Suddenly You (22 page)

Tode nodded, his liquid black eyes filled with polite sympathy. “Yes, Mr. Devlin. Your father passed away in his sleep last evening.” He glanced at the whiskey bottle on Jack's desk and added, “It seems that you have already heard.”

Jack laughed shortly at the man's assumption that he was drinking out of grief over the passing of his father. “No, I hadn't heard.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. “Good God, how closely you resemble your father,” the solicitor remarked, staring as if mesmerized by Jack's hard face. “There is certainly no doubt as to who sired you.”

Moodily Jack swirled some whiskey in his glass. “Unfortunately so.”

The solicitor did not appear to be surprised by the negative comment. No doubt the earl had acquired a good many enemies during his long, pernicious lifetime, including a few bitterly discontent bastard children. “I am aware of the fact that you and the earl were…not close.”

Jack smiled slightly at the understatement and made no reply.

“However,” Tode continued, “the earl did see fit before he died to include you in his will. A token, of course, to a man of your obvious means…yet it is something of a family prize. The earl left you a country property with a small estate manor in Hertfordshire. Well situated and maintained. A jewel, really. It was built by your great-great-grandfather.”

“What an honor,” Jack murmured.

Tode ignored the sarcasm. “Your brothers and sisters certainly think so,” he replied. “Many of them had an eye on it before your father's passing. Needless to say, they were universally surprised that he left it to you.”

Good,
Jack thought with a sting of mean satisfaction. He took pleasure in having displeased the privileged group of snobs who had chosen to take so little notice of him. No doubt there was a great deal of whining and grousing about the fact that an ancient family property had been left to an illegitimate half brother.

“Your father had the codicil written not long ago,” Tode remarked. “Perhaps it will interest you to know that he followed your achievements with a great deal of interest. He seemed to believe that you were like him in many ways.”

“He was probably right,” Jack said, self-disgust slithering through him.

Tilting his head a bit, the solicitor regarded him thoughtfully. “The earl was a very complicated man. Apparently he had everything in the world that one could wish for, and yet the poor fellow seemed to lack the talent for happiness.”

The turn of phrase interested Jack, temporarily pulling him from the well of bitterness. “Does it require a particular talent to be happy?” he asked, still staring at his whiskey glass.

“I've always believed so. I am acquainted with a tenant farmer on your father's lands who lives in a crude stone cottage with a dirt floor, yet he has always struck me as finding far more pleasure in life than your father. I've come to think that the condition of happiness is something a man chooses, rather than something that merely befalls one.”

Jack shrugged at the observation. “I wouldn't know.”

They sat together in silence, until Mr. Tode cleared his throat and stood. “I wish you well, Mr. Devlin. I will take my leave for now, and in short time I will send the materials relevant to your inheritance.” He paused in a moment of patent embarrassment before adding, “I'm afraid there is no diplomatic way to say this…however, the earl's legitimate children have asked me to tell you that they wish to have no communication with you of any kind. In other words, the funeral…”

“Have no fear, I won't be attending,” Jack said with a brief, ugly laugh. “You may inform my half brothers and sisters that I have as little interest in them as they have in me.”

“Yes, Mr. Devlin. If I may be of assistance to you, please do not hesitate to inform me.”

After the solicitor had left, Jack stood and paced around the room. The whiskey had gone to his head—it seemed his usual tolerance for the stuff had disappeared. His head ached, and he felt empty, hungry, weary. A mirthless smile tugged at his mouth. It had been a hell of a day so far, and the morning wasn't even over.

He felt curiously removed from his past and his future, as if he were somehow standing outside his own life. Mentally Jack cataloged all the reasons he should be content. He had money, property, land, and now he had inherited a family estate, a birthright that should have been given to a legitimate heir rather than a bastard. He should have been very pleased.

But he did not care about any of it. He wanted only one thing—to have Amanda Briars in his bed. Tonight and every night. To own her, and to be owned by her.

Somehow Amanda was the only thing that would prevent him from ending like his father, rich and callous and mean-spirited. If he could not have her…if he had to spend the rest of his life watching her grow old with Charles Hartley…

Jack swore, his pacing becoming more agitated until he circled the room like a caged tiger. Amanda had made what was clearly a good choice for herself. Hartley would never encourage her to do something unladylike or unconventional. He would shroud her in comfortable propriety, and before long the impulsive woman who had once tried to hire a prostitute for her birthday would be buried beneath layers of respectability.

Jack stopped by the window, flattening his hands on the cool pane. Grimly he acknowledged that it was far better for Amanda to marry a man like Hartley. No matter what it took, Jack would quell his own selfish desires and think more of her needs than his own. If it killed him, he would accept the match and wish them both well, so that Amanda would never realize how he felt about her.

 

Amanda smiled up at her soon-to-be-betrothed. “At what time will you make the announcement, Charles?”

“Talbot has given me leave to do so whenever I wish. I thought we would wait until the dancing begins, and you and I would start the first waltz as a betrothed couple.”

“A perfect plan.” Amanda tried to ignore the unsettled feeling in her stomach.

They stood together on one of the outside balconies that extended from the drawing room of Mr. Thaddeus Talbot's home. The party was well attended, with over a hundred and fifty guests having gathered to enjoy the fine music and bountiful delicacies that were standard at any of Talbot's events. Tonight Amanda and Charles would announce their pending nuptuals to their friends and acquaintances. Afterward the banns would be read in church for three weeks, and they would have a small wedding in Windsor.

Amanda's sisters, Sophia and Helen, had been delighted by the news that their younger sibling was to wed.
I fully approve of your choice, and cannot conceal my great pleasure that you paid heed to my counsel
, Sophia had written.
From all reports, Mr. Hartley is a decent and quiet-living gentleman, his pedigree estimable, and his fortune well founded. I have no doubt that this marriage will be of great benefit to all parties concerned. We look forward to welcoming Mr. Hartley into our family, dear Amanda, and I do congratulate you on your most judicious selection of a partner…

Judicious
, Amanda thought with silent amusement. It was hardly the way she might have once wished to describe her choice of a fiancé, but it would certainly do.

Hartley glanced around to make certain they were not being observed, then bent to kiss her forehead. It felt odd to Amanda to be kissed by a man with a beard, the softness of his lips surrounded by the wiry brush of hair.

“How happy you've made me, Amanda. We are perfectly matched, are we not?”

“We are,” she said with a little laugh.

He took her gloved hands and squeezed them. “Allow me to fetch you some punch. We'll share a few moments of privacy out here—it's so much more peaceful than the crush inside. Will you wait for me?”

“Of course I will, dear.” Amanda returned the squeeze of his hands, sighing as the disquieting feeling left. “Hurry, Charles—I shall miss you if you are gone for long.”

“I will indeed hurry,” he replied with an affectionate laugh. “I would not be fool enough to leave the most attractive woman at the party unaccompanied for more than a few minutes.” He opened the glass-paned doors that led to the drawing room. A burst of music and conversation accompanied his exit, the sounds quickly muffled as the doors were closed once more.

 

Moodily Jack surveyed the elegant throng of guests in the drawing room of Thaddeus Talbot's red brick home, hunting for a glimpse of Amanda. Music drifted from the paneled copse at one end of the room, an exuberant rendition of a Croatian folk tune that lent a vivacious mood to the gathering.

A fine night for a betrothal announcement, he thought bleakly. Amanda was nowhere to be seen, but Charles Hartley's tall form was visible at the refreshment table.

Every particle of his being rebelled at the idea of talking civilly with the man. Yet somehow it seemed necessary. He would make himself accept the situation like a gentleman, no matter how foreign that behavior was to his nature.

Forcing his face into an expressionless mask, Jack approached Hartley, who was directing a servant to fill two cups with fruit-colored punch.

“Good evening, Hartley,” he murmured. The man turned toward him, his wide, square features seeming untroubled, his smile gentle amid the trim thatch of his beard. “It seems that congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you,” Hartley said carefully. In tacit agreement, they both withdrew from the refreshment table and found an unoccupied corner of the room where they would not be overheard. “Amanda told me that she visited you this morning,” Hartley commented. “I had thought that after she broke the news you might have…” He paused, giving Jack an assessing glance. “But it seems that you have no objections to the marriage.”

“Why would I? Naturally I want the best for Miss Briars.”

“And the circumstances do not trouble you?”

Thinking that Hartley was referring to the affair with Amanda, Jack shook his head. “No,” he said with a hard smile. “If you can overlook the circumstances, then so can I.”

Looking perplexed, Hartley spoke in a guarded murmur. “I would like you to know something, Devlin. I will do my best to make Amanda happy, and I will be an excellent father to her child. Perhaps it is easier this way, with your lack of involvement—”

“Child,” Jack said softly, his gaze arrowing to the other man's face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Hartley was very still, appearing to devote unusual concentration to a distant point on the floor. When he glanced upward, his brown eyes were crinkled with dismay. “You don't know, do you? Amanda assured me that she had told you this morning.”

“Told me what? That she—” Jack broke off in utter confusion, wondering what in God's name Hartley had meant. Then he understood. A child, a child…

Dear God.

The news was like an explosion in his brain, setting every cell and nerve afire. “My God,” he whispered. “She's pregnant, isn't she? With my child. And she would have married you without telling me.”

Hartley's silence was reply enough.

At first Jack was too stunned to feel anything. Then fury kindled, and dark color washed over his face.

“It seems that Amanda could not bring herself to discuss it with you after all.” Hartley's quiet murmur filtered through the angry buzzing in his brain.

“She will damn well have to,” Jack muttered. “You had better delay your betrothal announcement, Hartley.”

“Perhaps that is best,” he heard Hartley say.

“Tell me where she is.”

Hartley complied, and Jack went in search of Amanda, his mind seething with unwelcome recollections. He had too many memories of helpless little boys struggling to survive in a merciless world. He had tried to protect them—he even bore the marks of that effort on his own body. But ever since then, he had wanted to be responsible only for himself. His life had been his own, to be dealt with on his own terms. For a man who did not want to have a family, avoiding such a fate had been a simple enough matter.

Until now.

That Amanda had tried to cut him so neatly out of the situation was maddening. She knew full well that he had not wanted to take the risk of marriage and all that went with it. Perhaps he should even be grateful that she had completely absolved him of responsibility. But gratitude was the last thing he felt. He was filled with outrage and possessiveness, and a primitive need to claim her once and for all.

A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, bringing with it the scent of fresh-turned earth and lavender blossoms. Amanda drew to the side of the balcony, where she was completely concealed from view. As she leaned against the wall of the house, the rough texture of the red brick gently abraded her bare shoulders.

She had worn a pale blue, corded-silk gown with a low-cut back, and draperies of gauze that crossed over the bodice in an X pattern. The long sleeves of the gown were made of more transparent gauze, while her hands were encased in white gloves. The flash of her bare arms beneath the filmy blue silk made Amanda feel sophisticated and daring.

The French doors opened and closed. Amanda glanced sideways, her eyes so accustomed to the darkness that they were temporarily dazzled by the light from inside. “Back so soon, Charles? The line at the punch bowl must have shortened considerably since we arrived.”

There was no reply. Quickly Amanda realized that the dark silhouette before her was not that of Charles Hartley. The man approaching her was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with a stealthy grace that could have belonged to no one other than Jack Devlin.

The night seemed to whirl around her. She swayed a little in her heeled slippers, her balance precarious. There was something alarmingly deliberate about Jack's movements, as if he were bent on cornering and devouring her like a tiger with its prey. “What do you want?” she asked warily. “I warn you, Mr. Hartley will be returning to me soon, and—”

“Hello, Amanda.” His voice was silken and menacing. “Is there something you'd like to tell me?”

“What?” Amanda shook her head in bewilderment. “You're not supposed to be here tonight. You said you wouldn't come. Why—”

“I wanted to wish you and Hartley well.”

“Oh. That is very kind of you.”

“Hartley seemed to think so. I spoke with him not a minute ago.”

A thrill of unease ran through her as his towering form leaned over hers. Unaccountably, her teeth began to chatter, as if her body were becoming aware of an unpleasant knowledge that her mind had not yet accepted. “What was said between you?”

“Take a guess.” When Amanda remained obstinately silent, shivering in her fine gown, he reached for her with a quiet snarl. “You little coward.”

Too stunned to react, Amanda went rigid as his punishing arms closed around her. His hand caught the back of her head, heedless of ruining her tidy coiffure, and he forced her face upward. She gasped, made a move to free herself, but his mouth dove and captured hers, blazing, insistent, feeding hungrily off the warmth and taste of her. Amanda quivered and pushed at him, struggling to ignore the wild pleasure that flared inside her, the eager response that was immune to shame or reason.

The heat and pressure of his lips was delicious, and her craving for him was so great that she actually panted when she tore herself away from him. She tottered backward a step, fighting for balance in a night that had suddenly been thrown wildly off-kilter. The brick wall came hard against her back, preventing further retreat.

“You're mad,” she whispered, her heart pounding with a violence that hurt.

“Tell me, Amanda,” he said roughly. His hands slid over her, making her body quiver inside the blue silk gown. “Tell me what you should have said this morning at my offices.”

“Go away. Someone will see us out here. Charles will come back, and he—”

“He has agreed to postpone the betrothal announcement until you and I have had an opportunity to talk.”

“About what?” she cried, pushing his hands away. Desperately she tried to feign ignorance. “I have no interest in discussing anything with you, certainly not about some past dalliance that means nothing now!”

“It means something to me.” His large hand clamped over her belly in a blatantly possessive clasp. “Especially in light of the child you're carrying.”

Amanda went weak with guilt and fear. Had she not been so alarmed by Jack's contained fury, she would have sagged against him in search of physical support. “Charles should not have told you.” She shoved at his chest, which felt as unyielding as the mortar and brick behind her. “I did not want you to know.”

“It is my right to know, damn you.”

“It changes nothing. I am still going to marry him.”

“Like hell you are,” he said harshly. “If you were making the decision for yourself alone, I wouldn't say a word about it. But there is someone else involved now—my child. I have a say in his future.”

“No,” she whispered frantically. “Not when I've come to a decision that is right for me and the baby. Y-you can't give me what Charles can. My God, you don't even like children!”

“I'm not going to walk away from my own child.”

“You have no choice!”

“Don't I?” He caught her in a light but tenacious hold. “Listen carefully,” he said in a quiet tone that caused the hairs on her nape to prickle and rise. “Until this is settled, there will be no betrothal between you and Hartley. I will wait for you at the front of the house in my carriage. If you don't come in exactly fifteen minutes, I will find you and carry you out bodily. We can leave discreetly, or we can cause a scene that will be gossiped about in every parlor in London on the morrow. You decide.”

He had never talked to her this way before, his soft voice underlaid with steel. Amanda had no choice but to believe him. She wanted to rail and scream, her frustration escalating to an unbearable pitch. To her utter self-disgust, she found herself near tears, like the witless heroines of the sensation novels she had always enjoyed making jest of. Her mouth trembled as she struggled to control her explosive emotions.

Jack saw that sign of weakness, and something in his face relaxed. “Don't cry. There is no need for tears,
mhuirnin
,” he said in a gentler voice.

She could hardly speak; her throat was clotted with misery. “Where are you taking me?”

“To my home.”

“I—I need to speak with Charles first.”

“Amanda,” he said softly, “do you think he can save you from me?”

Yes, yes,
her mind cried silently. But as she stared up into the dark face of the man who had once been her lover and was now her adversary, all hope was burned to ashes. There were two sides to Jack Devlin, the charming rogue and the ruthless manipulator. He would do whatever was necessary to have his way. “No,” she whispered bitterly.

Despite the excruciating tension between them, Jack smiled slightly. “Fifteen minutes,” he warned, and left her shivering in the darkness.

 

It was testament to Jack's skill as a negotiator that he was quiet during the carriage ride to his house. While he maintained a strategic silence, Amanda stewed in a mixture of confusion and outrage. Her stays and laces seemed to compress her upper body until she could barely breathe. The pale blue silk gown that had felt so light and elegant earlier this evening was now tight and uncomfortable, and her jewelry was too heavy. The pins in her hair scratched her scalp. She felt trapped, bound, and utterly miserable. By the time they reached their destination, her internal debate had left her exhausted.

The marble entrance hall was dimly lit, with only one lamp to relieve the shadows upon the pristine facades of marble statues. Most of the servants had retired for bed, except a butler and two footmen. Starlight streamed through a stained-glass window above, sending rays of lavender, blue, and green across the central staircase.

Keeping one hand at the small of Amanda's back, Jack guided her up two flights of stairs. They entered into a suite of rooms she had never seen before, a private receiving room that connected to a bedroom beyond. Their affair had been conducted at her home, not his, and Amanda stared curiously at the unfamiliar surroundings. It was a dark, luxuriously masculine retreat, the walls covered in stamped leather, the floors thickly carpeted in an Aubusson pattern of crimson and gold.

Deftly Jack lit a lamp, then came to her. He removed her gloves, gently tugging at the tip of each finger to loosen them. She stiffened as her bare hands were enclosed in the warm strength of his.

“This is my fault, not yours,” he said quietly. His thumbs stroked over the blunt points of her knuckles. “I was the experienced partner in our affair. I should have taken more care to prevent this from happening.”

“Yes, you should have.”

Jack clasped her against his body, ignoring the way she flinched when his arms closed around her back. His nearness caused gooseflesh to rise all over her body, and a nerveless, excited quiver ran through her. Gently he pulled her closer and spoke into the curling mass of her pinned-up hair.

“Do you love Hartley?”

Dear Lord, how she wanted to lie. Her mouth spasmed as she tried to form the word “yes,” but she couldn't seem to make a sound. Finally her shoulders slumped in defeat, and she felt weak all over from the silent struggle. “No,” she said hoarsely. “I like and esteem him, but it is not love.”

He let out a sigh, his hands moving from her arms to her back. “I've wanted you, Amanda. Every damn day since I left you. I thought about going to another woman, but I couldn't.”

“If you are asking me to continue our affair, I can't.” Hot tears tipped over her lashes. “I will not become your mistress and condemn my child to a life of secrecy and shame.”

Jack's hand slid beneath her chin, and he forced her to look at him. There was a strange mixture of tenderness and ruthless purpose in his expression. “When I was a boy, I used to wonder why I had been born a bastard, why I didn't have a family like other children did. Instead, I watched my mother take a string of lovers, hoping to God each time that she could get one of them to marry her. With every new man who appeared, she told me to call him Papa…until the word lost all meaning for me. Understand this, Amanda. My child will not grow up without his real father. I want to give him my name. I want to marry you.”

The moment spun out with a queer, dizzying flourish, and she swayed against him. “You don't really want to marry me. You want to ease your conscience by telling yourself that you've done the honorable thing. But soon you will tire of me, and before long I will find myself stashed away in the country so that you may conveniently forget about me and our child—”

Jack interrupted the slew of bitter, fearful words by shaking her briefly, his face turning hard. “You don't really believe that, dammit. Do you have so little trust in me?” As he read the answer in her eyes, he swore beneath his breath. “Amanda…you know that I never break my promises. I promise that I will be a good husband. A good father.”

“You don't know how to be those things!”

“I can learn.”

“One does not ‘learn' to want a family,” she said scornfully.

“But I do want you.” Jack kissed her, his mouth pressing and demanding until she opened to welcome him inside. His hands moved over her back and buttocks, molding and squeezing as if he were trying to pull her inside himself. Even through the layers of her skirts, she could feel the hard, arching shape of his arousal. “Amanda,” he said raggedly, rubbing his lips over her face and hair, imprinting kisses on every part of her he could reach. “I can't stop wanting you…needing you. I've got to have you. And you need me, too, even if you are too stubborn to admit it.”

“I need someone who will be solid and steady and faithful,” she gasped. “This will burn out someday and then—”

“Never,” he rasped. His mouth closed over hers once more, in a ravaging kiss that sent a jolt of need through her. He picked her up and set her on the massive four-poster bed, his lungs working like bellows as he fought for self-control. Standing over her, he stripped off his waistcoat and silk necktie, and began to unfasten his shirt.

Amanda's mind was foggy with confusion and desire. He could not simply carry her off to his bedroom in this primitive manner…and yet she could not ignore the insistent clamoring of her own body. The past weeks of deprivation had suddenly become too much, and she wanted him with an urgency that was almost painful.

Red-faced and shaking, she watched as Jack shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it to the floor, revealing the gleaming muscled expanse of his chest and the brawny width of his shoulders. He leaned over her and reached for her legs. As he unfastened and removed each shoe, his warm hand clasped over her cold toes and chafed them gently. He raised her skirts to her knees, and his gentle fingers slid to her garters. “Did you do this with Hartley?” he asked, staring at her knees while he removed the garters and unrolled her stockings.

“Did I do what?” Amanda asked unsteadily.

Jealousy lent an abraded edge to his tone. “Don't play games with me, Amanda. Not about this.”

“I have not been intimate with Charles,” she muttered, biting her lip as he stripped the layer of silk from her legs and stroked her calves.

Amanda could not see his face, but she sensed that her answer had relieved him. Carefully he tugged at her drawers, removing them from beneath her skirts, and reached for the back of her gown. She held still, her body filled with an ache of anticipation as he unfastened her gown and drew it over her head. A small murmur of relief escaped her when her corset was undone, and she was finally free of the biting pressure of her stays. She felt his hands on her body, gently searching through the paper-thin cotton of her chemise. He cupped her breasts, the heat of his hands causing her nipples to rise eagerly into his palms and harden with a stinging sensation. She moaned as he bent and opened his mouth over a ripe peak, licking and soothing. The delicate fabric became wet from his ministrations, and she lifted herself upward with an incoherent sound.

His fingers grasped the edge of the chemise and he tore it neatly, easily, exposing the abundant curves of her breasts. Gathering the pale, cool flesh into his hands, Jack kissed and suckled until Amanda was tense and gasping beneath him. “Will you be my wife?” he murmured, his hot breath puffing against her moist pink nipples. When she remained silent, his fingers squeezed the curves of her breasts, urging her to answer. “Will you?”