Suddenly You (7 page)

“A hundred thousand,” Amanda repeated, not bothering to hide her astonishment. Of course, she and every literate person in London had become familiar with Mr. Charles Dickens, as his serial novel
Pickwick
had charmed the public with its liveliness and humor. Each installment was frantically sought by booksellers' representatives on Magazine Day, while quips and phrases from each edition were exchanged in taverns and coffeehouses. Shopkeepers kept copies of
Pickwick
behind the counters to read between customers. Schoolboys tucked editions between the pages of their grammar books, despite the severe knuckle-rappings they would earn should their transgression be discovered. Despite the public excitement over
Pickwick
, however, Amanda had not expected Dickens's sales to be quite so high.

“Mr. Devlin,” she said thoughtfully, “I am never accused of modesty, false or otherwise. I know that as a novelist, I possess a certain ability. But my work is not comparable to that of Mr. Dickens. My writing is not humorous, nor am I capable of imitating him—”

“I don't want you to imitate anyone. I want to publish a serial novel written in
your
style, Miss Briars…something resonant and romantic. I promise you, the public will follow
An Unfinished Lady
every bit as faithfully as they read the more humorous serials.”

“You can't guarantee such a thing,” Amanda said.

Devlin's white teeth flashed in a sudden grin. “No. But I'm willing to take the risk if you are. Whether or not the thing succeeds, Miss Briars, you'll have the money in your pocket…and you'll be free to spend the rest of your life writing three-volume novels, if that is your desire.”

He startled Amanda by leaning over her chair, bracing his hands on the mahogany arms. She could not rise, had she wished to, without bringing her body directly against his. She felt his legs brush against the front of her skirts. “Say yes, Amanda,” he coaxed. “You'll never regret it.”

Amanda leaned hard against the back of her chair. Devlin's disarming blue eyes were set in a face of such perfect masculine beauty that it should have come from a painting or a sculpture. Yet there was nothing aristocratic about his looks. He possessed an earthiness, a sensuality, that was impossible to ignore. If he resembled an angel, it was a fallen one.

Her entire body seemed to pulse in response to him. She caught the intoxicating scent of his skin, the male spice that would forever saturate her memory. He made it difficult for her to think clearly, when all she wanted was to push herself up at him and slide her hands beneath his clothes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized with ironic despair that her encounter with him had done absolutely nothing to silence her own unwanted physical urges.

If she accepted his offer, she would have to see him, talk to him, and somehow conceal her own treacherous response to him. Nothing was more pitiable, more laughable, than a sexually frustrated spinster pursuing a handsome man—the archetype was a standard one in comedic plays and books. She must not place herself in such a position.

“I'm afraid I cannot,” Amanda said, intending to use a firm tone of dismissal. Instead, her voice was infuriatingly breathless. She tried to look away from him, but standing over her as he was, his face and body seemed to fill her vision. “I…I feel a certain loyalty for my current publisher, Mr. Sheffield.”

His soft laugh was not at all complimentary. “Believe me,” he scoffed, “Sheffield knows better than to rely on an author's loyalty. He won't be surprised by your defection.”

Amanda scowled at him. “Are you suggesting that I can be bought, Mr. Devlin?”

“Why, yes, Miss Briars, I believe I am.”

She would have loved to show him that he was wrong. But the thought of five thousand pounds was too tantalizing to resist. A frown tugged at the inner corners of her eyebrows. “What will you do if I turn down your offer?” she asked.

“I'll publish your book anyway, and honor the original royalty agreement you had with Steadman. You'll still make money, peaches. But not nearly as much.”

“What about your threat of telling everyone about that night we…” The words tangled and gathered into a choking knot in Amanda's throat. She swallowed hard and continued. “Do you still intend to blackmail me with the fact that you and I—”

“Nearly made love?” he suggested helpfully, staring at her in a way that made her face prickle with heat.

“Love had nothing to do with it,” she shot back.

“Perhaps not,” he acknowledged, laughing softly. “But let us not bring the negotiations down to that level, Miss Briars. Why don't you simply agree to my offer so that I don't have to resort to desperate measures?”

Amanda opened her mouth to ask another question when suddenly the door vibrated from the thud of a fist, or perhaps a boot.

“Mr. Devlin,” came Oscar Fretwell's muffled voice. “Mr. Devlin, I can't seem to—
oof!
”

Sounds of scuffling and physical struggle came through the door. Devlin's smile faded, and he turned away from Amanda with a sudden scowl. “What the hell…?” he muttered, striding toward the door. He stopped short as the mahogany portal burst open, revealing a large, furious-faced gentleman with his fine clothes in disarray and his brown wig askew. A sour waft of spirits accompanied him, strongly evident even from where Amanda sat. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, wondering how a man could have drunk so much at this early hour of the day.

“Devlin,”
the man roared, his corpulent jowls jiggling from the force of his wrath, “I have cornered you like a fox, and there will be no escape from me! You will pay for what you have done!”

Just behind him, Fretwell tried to pry himself free of the man's beefy comrade, who appeared to be some kind of hired thug. “Mr. Devlin,” Fretwell gasped, “take care. This is Lord Tirwitt…the one who…well, he seems to believe that he was slandered in Mrs. Bradshaw's book—”

Tirwitt slammed the door in Fretwell's face and turned toward Devlin, brandishing a heavy silver cane. Fumbling a bit, he pressed a hidden catch on the handle, and a double-sided blade sprang from the end, converting the cane to a deadly weapon. “You demon from hell,” he said viciously, his small, dark eyes burning in his red face as he stared at Devlin. “I will have my revenge on you and that malicious bitch Mrs. Bradshaw. For every word you published about me, I will cut a slice from you, and feed it to—”

“Lord Tirwitt, is it?” Devlin's keen gaze locked on the man's puffy face. “If you'll put that damn thing away, we'll discuss your problem like rational beings. If you hadn't noticed, there is a lady present. We'll allow her to leave, and then—”

“Any woman found in your company is no lady,” Tirwitt sneered, gesturing wildly with the knife-tipped cane. “I wouldn't put her on a level above that whore Gemma Bradshaw.”

A murderous coldness settled on Devlin's face, and he stepped forward, seeming unconcerned by the threat of the cane.

Amanda intervened hastily. “Mr. Devlin,” she said briskly, “I find this performance remarkable. Is this some sort of farce you've arranged in an effort to frighten me into signing a contract? Or are you in the habit of receiving deranged callers in your office?”

As she had intended, Tirwitt's attention was drawn to her. “If I am deranged,” he snarled, “it is because my life has been blown to bits. I have been made a laughingstock by the evil brew of lies and fantasy that this bastard has published. Ruining peoples' lives for profit…well, the time of his comeuppance has arrived!”

“Your name was never mentioned in Mrs. Bradshaw's book,” Devlin said calmly. “All the characters were disguised.”

“Certain details of my personal life were shamelessly revealed…enough to make my identity abundantly clear. My wife has left me, my friends have abandoned me…I have been stripped of everything that matters.” Tirwitt breathed heavily, his rampaging fury gaining momentum. “I have nothing to lose now,” he muttered. “And I will take you down with me, Devlin.”

“This is nonsense,” Amanda interrupted curtly. “Charging about in this manner…it is ridiculous, my lord. I've never witnessed such outrageous behavior—why, I'm tempted to put you in a book myself.”

“Miss Briars,” Devlin said carefully, “this would be a good time for you to keep your mouth shut. Let me handle the matter.”

“There is nothing to handle!” Tirwitt shouted, charging forward like a wounded bull and swiping the double-sided blade in a swift arc. Devlin leapt to the side, but not before the knife caught him, cutting through the fabric of his vest and shirt.

“Get behind the desk,” Devlin snapped at Amanda.

Amanda retreated to the wall instead, watching in amazement. The knife must be remarkably sharp, she thought, to have cut so easily through two layers of cloth. A crimson stain soaked rapidly through the fabric. Devlin seemed not to notice the wound on his midriff as he circled warily around the room.

“You've made your point,” Devlin said in a low voice, his gaze locked with the other man's. “Now set that thing down, or you'll soon find yourself in a Bow Street gaol.”

The sight of blood seemed to whet Lord Tirwitt's desire to draw more. “I've only just started,” he said thickly. “I'm going to carve you like a Christmas goose before you ruin any more lives. The public will thank me.”

Devlin leapt back with impressive agility as the deadly cane whistled through the air once more, narrowly missing him. “The public will also appreciate the sight of you swinging in the wind…they always like a good hanging, don't they?”

Amanda was impressed by Devlin's presence of mind at such a moment. However, Lord Tirwitt was clearly too maddened to care about the consequences of his actions. He continued to press his advantage, the cane whistling and jabbing as he endeavored to divest Devlin of one part of his anatomy or another. Devlin retreated to the desk, felt its edge against the back of his hips, and snatched up a leather-bound dictionary, using it as a shield. The blade slashed neatly through the cover, and Devlin hurled the heavy volume at his opponent. Turning aside, Lord Tirwitt deflected the solid blow with his shoulder, made an enraged sound as he absorbed the pain, then rushed at Devlin with the cane yet again.

While the two men struggled, Amanda glanced wildly around the room, her gaze settling on the set of iron fireplace tools by the hearth. “Excellent,” she muttered, hurrying to snatch up the long, brass-handled poker.

Lord Tirwitt was too busy with attempted murder to notice her approach from behind him. Clutching the poker with both hands, Amanda raised the makeshift cudgel. She brought it down with as much force as she thought necessary, aiming for the back of his head. Her intent was to knock him unconscious without killing him. However, being unskilled in the art of combat, she did not hit him hard enough at first. It was a curious sensation, hitting the skull of a man with a poker. Her hands reverberated with the strange, rather sickening thud that the implement made. To her dismay, Lord Tirwitt spun to face her, a bemused expression twisting his face. The spear-tipped cane quivered in his meaty hands. Amanda hit him again, this time in the forehead, wincing as her blow connected.

Lord Tirwitt crumpled slowly to the floor, his eyes closing. Dropping the poker at once, Amanda stood there, feeling slightly dazed. She watched Devlin crouch over the fallen man.

“Did I kill him?” she asked unsteadily.

“No, you didn't kill him,” Devlin said in response to Amanda's anxious query. “A pity, but he'll live.” He stepped over the unconscious man, strode swiftly to the door, and opened it to reveal the hired thug's expectant face. Before the man had a moment to react, Devlin sank a hard fist into the man's belly, causing him to double over with a groan and collapse to the floor. “Fretwell,” Devlin called, barely raising his voice. One might think he were calling to request another tea tray. “Fretwell, where are you?”

The manager appeared in less than a minute, panting slightly from exertion. He was clearly relieved to see that his employer was all right. A pair of stout, muscular young men were right behind him.

“I've just sent for a Bow Street runner,” Fretwell said breathlessly, “and brought a couple of the stockroom boys to help me dispatch with this…” He glanced distastefully at the thug. “This vermin,” he finished with a grimace.

“Thank you,” came Devlin's sardonic reply. “Good work, Fretwell. However, it appears that Miss Briars has the situation well in hand.”

“Miss Briars?” The manager threw a bewildered glance at Amanda, who was standing over Tirwitt's crumpled body. “You don't mean to say that she…?”

“Bashed his brains out,” Devlin said, and suddenly the corners of his mouth twitched with irrepressible amusement.

“Before you continue to entertain yourself at my expense,” Amanda said, “you might take care of that wound, Mr. Devlin, before you bleed to death in front of us.”

“Good God!” Fretwell exclaimed, realizing that a patch of blood was spreading across Devlin's gray-striped vest. “I'll send for a doctor. I didn't realize that this madman had wounded you, sir.”

“It's just a scratch,” Devlin said matter-of-factly. “I don't need a doctor.”

“I think you do.” Fretwell's face turned a ghastly shade of gray as he stared at Devlin's crimson-soaked garments.

“I'll have a look at the injury,” Amanda said firmly. After all her years in the sickroom, she was unfazed by the sight of blood. “Mr. Fretwell, you shall supervise the removal of Lord Tirwitt from the office, while I will tend to the wound.” She looked into Devlin's indigo eyes. “Remove your coat, please, and sit down.”

Devlin complied, wincing as he eased his arms from the sleeves of his coat. Amanda moved to help him, guessing that by now the slash on his side was beginning to burn like fire. Even if it were merely a scratch, it would have to be cleaned. Heaven knew what other uses the spear-tipped cane had been put to before today.

Amanda received the coat from him and draped it neatly over the back of a nearby chair. The wool still carried the heat and scent of his body. The fragrance was inexplicably alluring, almost narcotic in its effect, and for one irrational moment Amanda was tempted to bury her face in the intoxicating folds of fabric.

Devlin's attention was focused on the stockroom boys as they labored to carry Lord Tirwitt's inert body from the office. The man groaned in protest, and Devlin's face wore a look of evil satisfaction. “I hope that bastard awakens with a headache from hell,” he muttered. “I hope he—”

“Mr. Devlin,” Amanda interrupted, pushing him backward until he sat on the edge of the mahogany desk, “control yourself. No doubt you possess an impressive array of foul words, but I have no wish to hear them.”

Devlin's white teeth gleamed in a quick grin. He sat very still as she moved to untie his gray silk cravat, her small fingers tugging at the simple knot. As she drew the length of warm silk away from his throat and began on the buttons of his shirt, Amanda was uncomfortably aware of the way he stared at her. His blue eyes were filled with warmth and mockery, leaving no question that he was enjoying the situation immensely.

He waited until Fretwell and the stockroom boys were out of the room before he spoke. “You seem to have a penchant for undressing me, Amanda.”

Amanda paused on the third button of his shirt. Her cheeks flamed as she forced herself to meet his gaze directly. “Do not mistake my compassion for injured creatures as any kind of personal interest, Mr. Devlin. I once bandaged the paw of a stray dog I found in the village. I would place you in the same category as he.”

“My angel of mercy,” Devlin murmured, amusement dancing in his eyes, and he fell obligingly silent as she continued to unfasten his shirt.

Amanda had helped her ailing father to dress and undress many times, and she was hardly missish about such matters. However, it was one thing to help an invalid relative. It was an entirely different matter to remove the clothing of a young, healthy male.

She helped him off with his bloodstained vest, and finished the row of buttons on his shirt until the garment gaped wide open. With each inch of skin revealed, Amanda felt her face burning hotter.

“I'll do it,” Devlin said, turning unexpectedly gruff when she reached for the cuffs of his shirt. He unfastened them deftly, but it was clear that the wound was making him uncomfortable. “Damn Tirwitt,” he growled. “If this thing festers, I'm going to find him and—”

“It will not fester,” Amanda said. “I shall clean it thoroughly and bandage it, and in a day or two you'll be back to your usual pursuits.” Gently she tugged the shirt from his broad shoulders, the golden skin gleaming in the firelight. She wadded up the stained garment, using it to blot the wound. It was a slash perhaps six inches long, located just beneath the left side of his rib cage. As Devlin had said, it was indeed only a scratch, though a rather nasty one. Amanda pressed the soft mass of the shirt firmly against the slash and held it there.

“Careful,” Devlin said softly. “You'll ruin your gown.”

“It will wash,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mr. Devlin, do you keep some kind of spirits about the place? Brandy, perhaps?”

“Whiskey. In the small cabinet by the bookshelf. Why, Miss Briars? Are you feeling the need to fortify yourself at the sight of my naked body?”

“Insufferable coxcomb,” Amanda said, although she couldn't repress a sudden smile as she stared into his teasing eyes. “No, I intend to use it to clean the wound.”

She continued to hold the wadded-up shirt against his midriff, standing so close that his left knee was lost somewhere amid the rustling mass of her skirts. Devlin was motionless, making no effort to touch her, merely remaining in his half-seated posture. The gray wool trousers stretched snugly over his thighs, following the hard outlines of muscle. As if to demonstrate that he was no threat to her, he leaned back slightly, his large hands lightly gripping the edge of the desk, his body relaxed and still.

Amanda tried not to stare openly at him, but her dratted curiosity knew no limits. Devlin was as sleek and muscular as the black-and-gold tiger she had seen on exhibition at the park menagerie. Divested of his clothes, he seemed even larger, his broad shoulders and long torso looming before her. The texture of his flesh was heavy and tough, covered with skin that seemed hard but silken at the same time. His midriff was scored with rows of muscle. She had seen statues and illustrations of the male body, but nothing had ever conveyed this sense of warm, living strength, this potent virility.

And for some reason, artistic renderings had omitted a few fascinating details, such as the tufts of black hair beneath his arms, the small, dark points of his nipples, and the sprinkling of wiry hair that began just below his navel and disappeared behind the top of his trousers.

Amanda remembered the remarkable heat of his flesh, the feeling of pressing her breasts against that smooth male skin. Before Devlin could detect the sudden trembling of her hands, she moved away from him and went to the cabinet behind his desk. She found a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and lifted it up.

“Is this the whiskey?” she asked, showing him, and he nodded. Amanda regarded the decanter curiously. The gentlemen of her experience drank port, sherry, Madeira, and brandy, but this particular form of liquor was unknown to her. “What exactly is whiskey?”

“Spirits made from barley malt,” came the quiet rumble of Devlin's voice. “You might bring me a glass.”

“Isn't it rather early for that?” Amanda asked skeptically, extracting a handkerchief from her sleeve.

“I'm Irish,” he reminded her. “Besides, it's been a difficult morning.”

Amanda carefully poured a finger of the liquor into a glass and moistened the handkerchief with a generous splash from the bottle. “Yes, I gather—” she began, then fell silent as she turned toward him. Standing behind the desk, she had an unhindered view of his bare back, and the sight was unexpectedly startling. The broad surface, narrowing to a lean waist, was developed and muscular, rippling with strength. However, the skin was crossed with faint stripes from some long-ago trauma…scars left from brutal thrashings and beatings. There were even a few raised ridges that showed white against the darker skin around them.

Devlin glanced over his shoulder, alerted by her sudden silence. At first his blue eyes were questioning, but almost immediately he seemed to realize what she had seen. His face turned cold and secretive, and the muscles of his shoulders bunched in visible tension. One of his brows arched slightly, and Amanda was startled by the proud, almost aristocratic cast of his features. He silently dared her to comment on a subject that was clearly forbidden. Wearing that particular expression, he could have easily been mistaken for a member of the aristocracy.

Amanda forced her own face to remain blank, and she tried to remember what his last words had been…something about a difficult morning. “Yes,” she said evenly, coming around the desk with the glass of whiskey, “I gather that you are not accustomed to having someone attempt to murder you in your office.”

“Not in the literal sense,” he said wryly. Devlin seemed to relax as he realized that she was not going to ask about the scars. He accepted the whiskey glass and drank the spirits in one swallow.

Amanda was mesmerized by the movement of his long throat. She wanted to touch that warm column, and to press her mouth into the triangular indentation at the base of it. Her free hand balled into a hard fist. Good Lord, she must gain control over these urges!

Setting aside the glass, Devlin fastened his bright gaze on her. “Actually,” he murmured, “the difficult part wasn't Lord Tirwitt's interruption. What I am having trouble with this morning is keeping my hands off you.”

The statement was hardly courtly, but it had a certain blunt effectiveness. Amanda blinked in surprise. Carefully she reached out and took the bloodstained shirt away from his side, and dabbed at the bloody cut with the whiskey-moistened handkerchief.

Devlin jumped a little at the first stinging touch, his breath hissing. Gently Amanda dabbed at the slash again. He uttered a foul curse, shrinking back from the spirit-soaked cloth.

Amanda continued to clean the cut. “In my books,” she said conversationally, “the hero would make light of the pain, no matter how great.”

“Well, I'm not a hero,” he growled, “and this hurts like bloody hell! Dammit, woman, could you be a bit more gentle?”

“Physically you are of heroic proportions,” she observed. “However, it appears that the stature of your character is less impressive.”

“Well, we can't all possess your sterling character, Miss Briars.” His tone was threaded with sarcasm.

Annoyed, Amanda slapped the entire whiskey-dampened handkerchief on the wound, causing a sharp grunt to escape his lips as he struggled to master the sudden blaze of pain. His narrow blue eyes promised her a world of retribution.

They were both distracted by a sudden choking noise from nearby, and glanced in unison to discover that Oscar Fretwell had entered the room. At first Amanda thought that he was distressed by the sight of Devlin's blood. However, from the stiff quiver of his mouth and the slight watering of his sea-green eyes, it appeared that he was…laughing? What the devil did he find so amusing?

Masterfully the manager struggled to control himself. “I…ah…brought bandages and a fresh shirt for you, Mr. Devlin.”

“Do you always keep a change of clothes at your place of business, Mr. Devlin?” Amanda asked.

“Oh, yes,” Fretwell said cheerfully before Devlin could reply. “Ink stains, spills, marauding aristocrats…one never knows what to expect. It is best to be prepared.”

“
Out
, Fretwell,” Devlin said meaningfully, and the manager continued to grin as he complied.

“I like that Mr. Fretwell,” Amanda said, reaching for a rolled bandage when the cut was cleaned.

“Everyone does,” rejoined Devlin dryly.

“How did he come to work for you?” Carefully she wrapped the bandage around his lean midriff.

“I've known him since boyhood,” he said, holding the end of the linen strip in place. “We went to school together. When I decided to enter the publishing business, he and a few of our classmates elected to follow me. One of them, Mr. Guy Stubbins, manages my accounts and bookkeeping, and another, Mr. Basil Fry, supervises my business abroad. And Will Orpin manages my bindery.”

“What school did you attend?”

For a long moment there was no reply. His face was completely blank. In fact, Amanda thought he might not have heard her, and she began to repeat the question. “Mr. Devlin—”

“A little place in the middle of the moors,” he said curtly. “You wouldn't know of it.”

“Then why not tell me—” She tucked the loose end of the bandage neatly in place.

“Hand me my shirt,” he interrupted.

The air nearly vibrated from the force of his annoyance. Shrugging slightly, Amanda abandoned the subject and reached for the neatly folded shirt. She shook it out with a deft snap and unfastened the top button. By sheer habit, she held it up for him as expertly as a seasoned valet, the way she had done so often for her father.