Suddenly You (12 page)

“The people who know you are aware of the truth,” Amanda murmured. “That is all that matters.”

“Yes.” His expression became distracted, and Amanda sensed that he regretted having told her so much about himself. More than anything, she did not want him to be sorry for trusting her. But why had he? Why would he tell her what he clearly thought was the worst thing about himself? Had he intended to bring her closer or drive her away? His gaze dropped, and he seemed to be waiting for her censure, almost to want it.

“Jack,” she said, his name tumbling from her lips before she realized it. He moved a little, as if intending to push away from her, and she reached out impulsively, her short arms catching his broad shoulders. She embraced him protectively, although it might seem ridiculous to shelter such a physically powerful creature. Devlin stiffened. To her surprise, and perhaps his, he gradually accepted her hold, hunching over to accommodate her short stature. His black head lowered almost to her shoulder. Amanda put her hand on the nape of his neck, where the warm edge of skin met the crisp edge of his collar.

“Jack…” She meant to sound sympathetic, but somehow her voice came out as briskly pragmatic as ever. “What you did was neither illegal nor immoral, and there is certainly no point in wasting your time with regrets. You needn't berate yourself for something you can't change. And as you say, you had no choice. If you wish for revenge against your father and siblings for their treatment of you, I suggest that you apply yourself to being happy.”

He gave a brief huff of laughter against her ear. “My practical princess,” he muttered, his arms tightening around her. “I wish it were that easy. But some people are not made to be happy—has that ever occurred to you?”

 

To a man who spent every minute of his life managing, controlling, struggling, and conquering, this moment of surrender was a damned odd experience. Jack felt dazed, as if a warm fog had suddenly descended on him and blurred the edges of the ruthless world he occupied. He wasn't certain what had caused his impetuous confession, but somehow one word had led to another, until he was blurting out secrets he had never told anyone. Not even Fretwell and Stubbins, his closest confidants. He would have preferred Amanda to mock him, or become coldly distant…that he could have handled with humor and sarcasm, his favorite defenses. But her support and understanding were unnerving. He couldn't seem to move away from her, no matter that the moment was spinning out far too long.

He loved her strength, her straightforward approach to life, her lack of maudlin sentimentality. It occurred to him that a woman like Amanda was what he had always needed, someone who would not be intimidated by the massive welter of ambition and turmoil that had troubled him all his life. She had an endearing confidence in her own ability to cut any problem down to size.

“Jack,” she said softly. “Stay a bit longer. We'll have a drink in the parlor.”

He turned his face into her hair, where the smoothly pinned-back wing at the side had ruffled into a mass of rebellious curls. “You're not afraid to be alone with me in the parlor?” he asked. “Remember what happened the last time.”

He could feel her bristle. “I can manage you quite well, I believe.”

Her self-assurance delighted Jack. He drew back and took her round face in his palms, and used his own weight to press her back against the wall. His spread legs contained hers within the rustling weight of her amber velvet skirts. Surprise glinted in her clear gray eyes, and a flush came over her face. She had beautiful fair skin, and the most tempting mouth he had ever seen, soft and rose-tinted, and nicely curved when she wasn't clamping her lips together in her usual habit.

“You should never say that to a man,” he said. “It makes me want to prove you wrong.”

He liked being able to fluster her, something he guessed that few men were able to do. She laughed unsteadily, still blushing, and she didn't seem able to think of a reply. Jack drew the pads of his thumbs lightly over the sides of her cheeks, the skin cool and silken. He wanted to warm her, to fill her with fire. He lowered his head and nuzzled the side of her face, letting his lips graze the soft skin.

“Amanda…what I just told you…it wasn't to gain your sympathy. I want you to understand what kind of man I am. Not noble. Not principled.”

“I never thought you were,” she said tartly, and he laughed against her cheek, and felt her shiver. “Jack…” She kept her cheek pressed against his, as if she enjoyed the sensation of his shaven skin. “You seem to be warning me about yourself, although I can't fathom why.”

“You can't?” Jack drew back and looked down at her gravely, while his desire burned steadily through all rational considerations. Her silvery eyes were wide, as cool and refreshing as spring rain. He could stare into them forever. “Because I want you.” He forced himself to speak through the sudden hoarseness of his voice. “Because you should not welcome me in for supper anymore. And when you see me walking toward you, you should run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. You're like one of the characters in your novels, Amanda…a good, moral woman who is getting mixed up in bad company.”

“I find bad company quite interesting.” She didn't look afraid of him at all, nor did she seem to understand what he was trying to tell her. “And perhaps I'm merely studying you for research purposes.” She startled him by throwing her arms around his neck and touching her lips to the corner of his. “There—you see? I'm not afraid of you.”

Her soft mouth burned him. Jack could no more control his response than he could stop the earth from turning. His head dove down, and he caught her mouth with his, kissing her with undiluted passion. She was luscious and sweet, her small but bountiful figure caught firmly in his arms, the abundant shapes of her breasts impelled against his chest. He explored her with deep strokes of his tongue, trying to be gentle, while a great bonfire blazed inside him. He wanted to tear the velvet dress off her and taste her skin, the tips of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the fiery curls between her thighs. He wanted to debauch her a thousand different ways, shock her, exhaust her until she slept for hours in his arms.

Blindly he found the curves of her buttocks and clamped his hands over them, bringing her loins against the prodding stiffness of his sex. Her skirts muffled the sensation, folds of heavy material preventing the intimate contact he longed for. They kissed even harder, straining together, until Amanda whimpered in growing agitation. Somehow Jack managed to tear his mouth away, his breath coming in steamy gusts, and he crushed her against his aroused body. “Enough,” he whispered harshly. “Enough…or I'll take you right now.”

Her face was hidden from him, but he heard the jerking rhythm of her breathing, and he felt her efforts to hold still despite the tremors that coursed through her body. Clumsily he petted her hair. The gleaming auburn curls were like coils of fire beneath his palm.

It was a long time before Jack could bring himself to speak. “Now you see why it is a bad idea to invite me into the parlor.”

“Perhaps you're right,” she said unsteadily.

Jack eased her away from his body, although every nerve screeched in rebellious protest. “I shouldn't have come here tonight,” he muttered. “I made a promise to myself, but I can't seem to—” A soft growl rose in his throat as he realized that he was about to make yet another confession. What had happened to him, a man so scrupulously closemouthed about himself, that he couldn't seem to stop talking when he was around her? “Good-bye,” he said abruptly, staring at Amanda's flushed face. He gave a brief shake of his head, wondering where the hell his self-possession had gone.

“Wait.” Her fingers caught at his jacket sleeve. He looked at her small hand and struggled with the insane urge to snatch it and drag her fingers down the front of his aroused body and clamp them around his aching sex. “When will I see you again?” she asked.

A long time passed before he responded. “What are your plans for the holiday?” he asked gruffly.

Christmas was less than two weeks away. Amanda's gaze dropped, and she industriously settled the waistband of her gown to its proper place. “I intend to go to Windsor, as usual, and spend the holiday with my sisters and their families. I'm the only one who remembers the recipe for my mother's flaming brandy punch, and my sister Helen always asks me to prepare it. Not to mention the plum cake—”

“Spend Christmas with me.”

“With you?” she murmured, clearly startled. “Where?”

Jack continued slowly. “I host a party at my home every year on Christmas Day, for friends and colleagues. It's…” He paused, unable to read her blank face. “It's a madhouse, really. Drinking, carousing, and the noise will deafen you. And by the time you manage to find your supper plate, the food is always cold. Moreover, you'd hardly know a soul there—”

“Yes, I'll come.”

“You will?” He stared at her, astonished. “What about your nieces and nephews, and the flaming brandy punch?”

She became more certain with each second that passed. “I'll write out the recipe for the punch and post it to my sister. And as for the children, I doubt they'll even notice my absence.”

Jack nodded dumbly. “If you wish to reconsider,” he began, but Amanda shook her head instantly.

“No, no, this will suit me very well. I welcome a change from all the screaming children and my sisters' badgering, and I deplore that bone-rattling carriage ride to Windsor and back. It will be refreshing to spend Christmas at a party filled with new faces.” She began to usher him from the dining room, as if she half suspected that he would have the bad manners to rescind the invitation. “I won't keep you, Mr. Devlin, as you indicated that you wish to leave. Good night.” She rang for the maid to bring his coat, and before Jack could fully grasp what was happening, he had been bundled out of the house.

Standing on the icy front doorstep, his shoes grinding into the sand that had been sprinkled to prevent them from slipping, Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. He walked slowly to his own waiting carriage while the driver prepared the horses for departure. “Why the hell did I do that?” Jack muttered to himself, stunned by the unexpected outcome of the evening. He had simply wished for an hour or two of Amanda Briars's company, and somehow he had ended up inviting her to his home for Christmas.

Jack climbed into the carriage and sat tensely, his back not quite touching the fine leather upholstery, his hands gripping his knees. He felt threatened, off-balance, as if the world he had comfortably inhabited had suddenly changed beyond his ability to adapt. Something was happening to him, and he didn't like it.

Apparently a small spinster had broken through his well-constructed defenses. He wanted to pursue her, equally as much as he wished to abandon her, and neither seemed possible. Worst of all, Amanda was a respectable lady, one who would not be content with a mere affair or a light dalliance. She would want to own the heart of any man she became involved with—she was too proud and strong-willed to desire anything less. And his calcified heart was not available to her, or to anyone.

Amanda smiled and shivered in the open doorway as she, Sukey, and Charles listened to the children caroling on her front doorstep. The small group of boys and girls, a half-dozen in number, warbled the tune amid the folds of knitted scarves and caps that nearly concealed their faces. Only the tips of their reddened noses and the white puffs of their breath were visible as they sang.

Finally they finished the song, holding the last note as long as possible, while Amanda and the servants clapped in appreciation. “Here you are,” Amanda said, giving a coin to the tallest child. “How many more houses did you plan to visit today?”

The boy answered in a thick Cockney accent. “We thought to find one more, miss, an' then it's ‘ome to eat our Christmas supper.”

Amanda smiled at the children, a couple of whom were stamping their feet to relieve the numbness of their toes. Many such children were sent out to carol on Christmas morning to earn some extra holiday money for the family. “Here, then,” Amanda said, digging into the pocket at her waistband to find another coin. “Take this and go home at once. It's too cold for you to be outside any longer.”

“Thank you, miss,” the boy said in delight, and a chorus of echoes followed from his comrades. “Happy Christmas, miss!” The group hurried down the front steps and away from the house, as if they feared she would change her mind.

“Miss Amanda, ye oughtn't to give yer money away so freely,” Sukey chided, following her into the house and closing the door against a rush of bitter wind. “‘Twouldn't harm those children to stay out a bit longer.”

Amanda laughed and wrapped her knitted shawl more tightly around herself. “Don't scold, Sukey. It's Christmas Day. Now, let us hurry…Mr. Devlin's carriage will be arriving for me soon.”

While Amanda attended the Christmas party at Jack Devlin's home, Sukey, Charles, and the cook, Violet, would be celebrating elsewhere with their own friends. Tomorrow, known as Boxing Day because coins and boxes of cast-off clothing and utensils were donated to the poor, Amanda and her servants would travel to Windsor for a weeklong holiday at her sister Sophia's home.

Amanda would be glad to see her relatives on the morrow, but she was very pleased that she would spend today in London. How nice it was to do something different this year. She felt positively gleeful that from now on, her relatives would not always be certain of what to expect from her. “Amanda not coming?” she could almost hear her crotchety great-aunt exclaim. “But she always comes for Christmas Day—she has no family of her own. And who will make the brandy punch?…”

Instead, she would dance and dine with Jack Devlin. Perhaps she might even allow him to catch her under a sprig of mistletoe.

“Well, Mr. Devlin,” she murmured, filled with anticipation, “we'll see what this Christmas Day will bring the both of us.”

After taking a luxuriously hot bath, Amanda donned a robe and sat before the fire in her bedroom grate. She combed her hair until it dried in an explosion of reddish-brown curls. Deftly she twisted it into a coil atop her head, and allowed a few tendrils to dangle around her forehead and face.

With Sukey's assistance, she dressed in an emerald-green, corded-silk gown with two rows of fluted green velvet banding at the hem. The long velvet sleeves were confined at the wrist with jade bead bracelets, and the square neckline was cut low enough to reveal an enticing hint of cleavage. As a concession to the cold climate, she draped a burgundy silk-fringed shawl over her shoulders. A pair of Flemish-style earrings dangled from her ears like golden teardrops, gently swinging against the sides of her neck. Studying the overall effect in the mirror, Amanda smiled with pleasure, knowing that she had never looked better. There was no need to pinch her cheeks, as they were already pink with excitement. A fluff of powder on her nose, a dab of perfume behind her ears, and she was ready.

Wandering over to the window, Amanda sipped her cooling tea, and tried to still the leap of her heart when she saw that the carriage Devlin had sent for her had arrived. “How silly, at my age, to feel like Cinderella,” she told herself dryly, but the ebullient feeling remained as she hurried downstairs in search of her cloak.

After the footman had handed her into the carriage, complete with foot warmers and fur-lined lap blanket, Amanda saw a wrapped present on the seat. Tentatively she touched the jaunty red bow atop the small square package, and extracted the folded notecard that had been tucked beneath the ribbon. A smile tugged at her lips as she read the brief note.

While the carriage rolled along the icy street, Amanda unwrapped the present and stared at it with a quizzical smile. A book…a small and very old one, the leather cover ancient, the pages fragile and brown. Handling the volume with extreme gentleness, Amanda turned to the title page. “Travels into several Remote Nations of the World,” she read aloud. “In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver…”

She paused and then laughed in delight.
“Gulliver's Travels!”
She had once confided to Devlin that this “anonymous” work by Jonathan Swift, the Irish clergyman and satirist, had been one of her favorite childhood stories. This particular edition was the 1726 Motte original printing, impossibly rare.

Smiling, Amanda reflected that this small volume pleased her more than a king's ransom in jewels. No doubt she should refuse a gift that was so obviously valuable, but she couldn't make herself part with it.

She held the book in her lap as the carriage continued toward the fashionable area of St. James's. Although Amanda had never visited Jack Devlin's home before, she had heard about the place from Oscar Fretwell. Devlin had purchased the mansion from a former ambassador to France, who had decided in his declining years to establish residence on the Continent and relinquish his English holdings.

The house was located in a distinctly masculine preserve filled with handsome estates, bachelor lodgings, and exclusive shops. It was unusual for a businessman to own a mansion in St. James's, as most wealthy professionals built homes south of the river or in Bloomsbury. However, Devlin did have some aristocratic blood in his veins, and perhaps this, combined with his considerable wealth, made his presence more palatable to the neighbors.

The carriage slowed to join a queue of vehicles that had lined along the street, depositing their passengers in turn at the pavement leading to a magnificent house. Amanda could not prevent her jaw from hanging slack in astonishment as she stared through the frosted window.

The house was a splendid, towering, Georgian-style residence, red brick fronted with massive white columns and pediments, and rows of oversized Palladian windows. The sides of the building were framed by immaculately trimmed yew and beech hedges that led to groves of coppiced trees underplanted with carpets of fresh white cyclamen.

It was a home that any person of consequence would be proud to claim. Amanda's imagination sparked to life while she waited for the carriage to reach the front walk. She pictured Jack Devlin as a boy at school, daydreaming about the life outside the grim walls of Knatchford Heath. Had he known somehow that he would someday live in such a place as this? What emotions had motivated him on the long, difficult climb from there to here? More important, would he ever find a respite from his own endless ambition, or would it keep driving him ruthlessly until the day he died?

Devlin didn't have the necessary limits that ordinary men possessed…he lacked the ability to relax, to feel contentment, to enjoy his own accomplishments. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, Amanda thought that Devlin was possibly the most fascinating person she had ever encountered. And she knew without a doubt that he was dangerous.

“But I am not some dreamy-headed schoolgirl,” Amanda told herself, finding comfort in the knowledge of her own good sense. “I am a woman who can see Jack Devlin for what he is…and there is no danger as long as I don't allow myself to do something ridiculous.” Such as fall in love with him. No; her heart contracted anxiously at the very thought. She did not love him, nor did she wish to. Finding amusement in his company was enough. She would keep reminding herself that Devlin was not a man whom a woman could have for a lifetime.

The carriage stopped, and a footman hastened to help Amanda to the pavement. She took his arm as he guided her up the icy, sanded steps that led to the double entrance doors. Conversation, music, and heat billowed from the brilliantly lit interior. Boughs of holly and mistletoe were strung along the banisters and cornices with scarlet velvet ribbons. The smell of spicy greenery and flowers mingled with the promising scents of an elaborate dinner being set out in the dining room.

There were many more guests than Amanda had expected, at least two hundred. While the children played in a separate parlor that had been designated for their use, the adults moved about in a large circuit of visiting rooms. Cheerful music that originated in the drawing room filtered throughout the house.

Amanda felt a pleasurable quake of her nerves as Devlin found her. He was elegant in a black coat and trousers, with a charcoal waistcoat tailored neatly to his lean torso. However, the gentlemanly attire did nothing to conceal his piratical nature. He was too irreverent and too obviously calculating to fool anyone into thinking he was a gentleman.

“Miss Briars,” he said in a low voice, taking both her gloved hands in his. He raked her with a frankly approving glance. “You look like a Christmas angel.”

Amanda laughed at his flattery. “Thank you for the lovely book, Mr. Devlin. I will treasure it. But I'm afraid I have nothing for you.”

“The sight of you in that low-cut dress is the only gift I want.”

She frowned at him, casting a quick glance around them to see if anyone was close by. “Hush…what if someone were to overhear you?”

“They would think that I have an itch for you,” he murmured
sotto voce
. “And they would be correct.”

“An itch,” she repeated coolly, inwardly delighting in the exchange. “Dear me, how poetic.”

He grinned at her. “I haven't your talent for writing rapturous descriptions of carnal lust, I'll freely admit—”

“I'll thank you not to mention such filthy subjects on a sacred holiday,” she whispered sharply, her cheeks flaming.

Devlin grinned and placed one of her hands on his arm. “Very well,” he said, relenting, “I'll behave like a choirboy for the rest of the day, if that will please you.”

“It would be a pleasant change,” she said primly, making him chuckle.

“Come with me—I want to introduce you to some friends.”

It was not lost on Amanda that Devlin wore a distinctly proprietary air as he walked her into the large drawing room. Moving from one group of smiling guests to another, he deftly made introductions, exchanged good wishes, and offered a few small jokes with a natural ease that amazed her.

Although he had not staked a claim in any overt manner, there was something in his tone or expression that implied that he and Amanda were linked in a way that went beyond business. She was disconcerted by her own reaction to it. She had never been half of a couple before, had never received envious glances from other women, or admiring stares from men. In fact, no man had ever made the effort of publicly establishing his claim on her, and yet in a subtle way, she sensed this was what Devlin was doing.

They progressed through the circle of large visiting rooms. For those guests who did not wish to dance or sing, there was a mahogany-paneled parlor in which a crowd was busily engaged in a game of charades, and another in which people sat at card tables to enjoy games of whist. Amanda recognized many of the guests—writers, publishers, and journalists whom she had encountered at various social events in the past few months. It was a lively crowd, the infectious holiday spirit seeming to spread from the youngest face to the oldest.

Devlin brought Amanda to a halt by a refreshment table, where a few children were engaged in a game of snapdragon. They stood on chairs around a bowl of steaming-hot punch, snatching up burning raisins in their small fingers and popping them quickly into their mouths. Devlin laughed at the sight of the sticky faces that turned toward him.

“Who is winning?” he asked, and they all pointed to a pudgy, mop-haired boy.

“Georgie is! He's gotten the most raisins so far.”

“I have the quickest fingers, sir,” the boy admitted with a sugar-smeared grin.

Devlin smiled and urged Amanda toward the huge bowl. “Have a try,” he coaxed, and the children all began to giggle.

Amanda sent him a discreet frown. “I am afraid it would take too long to remove my gloves,” she said demurely.

Devlin's blue eyes sparkled with wicked amusement. “I'll do it for you, then.”

He stripped off his own glove, and before Amanda could utter a word of protest, he reached into the bowl. Snatching up a hot raisin, he popped it into her mouth. Amanda took it automatically, the morsel seeming to burn a hole in her tongue. The children erupted into gales of approving laughter. Amanda ducked her face to hide an irrepressible smile, while the rich-brandied raisin spread its sweet flavor through the interior of her mouth. After swallowing the little tidbit, she raised her head and regarded him reprovingly.

“Another?” Devlin asked with studied innocence, his fingers poised over the bowl once more.

“Thank you, no. I don't wish to spoil my appetite.”