Suddenly You (25 page)

Seeming to come to a decision, Jack regarded Amanda with keen blue eyes. “You've set out the perfect course for the
Review
. Now I need an editor available who would be willing or able to handle such a project.”

“Perhaps Mr. Fretwell?” she suggested.

Jack shook his head immediately. “No, Fretwell is too damned busy, and I doubt he would take an interest in this. It's a touch more intellectual than he would prefer.”

“Well, you've got to find someone,” Amanda insisted, regarding him over the rim of her cup. “You can't simply let the
Review
wither on the vine!”

“I have found someone.
You
. If you're willing to take it on.”

Amanda laughed ruefully, certain that he was teasing her. “You know that is impossible.”

“Why?”

She pulled distractedly at a stray curl that dangled over her forehead. “No one would read such a publication if it were known that a woman was in charge. No respected writers would even want to contribute to it. Oh, it would be a different case if it were a fashion publication or a light journal for ladies' entertainment, but something as weighty as the
Review
…” She shook her head at the thought.

A look came over his face, the one she had come to recognize as his enjoyment of a seemingly impossible challenge. “What if we set up Fretwell as a mere figurehead?” he suggested. “We'll appoint you as his ‘assistant editor,' when in reality you'll be in charge of everything.”

“Sooner or later the truth will come out.”

“Yes, but by then you'll have established such credibility and done such a damned fine job that no one would dare suggest replacing you.” He stood and paced around the conservatory, his enthusiasm gaining momentum. He shot her a glance filled with challenge and pride. “You, the first woman editor of a major magazine…by God, I'd like to see that.”

Amanda regarded him with alarm. “You're being ridiculous. I've done nothing to merit such responsibility. And even if I did well, no one would ever approve.”

Jack smiled at that. “If you gave a damn about others' approval, you would never have married me instead of Charles Hartley.”

“Yes, but this…it is outrageous.” She could not seem to wrap her mind around the idea of herself as a magazine editor. “Besides,” she added with a frown, “I barely have enough time to work as it is.”

“Are you saying that you don't want to do it?”

“Of course I want to do it! But what about my condition? I'll be in confinement soon, and then I'll have a newborn baby to care for.”

“That could be managed. Hire as many people as you like to help. There is no reason you couldn't do most of the work at home.”

Amanda devoted herself to finishing her tea. “I would be in complete charge of the journal?” she asked. “Commissioning all articles…hiring a new staff…selecting the books for review? Answerable to no one?”

“Not even to me,” he said flatly.

“And when it is eventually discovered that a woman has been the active editor rather than Mr. Fretwell, and I become a notorious figure and all the critics have their say…you will stand by me?”

Jack's smile faded slightly, and he came to stand over her, bracing his hands on the arms of her chair. “Of course I'll stand by you,” he said. “Dammit, woman, that you should even ask such a thing—”

“I will make the
Review
shockingly liberal,” she warned, tilting her head back to look at him. Her hands touched the backs of his, fingertips venturing beneath the edge of his sleeves, brushing the coarse hair of his arms. Her brilliant smile coaxed forth an answering grin from him.

“Good,” he said softly. “Set the world afire. Just let me hand you the matches.”

Filled with a mixture of excitement and wonder, Amanda lifted her mouth to receive his kiss.

As Amanda laid out her plans for the
Coventry Quarterly Review
, she made an ironic and surprising discovery—her marriage to Jack had given her far more freedom than she had enjoyed as a single woman. Because of him, she now had the money and influence to do as she wished…and most important, she had a husband who encouraged her to do exactly as she pleased.

He was not cowed by her intelligence. He took pride in her accomplishments and showed no hesitation in praising her to others. He prompted her to be bold, to speak her mind, to behave in ways that “proper” wives would never dare. In their private hours, Jack seduced and teased and tormented her nightly, and Amanda loved every moment of it. She had never dreamed that a man would feel this way about her, that a husband could regard her as a temptress, that he would take such pleasure in her less-than-perfect body.

A greater surprise still was Jack's apparent enjoyment of their home life. For a man who had led an existence of relentless socializing, he seemed content to slow the busy, almost frantic pace of his days. He was reluctant to accept more than a handful of the slew of invitations that arrived each week, preferring to spend his evenings in privacy with her.

“We could go out a bit more often if you like,” Amanda had suggested to him one night as they prepared to have supper by themselves. “We've been asked to at least three parties this week, not to mention a soiree on Saturday and a yachting party on Sunday. I do not want you to forgo the pleasure of other people's company out of some mistaken notion that I wish to keep you all to myself—”

“Amanda,” he had interrupted, taking her into his arms, “I've spent the past few years going out nearly every evening and feeling alone in the midst of a crowd. Now I finally have a home and a wife and I want to enjoy them. If you wish to go out, I'll escort you anywhere you want. But I would rather stay here.”

She reached up to stroke his cheek. “You're not bored, then?”

“No,” he replied, suddenly introspective. His brows quirked as he looked at her. “I'm changing,” he said gravely. “You're turning me into a tame husband.”

Amanda rolled her eyes at his teasing. “‘Tame' is the last word I would use to describe you,” she said. “You are the most unconventional husband I could imagine. One wonders what kind of father you will make.”

“Oh, I'll give our son the best of everything. I'm going to spoil the hell out of him, and send him to the best schools, and when he comes back from his grand tour, he's going to run Devlin's for me.”

“What if we have a girl?”

“Then she'll run it for me,” came his prompt reply.

“Silly man…a woman could never do such a thing.”

“
My
daughter could,” he informed her.

Rather than argue, Amanda smiled at him. “And then what will you do while your son or daughter is in charge of your store and your companies?”

“I'll spend my days and nights pleasing you,” he said. “It's a challenging occupation, after all.” He laughed and dodged as she went to swat his attractive backside.

 

The worst day of Jack's life began innocuously, with all the pleasant rituals of breakfast and good-bye kisses, and a promise to return home for lunch after the morning's work at his offices. A light but saturating rain fell outside, the gray sky burgeoning with clouds that promised worse storms to come. As Jack stepped into the warm and inviting atmosphere of his store, where customers were already crowding to seek refuge from the rain, a tingle of enjoyment ran down his spine.

His business was flourishing, a loving wife awaited him at home, and the future looked infinitely promising. It seemed too good to be true, that his life should have started out so badly and have come to this turn. Somehow he had ended up with more than he deserved, Jack thought, and grinned as he bounded up the flights of stairs to his private office.

He worked briskly until noon, then began to stack papers and manuscripts in preparation of his departure for lunch. A light tap came at the door, and Oscar Fretwell's face appeared. “Devlin,” he said quietly, looking troubled, “this message has arrived for you. The man who brought it said it was quite urgent.”

Frowning, Jack took the note from him and scanned it rapidly. The words scrawled in black seemed to leap off the paper. It was Amanda's handwriting, but in her haste she had not bothered to sign it.

Jack, I am ill. Have sent for the doctor. Come home at once.

His hand squeezed around the paper, crushing it into a compact ball. “It's Amanda,” he muttered.

“What shall I do?” Fretwell asked immediately.

“Take care of things here,” Jack said over his shoulder, already striding from the office. “I'm going home.”

During the short, frantic ride to his house, Jack's thoughts rocketed from one possibility to another. What in God's name could have happened to Amanda? She had been blooming with health this very morning, but perhaps some accident had befallen her. Increasing panic caused his insides to twist, and by the time he reached his destination, he was white-faced and grim.

“Oh, sir,” Sukey cried as he rushed into the entrance hall, “the doctor is with her right now—it came on so sudden—my poor Miss Amanda.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“I-in the bedroom, sir,” Sukey stammered.

His gaze dropped to the bundle of bed linens in her arms, which she promptly gave over to a housemaid and bade her take them to be washed. Jack saw with alarm that crimson blotches marred the snowy fabric.

Striding rapidly to the stairs, he took them three at a time. Just as he made it to his room, an elderly man wearing a doctor's black coat crossed the threshold. The man was short and narrow-shouldered, but he possessed an air of authority that far exceeded his physical stature. Closing the door behind him, he lifted his head and regarded Jack with a steady gaze. “Mr. Devlin? I am Dr. Leighton.”

Recognizing the name, Jack reached out to shake his hand. “My wife has mentioned you before,” he said tersely. “You were the one who confirmed her pregnancy.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, these matters do not always achieve the conclusion we hope for.”

Jack stared at the doctor without blinking, while his blood seemed to run cold in his veins. A sense of disbelief, of unreality, descended on him. “She's lost the baby,” he said softly. “How? Why?”

“Sometimes there are no explanations for miscarriage,” came Leighton's grave reply. “It happens to perfectly healthy women. I have learned in my practice that at times nature takes its own course, regardless of our wishes. But let me assure you, as I have told Mrs. Devlin, that this need not prevent her from conceiving and delivering a healthy baby the next time.”

Jack looked down at the carpet with fierce concentration. Strangely, he couldn't help thinking of his father, now cold in his grave, unfeeling in death as he had been in life. What kind of man could produce so many children, legitimate and illegitimate, and care so little about any of them? Each small life seemed infinitely valuable to Jack, now that he had lost one.

“I might have caused it,” he muttered. “We share a bedroom. I…I should have left her alone—”

“No, no, Mr. Devlin.” In spite of the seriousness of the situation, a faint, compassionate smile appeared on the doctor's face. “There are cases in which I've prescribed that a patient abstain from marital intercourse during pregnancy, but this was not one of them. You did not cause the miscarriage, sir, any more than your wife did. I promise you, it was no one's fault. Now, I have told Mrs. Devlin that she must rest for the next few days until the bleeding stops. I will return before the end of the week to see how she is healing. Naturally her spirits will be somewhat low for a while, but your wife seems to be a strong-minded woman. I see no reason why she should not recover quickly.”

After the doctor took his leave, Jack entered the bedroom. His heart was riven with sorrow as he saw how small Amanda looked in the bed, all her usual fire and high spirits extinguished. He went to her and smoothed her hair back, and kissed her hot forehead.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, gazing into her empty eyes. He waited for any kind of response, despair or anger or hope, but his wife's normally expressive face remained blank. She knotted a loose fold of her dressing gown in one fist, twisting the delicate fabric and balling it in her palm.

“Amanda,” he said, taking her hard fist into his hand, “please talk to me.”

“I can't,” she managed in a constricted voice, as if some outward force were clutching at her throat.

Jack continued to hold her ice-cold fist in his warm fingers. “Amanda,” he whispered. “I understand what you're feeling.”

“How could you possibly understand?” she asked woodenly. She pulled at her fist until he released it, and she focused on some distant point on the wall. “I'm tired,” she murmured, though her eyes were round and unblinking. “I want to sleep.”

Baffled, hurt, Jack eased away from her. Amanda had never been like this with him before. It was the first time she had ever shut him out of her feelings, and it was as if she had taken an ax and neatly severed all connection between them. Perhaps if she rested, as the doctor had advised, she would wake up and that terrible blankness would have left her eyes. “All right,” he murmured. “I'll stay close by, Amanda. I'll be here if you should need anything.”

“No,” she whispered without any trace of emotion. “I don't need anything.”

 

For the next three weeks, Jack was forced to grieve alone while Amanda remained in some inner retreat that no one was allowed to share. She seemed determined to isolate herself from everyone, including him. Jack was at his wit's end to know how to reach her. Somehow the real Amanda had vanished, leaving only a vacuous shell. According to the doctor, Amanda only required more rest. However, Jack was not so certain. He feared that losing the baby was a blow from which she would never recover, that the vibrant woman he had married might never return.

In desperation, he summoned Sophia from Windsor for the weekend, despite his dislike of the disapproving shrew. Sophia did her best to console Amanda, but her presence had little effect.

“My advice is to be patient,” she told Jack upon her departure. “Amanda will recover herself eventually. I do hope that you will not exert pressure on her, or make demands that she is not ready to accommodate.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jack muttered. In the past, Sophia had made no secret of her opinion that he was a lowbred scoundrel with all the self-control of a rutting boar. “No doubt you think I'm planning to waylay her and demand my husbandly rights as soon as you depart for Windsor.”

“No, that is not what I think.” Sophia's lips curved into an unexpected smile. “I was referring to demands of an
emotional
nature, Devlin. I do not believe that even you would be so brutish as to force yourself on a woman in Amanda's condition.”

“Thank you,” he said sardonically.

They studied each other for a moment, the smile remaining on Sophia's face. “Perhaps I have been wrong in making such a harsh judgment of you,” she announced. “One thing has become clear to me of late…no matter what your faults, you do seem to love my sister.”

Jack met her gaze squarely. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, perhaps in time I may give my approval to the match. Certainly you are no Charles Hartley, but I suppose my sister could have married someone worse than you.”

He smiled wryly. “You're too kind, Sophia.”

“Bring Amanda to Windsor for a visit when she is ready,” Sophia commanded, and he bowed as if in obedience to a royal edict. They shared strangely companionable smiles before a footman escorted Sophia to her waiting carriage.

Wandering upstairs, Jack found his wife at the bedroom window, watching as Sophia's carriage rolled along the front drive. Amanda was staring at the scene outside as if transfixed, a visible pulse beating in her throat. There was an untouched supper tray on a nearby table.

“Amanda,” he murmured, willing her to look at him. For a moment her spiritless gaze held his, then dropped when he came to stand behind her. She stood and suffered his brief hug without responding. “How long will you go on like this?” he couldn't help asking. When she did not respond, he swore softly. “If you would just talk to me, dammit—”

“What is there to say?” she replied tonelessly.

Jack turned her to face him. “If you have nothing to say, then, by God, I do! You're not the only one who has lost something. It was my child, too.”

“I don't want to talk,” she said, wrenching herself away from him. “Not now.”

“No more silence between us,” he insisted, following as she retreated. “We must deal with what happened, and find a way to put it behind us.”

“I don't want to,” she choked. “I…I want to end our marriage.”

The words shocked him down to his marrow. “What?” he asked, stunned. “Why in God's name would you say that?”

Amanda struggled to answer, but no more words were possible. Suddenly all the emotion she had battened down for the past three weeks surged upward with desperate force. Although she tried to stem the painful eruption, she could not suppress the sobs that seemed to rip the inner cavities of her chest. She crossed and uncrossed her arms around her body, over her head, trying to contain the violent spasms. She was frightened by her own lack of self-control…feeling as though her very soul would crumble to ruins. She needed something, someone, to restore her disintegrating sanity.

“Leave me alone,” she whimpered, covering her streaming eyes with her hands. She felt her husband's gaze rake over her and she stiffened. She could not ever remember falling to pieces like this in front of anyone, having always believed that such ugly emotions should be managed in private.