smoke that flowed smoothly.

Sitting in a nearby chair, Fretwell puffed in companionable silence while he contemplated what he could say to his friend. The truth was, Devlin looked like the very devil. The past few weeks of ruthless work and drinking and lack of sleep had finally taken their toll. Fretwell had never seen him in such a state before.

Devlin had never struck him as a particularly happy sort of man, seeming to view life as a battle to be won rather than something he should find a measure of enjoyment in, and given his past, no one could blame him. But Devlin had always seemed invincible. As long as his business concerns were succeeding, he was charmingly arrogant, nonchalant, reacting to good news and bad with sardonic humor and a steady head.

Now, however, it was clear that something was bothering Devlin, something that mattered to him very much. The mantle of invincibility had been stripped away, leaving behind a man who was so bedeviled that he could not seem to find refuge.

Fretwell had no difficulty in discerning when the trouble had begun—at the first meeting between Jack Devlin and Miss Amanda Briars. “Jack,” he said cautiously, “it is obvious that you have been somewhat preoccupied of late. I don't suppose there is anything—or anyone—that you would care to discuss—”

“No.” Devlin dragged a hand through his black hair, disheveling the thick locks, tugging absently at the front forelock

“Well, there is something I would like to bring to your attention.” Fretwell puffed thoughtfully on his cigar before continuing. “It seems that two of our writers have begun…I'm not certain what to call it…an involvement of some kind.”

“Really.” Devlin arched a black brow.

“And since you always like to be informed of any significant personal developments concerning your authors, I think you should be made aware of the rumors. It seems that Miss Briars and Mr. Charles Hartley have been seen together quite often of late. Once at the theater, a few times driving in the park, and at various social events—”

“I know,” Devlin interrupted sourly.

“Forgive me, but I thought that at one time you and Miss Briars—”

“You're turning into an interfering old biddy, Oscar. You need to find a woman for yourself and stop worrying about other people's private affairs.”

“I have a woman,” Fretwell replied with extreme dignity. “And I don't choose to interfere in your private life, or even comment about it, unless it begins to affect your work. Since I own a share of this business, albeit a small one, I have a right to be concerned. If you drive yourself into a decline, every employee at Devlin's will suffer. Including myself.”

Jack scowled and sighed, crushing out the stub of his cigar on the crystal plate. “Dammit, Oscar,” he said wearily. Only his manager and longtime friend would dare to press him this way. “Since it's clear that you won't leave me the hell alone until I answer…yes, I'll admit that at one time I had an interest in Miss Briars.”

“Quite a strong interest,” Fretwell murmured.

“Well, that's all over now.”

“Is it?”

Devlin gave a low, humorless laugh. “Miss Briars has too much sense to desire any entanglement with me.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said flatly, “Hartley's a good choice for her, don't you think?”

Fretwell was compelled to answer honestly. “If I were Miss Briars, I would marry Hartley without hesitation. He's one of the most decent fellows I've ever met.”

“It's all settled, then,” Devlin said brusquely. “I wish the two of them well. It's only a matter of time before they wed.”

“But…but what about you? Will you stand by and allow Miss Briars to go to another man?”

“Not only will I stand by, I'll escort her to the chapel myself, if she requires it. Her marriage to Hartley will be best for all concerned.”

Fretwell shook his head, understanding the private fear that moved Devlin to cast away the woman who clearly meant so much to him. It was a strange, self-imposed isolation that all the survivors of Knatchford Heath seemed to share. None of them seemed able to forge lasting ties with anyone.

Of the few who had dared to marry, such as Guy Stubbins, Devlin's bookkeeping manager, had these unions that were sorely troubled. Trust and fidelity were damnably elusive for those who had endured the hell of Knatchford Heath. Fretwell himself had scrupulously avoided marriage, managing to love and lose a very good woman rather than take the risk of attaching himself to her permanently.

Yet he hated to see Jack Devlin suffer the same fate, especially as the man's feelings appeared to run far deeper than he had first suspected. After Amanda Briars married another man, it was likely that Devlin would never be the same.

“What will you do, Jack?” he wondered aloud.

Devlin pretended to misunderstand the question. “Tonight?…I'll leave off work and go to Gemma Bradshaw's place. Perhaps I'll purchase some ready female companionship.”

“But you don't sleep with whores,” Fretwell said, startled.

Devlin smiled darkly, gesturing to the plate of ashes. “I don't smoke, either.”

 

“I've never had a picnic indoors before,” Amanda remarked with a laugh, viewing her surrounding with glowing eyes. Charles Hartley had invited her to his small estate, built on the outskirts of London, where his younger sister, Eugenie, was hosting a luncheon. Amanda liked her immediately upon meeting her. Eugenie's dark eyes were filled with a lively youthfulness that belied her matronly status as a mother of seven, and she possessed the same aura of serenity that made Charles so appealing.

The Hartleys were a family of good blood, not aristocrats but respectable and well heeled. It made Amanda admire Charles all the more. He had the means to live an indolent life if he so desired, and yet he had chosen to occupy himself with writing for children.

“It's not an authentic picnic,” Charles admitted. “However, it is the best we could do, considering the fact that it is too cold to enjoy oneself outdoors just yet.”

“I do wish your children were here,” Amanda said impulsively to Eugenie. “Mr. Hartley speaks of them so often that I feel as if I know them.”

“Heavens,” Eugenie exclaimed, laughing, “not for our first meeting. My children are a lot of perfect little hellions. They would frighten you away, and we would never see you again.”

“I doubt that very much,” Amanda replied, taking the seat that Charles held for her. The indoor picnic had been laid out in an octagonal-shaped sunroom featuring an atrium set in the center of the stone floor. Here a “white garden” planted with white roses, snowy lilies, and silver magnolias gave off a delicious scent that drifted across the table laden with linen, crystal, and silver. The white linen cloth had been scattered with pink rose petals that matched the flowered Sevres china.

Eugenie picked up a glass of sparkling champagne and regarded Charles with a smiling gaze. “Shall you make a toast, dear brother?”

He gazed at Amanda as he complied. “To friendship,” he said simply, but the warmth in his eyes seemed to convey a deeper feeling than mere friendship.

Amanda sipped the beverage, finding it to be refreshingly tart and cold. She felt festive and yet completely comfortable in Charles Hartley's company. Lately they had spent a great deal of time together, riding in his carriage or attending parties and lectures. Charles was a complete gentleman, making her wonder if there were ever any improper thoughts or ideas in his head. He seemed incapable of rudeness or vulgarity.
All men are primitive louts
, Jack had once told her…well, he had been wrong. Charles Hartley was living proof of that.

The reckless passion that had tormented Amanda faded like the glowing embers of a once-roaring fire. She still thought of Jack far more often than she would have wished, and during the rare occasions when they met, she experienced the same hot and cold chills, the same excruciating awareness, the same intense yearning for things she could not have. Fortunately, it didn't happen often. And when it did, Jack was unfailingly polite, his blue eyes friendly but cool, and he spoke only of business matters that concerned them both.

Charles Hartley, on the other hand, made no secret of his feelings. It was easy to like this kind, uncomplicated widower, who clearly needed and wanted a wife. He was everything Amanda admired in a man; cerebral, moral, his character sensible and yet seasoned with dry wit.

How odd it seemed that after so many years, her life had finally come to this…being courted by a good man, knowing with near certainty that it would lead to marriage if she chose. There was something different about Charles Hartley from any other man she had ever known—it was astonishingly easy to trust him. She knew in her soul that he would always treat her respectfully. Moreover, they shared the same values, the same interests. In a short time, he had become a remarkably dear friend.

She wished that she could bring herself to feel more of a physical attraction to Charles. Whenever she tried to imagine being in bed with him, the thought was not in the least exciting. Perhaps that feeling would develop over time…or perhaps she would be able to find contentment in the kind of pleasant but passionless marriage that her sisters seemed to have.

This was the right path for her to take, Amanda reassured herself silently. Sophia had been correct—it was time for her to have her own family. If Charles Hartley eventually proposed to her, she would marry him. She would slow the pace of her career, perhaps even give it up entirely, and lose herself in the everyday concerns that ordinary women faced.
It is always more difficult for the people who swim against the current
, Sophia had counseled her, and the truth of those words had sunk in more deeply every day. How nice it would be, how pleasant, to surrender her fruitless desires, and finally be like everyone else.

 

As Amanda dressed for a carriage drive with Charles, she noticed that her best carriage gown, made of heavy apple-green corded silk, with a flattering V-shaped stomacher, was almost too snug to fasten.

“Sukey,” she said with a sigh of displeasure as the maid strained to close the buttons at her back, “perhaps you might pull my corset laces a bit more tightly. I suppose I'll have to begin some kind of slimming regimen. Heaven knows what I've done to gain so much weight in the past few weeks.”

To her surprise, Sukey did not laugh or commiserate or dispense advice, only stood behind her without moving.

“Sukey?” Amanda questioned, turning around. She was perplexed by the odd expression on the maid's face.

“P'raps I'd better not lace you tighter, Miss Amanda,” Sukey said carefully. “It might do ye harm if ye are…” Her voice faded off.

“If I am what?” Amanda was bewildered by the maid's silence. “Sukey, tell me your thoughts at once. Why, you almost look as though you think I'm—”

Abruptly she broke off as she understood the woman's unspoken question. She felt the blood ebbing from her face, and she put a hand to her midriff.

“Miss Amanda,” the maid asked cautiously, “how long has it been since yer monthly courses have come?”

“A long time,” Amanda said, her voice sounding distant and strangely detached. “Two months, at least. I've been too busy and distracted to give it a thought until now.”

Sukey nodded, seemingly robbed of the ability to speak.

Amanda turned and went to a nearby chair. She sat with the unfastened dress sagging in shimmering folds around her. An odd feeling had come over her, as if she had been suspended in midair, with no way to gain purchase on the ground far below. It was not a pleasurable sensation, this terrible lightness. She wished desperately for a way to anchor herself, to catch hold of something reassuringly solid.