Suddenly You (21 page)

Now vendors were selling
Unfinished Lady
merchandise: a specially created cologne inspired by the novel, ruby-colored gloves similar to the ones the heroine wore, gauzy red “Lady” scarves to be worn around the throat or tied around the brim of a hat. The most requested music at any fashionable ball was “The Unfinished Lady” waltz, composed by an admirer of Amanda's work.

He should be pleased, Jack told himself. After all, he and Amanda were both making a fortune from her novel and would continue to do so. There was no doubt that he would sell many editions of the final book when he finally brought it out in a handsome three-volume format. And Amanda seemed agreeable to the prospect of writing a brand-new serial novel for his publishing division.

However, it had become impossible for Jack to take pleasure in any of the things he used to. Money no longer excited him. He did not need further wealth—he had made far more than he could spend in a lifetime. As London's most powerful bookseller as well as publisher, he had acquired so much influence over the distribution of
other
publishers' novels that he could exact huge discounts from them for any book they wished him to carry. And he did not hesitate to make use of his advantage, which had made him even richer, if not exactly admired.

Jack knew that he was being called a giant in the publishing world—a recognition he had long worked for and craved. But his work had lost its power to absorb him. Even the ghosts of his past had ceased to haunt him as they once had. Now the days passed in a dull gray haze. He had never felt like this before, impervious to all emotion, even pain. If only someone could tell him how to break free of the suffocating gloom that enshrouded him.

“Merely a case of
ennui,
my boy,” an aristocratic friend had informed him sardonically, using the upper-class term for a case of terminal boredom. “Good for you—a solid case of
ennui
is quite the fashion nowadays. You would hardly be a man of significance if you didn't have it. If you wish for relief, you need to go to a club, drink, play cards, diddle a pretty light-skirts. Or travel to the Continent for a change of scene.”

However, Jack knew that none of these suggestions would help worth a damn. He merely sat in his prison of an office and dutifully negotiated business agreements, or stared blankly at piles of work that seemed exactly like the work he had finished last month, and the month before. And waited intently for news of Amanda Briars.

Like a faithful hunting hound, Fretwell brought him tidbits whenever he came across them…that Amanda had been seen at the opera with Charles Hartley one evening, or that Amanda had visited the tea gardens and had looked quite well. Jack mulled over each piece of information incessantly, damning himself for caring so deeply about the minutiae of her life. Yet Amanda was the only thing that seemed to reawaken his pulse. He who had always been known for his insatiable drive could now only seem to work up an interest in the sedate social activities of a spinster novelist.

When he found himself too frustrated and restless to attend to his work one morning, Jack decided that physical exertion might do him some good. He was accomplishing nothing in his office, and there was work to be done elsewhere in the building. He left a pile of unread manuscripts and contracts on his desk and occupied himself instead with carrying chests of freshly bound books to a wagon at street level, where they would be carted off to a ship moored at the wharf.

Removing his coat, he worked in his shirtsleeves, lifting the chests and crates to his shoulder and carrying them down long flights of stairs to the ground floor. Although the stock lads were a bit unnerved at first to see the owner of Devlin's performing such menial work, the hard labor soon caused them to lose all trace of self-consciousness.

After Jack had made at least a half-dozen trips from the fifth floor to the street, lugging book-filled crates to the wagon behind the building, Oscar Fretwell managed to find him. “Devlin,” he called, sounding perturbed. “Mr. Devlin, I—” He stopped in amazement as he saw Jack loading a crate onto the wagon. “Devlin, may I ask what you are about? There's no need for you to do that—God knows we hire enough men to carry and load crates—”

“I'm tired of sitting at my damn desk,” Jack said curtly. “I wanted to stretch my legs.”

“A walk in the park would have accomplished the same thing,” Fretwell muttered. “A man in your position does not have to resort to stockroom labor.”

Jack smiled slightly, dragging his sleeve across his damp forehead. It felt good to sweat and exercise his muscles, to do something that did not require any thought, but merely physical effort.

“Spare me the lecture, Fretwell. I was of no use to anyone in my office, and I'd rather do something more productive than stroll through the park. Now, is there something you wished to tell me? Otherwise, I have more crates to load.”

“There is something.” The manager hesitated and gave him a searching stare. “You have a visitor—Miss Briars is waiting in your office. If you wish, I will tell her that you are not available…” His voice trailed away as Jack strode to the stairs before he had even finished the sentence.

Amanda was here, wanting to see him, when she had taken care to avoid him for so long. Jack felt a peculiar tightness in his chest that gave a strained quality to his heartbeat. He struggled not to take the stairs two at a time, but proceeded up the five flights to his office at a measured pace. Even so, his breathing was not quite normal when he reached the top. To his chagrin, he knew the overexertion of his lungs had nothing to do with physical labor. He was so damned eager to be in the same room with Amanda Briars that he was panting like an amorous lad. He debated whether he should change his shirt, wash his face, find his coat, all in the effort to appear collected. He decided against it. He did not want to keep her waiting any longer than necessary.

Struggling to maintain an impassive facade, he entered his office and left the door slightly ajar. His gaze immediately shot to Amanda, who was standing by his desk with a neat paper-wrapped package held at her side. A strange expression crossed her face as she saw him…he read anxiety and pleasure there before she sought to cover her discomposure with a bright, false smile.

“Mr. Devlin,” she said briskly, coming toward him. “I've brought you the revisions for the last installment of
Unfinished Lady
…and a proposal for another serial novel, if you are interested.”

“Of course I'm interested,” he said thickly. “Hello, Amanda. You're looking well.”

The commonplace remark did not begin to describe his reaction to her appearance. Amanda looked fresh and ladylike, dressed in a crisp blue-and-white gown with a pristine white bow tied at the throat and a row of pearl buttons that extended down the front of the bodice. As she stood before him, he thought he detected the scent of lemons and the whisper of perfume, and all his senses kindled in response.

He wanted to crush her against his hot, sweating body, kiss and maul and devour her, tangle his big hands in her neat braided coiffure, rip the row of pearl buttons until her sumptuous breasts spilled into his waiting hands. He was ravaged by an all-consuming hunger, as if he hadn't eaten for days and suddenly realized that he was starving. The violent rush of awareness and sensation, when he had felt nothing for weeks, made him nearly dizzy.

“I am quite well, thank you.” Her forced smile disappeared as she stared at him, and there was a flash in her silver-gray eyes. “There is a streak of dirt on your cheek,” she murmured. She tugged a clean, pressed handkerchief from her sleeve and reached toward his face. Hesitating almost imperceptibly, she dabbed at the right side of his face. Jack stood still, his muscles turning rigid until his body seemed to have been carved in marble. After the smudge was removed, Amanda used the other side of the handkerchief to blot the streaks of sweat on his face. “What in heaven's name have you been doing?” she murmured.

“Work,” he muttered, using all the force of his will to keep from seizing her.

A faint smile touched her soft lips. “As always, you cannot seem to conduct your life at a normal pace.”

The remark did not sound admiring. In fact, it almost sounded a touch pitying, as if she had come to some new understanding that eluded him. Jack scowled and leaned over her to place the paper-wrapped package on his desk, deliberately forcing her to retreat backward a step or else have her body come into full contact with his. He was pleased to see that she flushed, some of her composure eroding. “May I ask why you brought this to me in person?” he asked, referring to the revisions.

“I'm sorry if you would have preferred—”

“No, it's not that,” he said gruffly. “I just wanted to know if you had a particular reason for seeing me today.”

“Actually, there is something.” Amanda cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I will be attending a party tonight given by my lawyer, Mr. Talbot. I believe you have received an invitation—he indicated that you were on his guest list.”

Jack shrugged. “Mostly likely I did receive one. I doubt that I'll attend.”

For some reason, the information seemed to relax her. “I see. Well, perhaps it is best that you receive the news from me this morning. In light of our…considering that you and I…I did not want you to be caught off guard when you heard…”

“Heard what, Amanda?”

The color in her face climbed higher. “Tonight, Mr. Hartley and I will be announcing our betrothal at Mr. Talbot's party.”

It was news that he had been expecting, and yet Jack was stunned by his own reaction. Some great yawning gap opened inside, admitting a spill of pain and ferocity. The rational part of his mind pointed out that he had no right to be angry, but he was. The blistering anger was directed toward Amanda, and Hartley, but most of all to himself. Grimly he controlled his expression and forced himself to remain still, though his hands actually trembled with the urge to shake her.

“He is a good man.” Defensiveness was strung tightly through her tone. “We have everything in common. I expect to be very happy with him.”

“I'm sure you will,” he muttered.

She gathered her composure like an invisible mantle and straightened her shoulders. “And you and I will continue on as we have been, I hope.”

Jack knew exactly what she meant. They would maintain the facade of distant friendship, work together occasionally, their relationship kept carefully impersonal. As if he had never taken her innocence. As if he had never touched and kissed her intimately, and known the sweetness of her body.

His chin jerked downward in an abbreviated nod. “Have you told Hartley about the affair?” he couldn't help asking.

She surprised him by nodding. “He knows,” she murmured, her mouth twisting wryly. “He is a very forgiving man. A true gentleman.”

Bitterness spread through him. Would he himself have accepted the information like a gentleman? He doubted it. Charles Hartley was indeed the better man.

“Good,” he said brusquely, feeling the need to annoy her. “I would hate for him to stand in the way of our professional relationship—I foresee making a pile of money off you and your books.”

A scowl worked between her brows, and the corners of her mouth tightened. “Yes. Heaven forbid that anything should stand in the way between you and your profits. Good day, Mr. Devlin. I have much to accomplish today…Wedding arrangements to make.” She turned to leave, the white plumes on her little blue bonnet agitating with each step as she headed for the door.

Jack forbore to ask sarcastically if he would be invited to the blessed event. He watched stonily, not offering to escort her out as a gentleman should have.

Amanda paused at the doorway, looking back at him over her shoulder. For some reason, it seemed that she wanted to tell him something else. “Jack…” Her forehead was scored with a perturbed frown, and she appeared to struggle with words. Their gazes locked, troubled gray eyes staring into hard, opaque blue. Then, with a frustrated shake of her head, Amanda turned and left the office.

With his head, heart, and groin all burning, Jack made his way to his desk and sat down heavily. He fumbled in a drawer for a glass and his ever-present decanter of whiskey, and poured himself a drink.

The sweetly smoky flavor filled his mouth, soothing his throat with a hot glow as he swallowed. He finished the drink and poured another. Perhaps Fretwell was right, Jack mused sourly—a man of his position had better things to do than carry crates of books. He would forgo any kind of work today, as a matter of fact. He would simply sit here and drink, until all feeling and thought were extinguished, and the images of Amanda naked in bed with mannerly Charles Hartley would drown in a sea of spirits.

“Mr. Devlin.” Oscar Fretwell hovered in the doorway, his bespectacled face showing concern. “I did not wish to bother you, but—”

“I'm busy,” Jack growled.

“Yes, sir. However, you have another visitor, a Mr. Francis Tode. It seems that he is a solicitor in charge of dispensing your father's estate.”

Jack was very still, staring at the manager without blinking. Dispensing his father's estate. There could be no reason for that unless… “Send him in,” he heard himself say in a flat tone.

The unfortunately named Mr. Tode actually did resemble an amphibian, diminutive of stature, bald, and big-jowled, with moist black eyes that were disproportionately large for his face. However, his gaze was keenly intelligent, and he wore a demeanor of gravity and responsibility that Jack immediately liked.

“Mr. Devlin.” He came forward to shake hands. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I regret that we have not met under happier circumstances. I have come to deliver a piece of very sad news.”

“The earl is dead,” Jack said, gesturing for the solicitor to have a seat. It was the only explanation that made sense.