Suddenly You (18 page)

Usually when they made love, Jack held and caressed her afterward. This time, however, he rolled away and left the bed with a harsh exhalation.

Amanda bit her lip and held still as Jack searched for his clothes and dressed silently. Perhaps if she had managed to explain things in a different way, a better way, Jack would not have reacted with this baffling anger. She tried to speak, but her throat was clenched too tightly to allow words, and all she could manage was a strange, broken sound.

Hearing the faint noise, Jack shot her a searching glance. Reading the pain that must have been obvious on her face did not seem to mollify him. In fact, it only seemed to frustrate him further.

He finally spoke in a cold, stiff manner, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. “I'm not finished with you yet, Amanda. I'll be waiting.”

 

Amanda had never known a silence as absolute as the one that occupied the bedroom after he left. Gathering the sheet around her in great bunches of linen that still retained the warmth and scent of his body, she tried to calm herself enough to think. They had exchanged no promises or commitments…neither of them had ever dared to believe in any kind of permanence.

She had expected to feel pain at their final parting, but she had not expected a sense of loss so profound that it seemed as if part of her had been amputated. In the weeks and months to come, she would discover all the ways that the affair had changed her, all the ways in which she would never be the same. For now, however, she would try to rid herself of the unwanted details that crowded her mind…thoughts of Jack's dark blue eyes, the taste of Jack's mouth, the misty heat of his skin as he moved over her in passion…the wonderful low timbre of his voice as he murmured in her ear.

“Jack,” she whispered, and rolled over to bury her face in the pillow as she cried.

 

The biting February breeze was a welcome shock as Jack walked out into the night. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets and strode without his usual purpose or sense of direction. It did not matter where he went, or how far; all that mattered was that he did not stop. He felt as if he had been drinking badly distilled whiskey, the kind that made his mouth dry and his head feel as if it had been stuffed with wool. It seemed impossible that a woman he wanted so badly did not want him. While he understood Amanda's fear of scandal and its consequences, he could not seem to make himself accept that he could no longer see her, talk to her, possess her…that their affair had so abruptly become a thing of the past.

It was not that he blamed Amanda for her decision. In fact, had he been a woman in her circumstances, he probably would have done the same thing. But he could not drive away a sense of anger and loss. He felt more intimacy with Amanda than he had with any other person in his life. He had told her things he had found it difficult to admit even to himself. It was not merely the delight of her body that he would miss. He loved her prickly intelligence, her easy laughter…he loved simply to be in the same room with her, though he could not explain fully why her companionship was so thoroughly satisfying.

Opposing urges battled inside him. He could return to her this minute, argue and coax until she allowed him back into her bed. But that was not what she wanted…it was not what was best for her. Swearing quietly, Jack increased his pace, walking faster and farther away from her home. He would do as she asked. He would give her the friendship she wanted, and somehow he would find a way to remove her from his heart and mind.

The London Season, with its rituals of suppers, balls, parties, and teas, began in March. There were events for every strata of society, most notably the insufferably dull gatherings of blue bloods to match suitable husbands with appropriate wives to ensure the continuation of their lineage. However, anyone of good sense took care to avoid these gatherings of the aristocracy, as the conversation was slow and self-congratulatory, and one was likely to find oneself trapped in the company of pompous half-wits.

More sought after were the invitations to events attended by what could be considered the upper middle class…people of undistinguished bloodlines but considerable wealth or celebrity. This group included a number of politicians, rich landowning barons, businessmen, physicians, newspapermen, artists, and even a few well-heeled merchants.

Since her move to London, Amanda had been readily welcomed to suppers and dances, private concerts, and theater evenings, but lately she had refused all invitations.

Although she had enjoyed herself at these affairs in the past, she could not seem to take an interest in going anywhere. She had never truly understood the phrase “heavy heart” until now. More than four weeks had passed since she had seen Jack, and her heart felt like a lead weight that imposed painful pressure on her lungs and ribs. There had even been times when breathing had been a laborious effort. She despised herself for pining after a man, hated the useless melodrama of it, and yet she couldn't seem to stop. Surely time would ease her longing, but the prospect of months, years, without him filled her with gloom.

On the occasion when Oscar Fretwell had come to collect the latest revisions for Amanda's serial novel, he had been a source of plentiful information concerning his employer. Jack had become insatiable in his efforts to achieve ever-greater heights of success. He had acquired a notable newspaper called the
London Daily Review
, boasting a dizzying circulation of one hundred fifty thousand. He had also opened two new stores, and had just bought a new magazine. It was rumored that Jack had more ready money to lay his hands on than almost any other man in England, and that the annual cash flow at Devlin's was approaching the one-million-pound mark.

“He's like a comet,” Fretwell had confided, adjusting his glasses in his habitual gesture, “hurtling along faster than anyone or anything around him. I can't recall the last time I saw him partake of a full meal. And I am certain that he never sleeps. He stays long after everyone else leaves for the day, and returns in the morning before anyone else arrives.”

“Why should he be so driven?” Amanda had asked. “I should think that Devlin would want to relax and enjoy what he has accomplished.”

“One would think so,” Fretwell had replied darkly. “More likely he'll push himself into an early grave.”

Amanda couldn't help wondering if Jack was missing her. Perhaps he was endeavoring to keep himself so busy that he had little time to dwell on the end of their affair. “Mr. Fretwell,” she said with an awkward smile, “has he mentioned my name of late?…that is…was there any message he wished you to impart to me?”

The manager's face was carefully blank. It was impossible to discern whether Jack had confided anything about their affair to him, or revealed any clue as to his feelings. “He seems quite pleased by the sales of the first installment of
Unfinished Lady
,” Fretwell said a bit too brightly.

“Yes. Thank you.” Amanda had masked her disappointment and longing with a strained smile.

Realizing that Jack was doing his best to put their relationship squarely in the past, Amanda knew that she had to do the same. She began to accept invitations again, and forced herself to laugh and make small talk with her friends. However, the truth was that nothing could dispel her loneliness, and she found herself waiting and listening constantly for the smallest mention of Jack Devlin. It was inevitable that one day they would attend the same event, and that thought filled her with dread and anticipation.

 

To Amanda's surprise, she was invited to a ball given in late March by the Stephensons, with whom she was not at all well acquainted. She vaguely recalled having met the elderly Mr. and Mrs. Stephenson the previous year, having been introduced at a party by her lawyer, Thaddeus Talbot. The family owned a string of South African diamond mines, which had added the allure of great wealth to the luster of a solid and well-respected name.

Prompted by curiosity, Amanda decided to attend. She wore her finest gown for the occasion, a confection of pale pink satin with an enormous collar of white ruffled gauze that exposed the tops of her shoulders. The full skirts rustled and swished crisply as she moved, occasionally revealing a glimpse of her lace slippers with pink ribbon ties. She had dressed her hair in a loose-curling topknot, with a few tendrils dangling against her cheeks and neck.

Stephenson Hall was a classically English house, a dignified design of red brick and giant white Corinthian columns that rose over a wide stone-paved forecourt. The ceiling of the ballroom was painted with trompe l'oeil emblems of the seasons, matching the elaborate leaf-and-flower motif of the shining parquet floor below. Hundreds of guests milled beneath the shimmering light shed by two of the largest chandeliers that Amanda had ever seen.

Immediately upon arriving, Amanda was greeted by the Stephensons' eldest son, Kerwin, a corpulent man in his early thirties, who had arrayed himself in an astonishing manner. There were glittering diamond pins affixed in his hair, diamond buckles on his shoes, diamond buttons on his coat, and diamond rings on every finger. Amanda could not help but stare at the extraordinary sight of a man who had managed to decorate every part of his body with jewels. Proudly, Stephenson swept a hand along the front of his glittering coat and smiled at her. “Remarkable, is it not?” he asked. “I can see that you are dazzled by my brilliance.”

“It almost hurts to look at you,” Amanda replied dryly.

Mistaking the remark for a compliment, Stephenson leaned closer to murmur conspiratorially, “And just think, my dear…the fortunate woman who eventually weds me will be similarly adorned.”

Amanda smiled wanly, aware that she was the target of a host of jealous stares from matrimonially minded dowagers and their charges. She wished she could reassure them
en masse
that she had no interest in the ridiculous fop.

Unfortunately, Stephenson could not be persuaded to leave her side for the rest of the evening. It seemed he had decided that Amanda should be given the honor of writing his life's story. “‘Twould be a sacrifice of my valuable privacy,” he reflected, his multitude of rings sparkling as he clamped a pudgy hand firmly on Amanda's arm, “but I can no longer deny the public the story they desire so greatly. And only you, Miss Briars, have the ability to capture the essence of its subject. Me. You will enjoy writing about me, I vow. ‘Twill hardly seem like work.”

It finally dawned on Amanda that this was the reason she had been invited to the ball—the family must have agreed that she was to be given the honor of writing their pompous heir's biography.

“You're very kind,” she murmured, caught between outrage and laughter as she glanced around at her surroundings for any avenue of escape. “However, I must tell you that biographies are not my forte—”

“We will find a private corner,” he interrupted her, “and we will sit together for the rest of the evening while I tell you the story of my life.”

Amanda's blood curdled at the prospect. “Mr. Stephenson, I could not deny the other women at the ball the chance to enjoy your company—”

“They will have to console themselves,” he said with a regretful sigh. “After all, there is only one of me—and for this evening, Miss Briars, I am yours. Come now.”

As Amanda was practically dragged to a small velvet settee in the corner, she saw Jack Devlin's dark face. The sight of him caused her heart to lurch. She had not known that he would be attending the ball…it was all she could do not to stare openly. Jack was handsome, princely even, in his black formal wear, his black hair brushed back from his face. He was standing in a group of men, watching her over the rim of his brandy glass with an expression of mocking satisfaction. His white teeth gleamed in a quick grin as he witnessed her predicament.

Abruptly Amanda's longing changed to burning annoyance. The evil wretch, she thought, glaring at him as she was tugged along behind Stephenson's corpulent form. She should not be surprised that Jack would take pleasure in seeing her discomfort.

Silently Amanda fumed as Stephenson monopolized her for the next two hours, orating grandly about his beginnings, his accomplishments, his opinions, until she longed to scream. Sipping from a glass of punch, she watched as everyone else at the party was happily dancing, laughing, and talking, while she was trapped on a settee with a self-important windbag.

Worse, every time someone approached them, and it looked as if rescue might be likely, Stephenson waved the person away and continued his incessant chatter to Amanda. Just when she was considering a feigned illness or a pretend swoon in order to be rid of him, help came from the quarter she desired the least.

Jack stood before them with an expressionless face, ignoring Stephenson's attempts to shoo him away. “Miss Briars,” he murmured, “are you enjoying the evening?”

Stephenson responded before Amanda could speak. “Devlin, you have the honor of being the first to hear the good news,” he crowed.

Devlin arched his brow as he glanced at Amanda. “Good news?”

“I have convinced Miss Briars to write my biography.”

“Have you?” Devlin sent Amanda a mildly chiding gaze. “Perhaps you've forgotten, Miss Briars, that you have contractual obligations to me. Despite your enthusiasm for the project, you may have to delay it for a while.”

“If you say so,” she murmured, nearly choking with a galling mixture of annoyance and gratitude. Silently she flashed him a message, her gaze promising vengeance if he did not rescue her immediately.

Devlin bowed and extended a gloved hand. “Shall we discuss the matter further? During a waltz, perhaps?”

Amanda needed no further urging. She practically leapt from the settee, which had developed all the appeal of a torture chamber, and seized Devlin's hand. “Very well, if you insist.”

“Oh, I do,” he assured her.

“But my life's story…” Stephenson protested. “I haven't yet finished with my years at Oxford…” He spluttered indignantly as Jack ushered Amanda toward the whirl of dancing couples in the drawing room. An effervescent waltz floated through the air, but its cheerful melody did little to soothe Amanda's irritation.

“Aren't you going to thank me?” Jack asked. He took her gloved hand and slid his arm around her.

“Thank you for what?” she responded sourly. Her cramped leg muscles objected to the prospect of a dance after the prolonged stay on the settee, but she was so relieved to be away from her tormentor that she ignored the pain.

“For rescuing you from Stephenson.”

“You waited two hours to do so,” she said tersely. “You'll get no thanks from me.”

“How was I to know that you wouldn't find Stephenson attractive?” he asked, all innocence. “Many women do.”

“Well, they are welcome to him. You have allowed me to be tormented by the most pretentious ass of a man that I've ever encountered.”

“He is respectable, educated, unmarried, and wealthy—what more could you want?”

“He is
not
educated,” Amanda countered with barely suppressed vehemence. “Or at least, if he is, his knowledge is limited to one subject. Himself.”

“He knows a great deal about gemstones,” Jack remarked blandly.

Amanda was tempted to hit him, right there before the mass of dancing couples. Reading her expression, Devlin laughed and tried to appear contrite. “I'm sorry. Truly. Here, I'll make it up to you. Tell me whom you most want to meet tonight, and I'll see to it at once. Anyone at all.”

“Don't bother,” she said grudgingly. “Being subjected to Mr. Stephenson for so long has put me in a foul temper. I'm only fit company for you.”

His eyes gleamed with heathen laughter. “Dance with me, then.”

He pulled her into the waltz with splendid economy of movement, somehow compensating for the radical difference in their heights. Amanda was struck anew how tall he was, the strength and sleek power of his body concealed in civilized evening attire.

As she might have expected, he was an excellent dancer, not merely proficient but graceful. He led her firmly, allowing no opportunity for a misstep. His hand was strong on her back, providing just the right amount of support and pressure to guide her.

The smell of starched linen mixed with the scent of his skin, salty and clean and spiced with a hint of cologne. Amanda hated it that Jack smelled so much better than any other man she knew. If only she could bottle the essence and pour it on some other man.

The ebullient music flowed around them, and Amanda felt herself relaxing in Devlin's firm hold. She had seldom danced in her youth, since most men of her acquaintance had seemed to think she was too dignified to enjoy such an activity. Although she had not been precisely a wallflower, she had certainly not been in high demand as a dance partner.

As they turned and circled amidst the other couples, Amanda noticed the subtle changes in Devlin's face. In the weeks since their separation, it seemed that he had lost some of his jauntiness and swagger. He appeared older, with new brackets forming on either side of his mouth, and a pair of creases that frequently appeared between his heavy brows. He had lost weight, which threw his cheekbones into new prominence and emphasized the hard angle of his jaw. And there were shadows beneath his eyes that attested to a regular lack of sleep.