Suddenly You (4 page)

“You are my preferred target, however,” he said, and she rolled her eyes and again smiled at him.

Taking Talbot's proffered arm, Amanda accompanied him to a massive mahogany sideboard, flanked by two large silver urns, one steaming with hot rum punch and the other filled with cold water. Talbot made a great show of directing a servant to fill a goblet of punch for her.

“Now, Mr. Talbot, I insist that you attend to your other guests,” Amanda said, letting the spicy aroma of the punch fill her nostrils. She relished the warmth that seeped through the glass goblet. Despite the thin covering of her gloves, her fingers were cold. “I see several people I wish to speak with, and you will hinder my progress.”

Talbot laughed jovially at the mock reprimand, and took his leave of her with a deep bow. Sipping her steaming punch, Amanda surveyed the crowd. Authors, publishers, illustrators, printers, lawyers, and even a critic or two—all mingled, separated, and regathered in constantly shifting groups. Conversation rippled through the room, punctuated by frequent bursts of laughter.

“Amanda, dear!” came a light, silvery voice, and Amanda turned to greet an attractive blond widow, Mrs. Francine Newlyn. Francine was the successful author of a half-dozen “sensation” novels, stories of high drama that often involved bigamy, murder, and adultery. Although Amanda privately considered Francine's books a bit overwrought, she enjoyed them nevertheless. Slim, feline, and a lover of gossip, Francine made it a point to cultivate friendships with any writers she deemed successful enough to be worthy of her attention. Amanda always relished her conversations with the woman, who seemed to know everything about everyone, but she was also cautious not to tell Francine anything she wouldn't care to be embellished and repeated.

“Dear Amanda,” Francine purred, her slender gloved fingers curved daintily around the heavy stem of a goblet, “how nice to see you here. You may be the only person of good sense to have walked through the door so far.”

“I don't know that ‘good sense' is all that desirable at an affair such as this,” Amanda replied with a smile. “Charm and beauty are doubtless much more welcome.”

Francine answered the smile with a wicked one of her own. “How fortunate, then, that you and I both possess all three qualities!”

“Isn't it,” Amanda replied dryly. “Tell me, Francine, how is your latest novel progressing?”

The blonde stared at her with mock reproof. “If you must know, my novel is not progressing at all.”

Amanda smiled sympathetically. “You'll come through it eventually.”

“Oh, I don't like to work
sans
inspiration. I've abandoned all attempts to write until I find something—or someone—to stimulate my creativity.”

Amanda couldn't help laughing at Francine's predatory expression. The widow's predilection for love affairs was well known in the publishing community. “Have you affixed your interest to a particular someone yet?”

“Not yet…although I do have a few candidates in mind.” The widow sipped delicately from her goblet. “I wouldn't mind becoming friends with that fascinating Mr. Devlin, for example.”

Although Amanda had never met the man, she had heard his name mentioned frequently. John T. Devlin was a notorious figure in London's literary culture, a man with a mysterious background who in the past five years had turned a small printing shop into the largest publishing house in the city. Apparently his rise to power had been unimpeded by any concern for morality or fair business practices.

Using charm, deception, and bribery, he had stolen the best authors from other publishers and encouraged them to write scandalous sensation novels. He placed advertisements for these novels in all the popular periodicals, and paid people to rave about them at parties and taverns. When critics complained that the books Devlin printed were destructive to the values of an impressionable public, Devlin obligingly published statements to warn potential readers that perhaps a certain novel might be especially violent or lurid; and, of course, sales skyrocketed.

Amanda had seen John T. Devlin's five-story, white stone building located at the busy intersection of Holborn and Shoe Lane, but she had not yet set foot inside the place. Behind the swinging glass doors, she had been told, there were hundreds of thousands of books stacked on shelves that went from floor to ceiling, to provide the benefits of a circulating library to an eager public. Each of its twenty thousand subscribers paid a yearly fee to Devlin for the privilege of borrowing his books. The upper galleries contained stacks of books for sale, not to mention a bindery and printing department, and, of course, Mr. Devlin's private offices.

A dozen delivery wagons were constantly coming and going from the place, carrying loads of periodicals and books to subscribers and customers. Huge frigate ships were loaded daily at the wharves with his deliveries to foreign shores. No doubt Devlin had made a fortune from his vulgar enterprise, but Amanda did not admire him for it. She had heard of the way he had driven other, smaller publishers out of business, and crushed the several circulating libraries that competed with his. She did not approve of the power he held in the literary community, not to mention his misuse of it, and she had made a pointed effort to avoid meeting him.

“I had no idea that Mr. Devlin would be here tonight,” Amanda said with a frown. “Good God, I can't imagine that Mr. Talbot would be friends with him. From all I've heard, Devlin is a scoundrel.”

“My dear Amanda, none of us can afford
not
to be friends with Devlin,” Francine replied. “You would do best to earn his goodwill.”

“So far, I've managed quite well without it. And you, Francine, would do best to steer clear of him. An affair with a man like that is the most ill-advised notion I've ever—”

She stopped abruptly as she caught a glimpse of a face in the crowd. Her heart lurched, and she blinked in a spasm of astonishment.

“Amanda?” Francine asked, clearly perplexed.

“I thought I saw…” Troubled and sweating, Amanda gazed at the milling crowd, while the throb of her own heartbeat muffled all other sound. She took a step forward, then back, looking from side to side with a wildly searching gaze. “Where is he?” she whispered, breathing much too fast.

“Amanda, are you ill?”

“No, I…” Aware that she was behaving oddly, Amanda tried to maintain her dissolving composure. “I think I saw…someone I wish to avoid.”

Francine glanced speculatively from Amanda's tense face to the milling crowd. “Why should you wish to avoid someone? Is he a disagreeable critic, perhaps? Or some friend you've fallen out with?” A sly smile curved her lips. “Perhaps a former lover who ended the affair badly?”

Although the provocative suggestion was clearly meant to tease Amanda, it was close enough to the truth that she felt her cheeks prickling. “Don't be ridiculous,” she said crisply, and scorched her tongue on a gulp of hot punch. Her eyes watered slightly at the burn.

“You'll never guess who is coming this way, Amanda,” Francine commented idly. “If Mr. Devlin is the man you wish to avoid, I'm afraid it's too late.”

Somehow Amanda knew, even before she looked upward.

Shocking blue eyes ensnared her with a steady gaze. The same deep voice that only a week ago had whispered endearments to her, now spoke in a tone of calm politeness. “Mrs. Newlyn, I hope you'll introduce me to your companion.”

Francine responded with a throaty laugh. “I'm not certain the lady wishes it, Mr. Devlin. Unfortunately, your reputation seems to have preceded you.”

Amanda could not breathe at all. He was, impossibly, her birthday visitor, “Jack,” the man who had held and kissed and pleasured her in the shadowy privacy of her own parlor. He was taller, bigger, swarthier than she remembered. In an instant she recalled the way her body had strained against his heavy weight, her hands grasping the hard muscles of his shoulders…the sweet, dark heat of his mouth.

Amanda swayed a little, her knees locked and shaking. Yet she must not make a scene, must not draw attention. She would do whatever was necessary to conceal the humiliating secret they shared. Although it seemed impossible to speak, she managed a few unsteady words.

“You may introduce this gentleman to me, Francine.” She saw from the wicked glimmer in Devlin's eyes that he had not missed the ironic emphasis she had placed on the word “gentleman.”

The sleek, pretty blonde studied them both thoughtfully. “No, I don't believe I will,” she stunned Amanda by saying. “It becomes apparent that the two of you have met before. Perhaps someone would care to enlighten me as to the circumstances?”

“No,” Devlin told her, tempering his blunt refusal with a charming grin.

Francine's fascinated gaze flew from Devlin's face to Amanda's. “Very well. I'll leave the two of you to decide whether you are acquainted or not.” She laughed lightly. “But be forewarned, Amanda. I'll have the story out of you one way or another.”

Amanda barely noticed her friend's departure. Utter confusion, outrage, betrayal…she was too overcome to say anything for a moment. Each breath she took seemed to scorch her lungs. John T. Devlin…Jack…stood there patiently, his gaze as intent as a tiger's.

He had the power to destroy her, she thought in panic. With just a few words, and perhaps a public confirmation from Mrs. Bradshaw, he could ruin her reputation, her career…her ability to provide for herself. “Mr. Devlin,” she finally managed to say with stiff-backed dignity. “Perhaps you would care to explain how and why you came to my home last week, and why you have deceived me.”

 

Despite her obvious fear and hostility, Amanda Briars looked straight into Jack's eyes, her gaze bright with challenge. She was no coward.

Jack experienced the same keen awareness he had felt the first moment he had seen her, at the doorstep of her home. She was a luxuriously made woman, with her velvety skin and curly auburn hair, and her decidedly voluptuous figure…and he was a man who appreciated quality when he saw it. Her features were pleasant, if not precisely beautiful, but the eyes…well, they were extraordinary. Penetrating gray…the light gray of April rain…intelligent, expressive eyes.

Something about her made him want to smile. He wanted to kiss her spinster-stiff mouth until it was soft and warm with passion. He wanted to charm and tease her. Most of all, he wanted to know the person who had written a novel filled with characters whose proper facades concealed such raw emotions. It was a novel that should have been written by a woman of the world, not by a country-bred spinster.

Her written words had haunted him long before he met her. Now, after their tantalizing encounter in her home, he wanted more of her. He liked the challenge of her, the surprises of her, the fact that she had done extremely well for herself. They were alike in that way.

Yet she possessed a gentility that he lacked and very much admired. Just how she could manage to be so natural and simultaneously so ladylike, two qualities that had always before struck him as being completely opposed, was an intriguing mystery.

“Amanda—” he began, and she corrected him with an offended hiss.

“Miss Briars!”

“Miss Briars,” he said evenly. “Had I not taken advantage of the opportunity presented to me that evening, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life.”

Her fine brows knit together in a repressive frown. “Do you plan to expose me?”

“I have no immediate plans,” he said thoughtfully, but mischief sparkled in his devil-blue eyes. “Although…”

“Although?” she prompted warily.

“It would make an interesting bit of gossip-fodder, wouldn't it? The respectable Miss Briars, hiring a man for her pleasure. I would hate for you to be embarrassed in such a way.” His teeth flashed in a grin that Amanda did not respond to. “I think we should discuss the matter further. I'd like to know what incentives you might offer to encourage me to keep my mouth closed.”

“You intend to blackmail me?” Amanda asked in rising fury. “You villainous, treacherous, mean-spirited—”

“You might want to lower your voice,” he advised. “In fact, Miss Briars—and I suggest this out of concern for your reputation, not mine—let us talk in private. Later.”

“Never,” she returned smartly. “Clearly you are no gentleman, and I will offer you no ‘incentives' of any kind.”

However, Devlin had the upper hand, and they both knew it. A lazy smile touched his lips, the smile of a man who knew how to get exactly what he wanted and would stoop to anything in the process. “You'll meet with me,” he said with certainty. “You have no choice. You see…I have something of yours, and I plan to make use of it.”

“You blackguard,” she muttered in disgust. “Do you mean to say that you stole something from my house?”

His sudden free laugh drew a multitude of interested gazes toward them. “I have your first novel,” he informed her.

“What?”

“Your first novel,” Jack repeated, enjoying her expression of dawning outrage. “The title is
An Unfinished Lady
. I've just acquired it. Not a bad bit of work, although some judicious editing is required before it is ready for publication.”

“You couldn't have it!” she exclaimed, choking back a flurry of scornful words as her sharp tone attracted much interest from Talbot's guests. “I sold it to Mr. Grover Steadman, years ago, for ten pounds. As soon as the money changed hands, he lost interest in the thing and locked it in a drawer, for all I know.”

“Yes, well, I recently bought the novel and all the rights to it. A pretty penny Steadman charged, too. Your stock has gone up since your last novel sold so handsomely.”

“He wouldn't dare sell it to you,” she said heatedly.

“I'm afraid he did.” Jack drew closer and added in a confidential murmur, “In fact, that was the reason I came to call on you.” He was standing so close to her that he detected the faint fragrance of lemons in her hair. He sensed rather than felt the stiffness of her body. Was she remembering the blistering heat of their lovemaking? He had suffered for hours afterward, his loins aching viciously, his hands itching for the feel of her soft, silken flesh. It had not been easy to leave her that night. Yet he hadn't been able to take her innocence under false pretenses.