The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Jack’s jaw tightened. He’d been patient and conciliatory so far, but now his eyes flashed with angry determination. A chill raced down Amanda’s spine.

  “Do you take pleasure in seeing your aunts squirm in their seats, Amanda?” he inquired with deceptive calmness. He placed his splayed hands on the table and leaned forward. His voice lowered seductively. “Or are you insisting that they remain because you’re afraid to be alone with me?”

  Amanda’s chin tilted up. “Of … of course I’m not afraid to be alone with you,” she lied.

  He raised his black brows, implying disbelief.

  Amanda sighed shakily and turned to look at her aunts. They indeed appeared as though they were feeling decidedly awkward and uncomfortable. “If you want to go, aunts, please feel free to leave the room, but if you’d rather stay, don’t let Jack—”

  But Amanda didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Her aunts had already scurried out of the room and closed the door behind them. She was alone … with Jack. She forced herself to meet his unwavering gaze with assumed unconcern.

  “Thank you, Amanda,” Jack said gravely.

  “Don’t thank me,” she snapped back. “Just tell me why you’re here. By-the-by, does your bride-to-be know where you are this lovely afternoon, or does she think you’re at Weston’s being fitted for a wedding suit?”

  Jack smiled wryly and slowly edged toward the curve of the table, trailing the fingers of his gloved right hand along the smooth, gleaming wood. Amanda’s stomach clenched with longing. She could remember the feel of his hands on her skin. Gentle, urgent, thrilling. But she stood her ground.

  “You really do think me a villain, don’t you, Amanda? But do you honestly imagine I’d be here if I was supposed to be at Weston’s being fitted for wedding togs?”

  “When you left your house this morning you might have forgotten your destination, my lord,” she answered tartly. “After all, you do have a lamentable memory.”

  He laughed and eased around the curve of the table, inching closer. “How’s your memory, Amanda?”

  “Perfect, as usual,” she retorted. She glared at him, daring him to come closer. “But there are things … times … people … I’d as soon forget.”

  “Ah well,” he conceded with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “Haven’t we all been guilty some time or other of wishing for a selective memory loss?”

  “Some of us have been more guilty than others,” she answered dryly.

  Jack took another step. He’d worked himself halfway around the table and was now almost close enough to reach out and touch her. The hairs on the back of Amanda’s neck prickled with anticipation … and fear. Fear of her own response should he dare to take her in his arms. Fear that he wouldn’t take her in his arms …

  “If you are referring to me, m’dear—as I suspect you are—at least concede that I kept my recovery from amnesia a secret from you because I wanted to protect you.”

  “From whom did you wish to protect me, pray tell?” she said with a low, harsh laugh. “Not from you, as I recall.”

  “From yourself, you willful baggage,” he ground out, taking two more hasty steps. Now they were separated by mere inches, but he made no attempt to touch her. “You’d have been in a pickle without my help on Thorney Island!”

  Amanda could feel the heat of Jack’s body.… She could sense the intensity of his feelings by the fiery expression in his eyes. “If—if you’re here to be thanked again for saving Sam,” she stuttered, desperate for him to back away and give her space to think, to breathe, “then—then—thank you! Thank you a million times over. Now please go!”

  Jack grabbed her and pulled her against his chest. Amanda gasped. Her arms hung stiffly at her sides. She knew she mustn’t touch him. She dared not make a move or she’d twine her arms around his neck and shamelessly offer her lips to be kissed, just as she’d offered them before. His breath hissed across her face as he said, “I don’t want your gratitude, Amanda. I want—”

  This time Jack didn’t wait for an invitation. He lowered his head and captured Amanda’s lips in a fierce kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth, his arms crushing her against him.

  What do you want, Jack? Amanda silently screamed as she helplessly returned his kiss with equal fervor, her hands wending their way up his hard, muscled back and into his glorious hair. Do you want me? Do you truly want me?

  Then, suddenly, Jack let her go and stepped back to a safer distance. Amanda’s head was reeling, her heart was pounding. She was left feeling bereft, disappointed … and prickly as hell.

  “Why are you here, Jack?” she demanded in a low, raspy voice, wrapping her arms around her aching breasts. “Surely not just to steal a last kiss?”

  Jack rubbed the back of his neck, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. He stared at her with anguish in his eyes. His chest rose and fell with quick, uncontrolled breathing. What was he feeling? Was it only lust? What did he really want? Amanda wondered desperately. To hold her? To kiss her? To kill her?

  “Do you remember at Thorney Island when I said I’d marry Charlotte if she still wanted me?” he said at last, his expression and voice carefully neutral.

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard. “So?”

  His gaze raked her face, searched her eyes. “Well, she doesn’t want me.”

  A thrill of excitement coursed through Amanda, but she ruthlessly suppressed it. He was lying. What woman wouldn’t want Jack? Or worse, he was telling her the truth and had come to propose to her out of a sense of obligation. She refused to be an obligation, and she refused to be second choice! Her heart hammered away, trying to be heard above her pride and common sense, but she turned a deaf ear to it. She would not be duped twice, or hurt twice, by the same man!

  “You’re silent,” he said.

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “I don’t know. I thought perhaps—that is, I’d hoped—”

  Terrified what he might be leading up to, she quickly interrupted. “You should be happy, Jack. You’re free again. Isn’t that what you want?”

  His dark eyes, amber in the sunlit room, gleamed like jewels. “No. That’s not what I want. Not any more. Not since I met you. Now I want to be married … to you, Amanda.”

  Amanda laughed bitterly. “You insult me, Jack.”

  Jack flinched. “Do you think so poorly of me that you consider my proposal an insult, Amanda?” he inquired mildly, but with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I may not be the greatest matrimonial parti on the isle of England, but I—” He stopped suddenly, seeming to catch himself before saying something he’d regret. She could see his mental wheels turning; decisions being made, options being weighed. Finally he said, “But I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  “How can you expect me to believe you, Jack?” said Amanda, tears of disappointment stinging her eyelids. If only he’d said he loved her! “You’ve made no secret of your aversion to marriage. And you’ve lied to me before.”

  Harshly, he said, “And you’ll never forgive me, I suppose.”

  “It’s not a matter of forgiveness. It’s a matter of trust. But that’s not the reason I’m refusing your offer of marriage.”

  “Then why?” he inquired stiffly.

  Because you don’t love me, her heart screamed. “Because you’re only offering out of a sense of obligation … because you think you’ve compromised me. You didn’t compromise me, I assure you. What happened between us was as much my doing as yours. I’d rather die than shackle myself to an unwilling groom … to a man who doesn’t—”

  Jack, tell her you love her, you stupid jackass! Maybe that’s what she wants to hear! And Jack wanted to tell her that he loved her with all his heart … but he couldn’t.

  Why was it so hard to say those three little words? He’d admitted to his brother that he loved Amanda, so why couldn’t he tell her? Maybe he was afraid that Amanda wouldn’t say it back. Afraid that if she did say it back, she’d be saying it for the wrong reason
s.

  And she’d laughed. She’d laughed at his proposal.

  “You’re speechless, Lord Durham.”

  Amanda’s coolly spoken words interrupted Jack’s agonized thoughts. He stared at her. She was lovely but so unapproachable. Her delicate features seemed carved in stone, her eyes shimmered a frosty silver-blue. She had refused him, and it was absurd of him to keep standing duncelike in her sittingroom as if she’d suddenly change her mind. She wasn’t going to change her mind.

  Jack forced a grim smile and bowed. “I can see this is a fruitless endeavor,” he said, icy and rigid. “It was very good of you to receive me, Miss Darlington, particularly as it is quite obvious that you’d have rather not. As well, please accept my apologies for intruding on your pleasant day with such a repellant suggestion as to buckle yourself for life to the likes of me! I assure you, it won’t happen again. Good afternoon … and God bless you.”

  Amanda watched him march out the door, his spine as stiff as a northern breeze, the pained expression in his eyes a sight that would replay itself over and over in her mind and steal her sleep night after endless night. Completely overcome, Amanda slumped into her chair, cradled her head in her folded arms atop the table, and wept bitterly.

  Nan and Prissy came into the room, saw Amanda sobbing at the table, and exchanged stricken glances. They scurried to take up positions on each side of Amanda’s chair.

  “There, there,” said Prissy, stroking Amanda’s bright head.

  “Yes, dear, don’t fret,” soothed Nan, patting her niece’s trembling shoulders. “All will be well.”

  But the look she gave Prissy belied her consoling words. She and Prissy had been listening at the door, and she very much feared that all would not be well till dear Amanda Jane got her Jack back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Tha’s one. Tha’s two. Tha’s—”

  “Bloody hell, Jack. Why d’ya always hav’ta count your drinks? S’not important.”

  Jack stared bleary-eyed at his drinking companion across the table in a smoky comer of a small but notorious gaming hell in Covent Garden. It was not the usual haunt for nobs of Jack’s aristocratic caliber, but that was exactly why he’d chosen it. He was avoiding all friends and acquaintances that might wish to question him about his broken betrothal or quiz him about his previous fit of amnesia and subsequent disappearance. Rob was simply hiding from the duns.

  Yes, despite another generous loan from Jack just recently, Rob was as deep in debt as ever. No wonder he had as many empty tumblers in front of him as Jack did … maybe more. His situation was desperate. Jack had given him thousands of pounds already and had extracted many promises from Rob to curtail his gaming habit, but the poor bastard just couldn’t keep away from the green baize tables where great sums of money were won and lost. And Rob always seemed to lose.

  Then there was that unfortunate incident he’d had recently with Charlotte.… Jack completely sympathized, too. No man liked to be turned down when he humbly offered his hand in marriage.

  “I like countin’ the glasses, Rob,” Jack said, finally picking up the conversation, as it were, where they’d left off. “Gives me somethin’ t’ do besides thinkin’ ’bout that—” He paused, staring with unfocused deliberation into empty space. He conjured up Amanda’s face. Not the way she’d looked two weeks ago when she’d refused his marriage proposal, but the way she’d looked that night at the Angel Inn when they’d made love. He smiled, his eyelids drooping drunkenly. “—’bout that woman,” he finished, but in a much more tender and wistful tone than he’d originally intended.

  Rob let go with a healthy belch and rubbed his bloated stomach. “Women,” he said emphatically, the single word conveying a wealth of meaning. He raised his right arm and extended his index finger in an orator’s pose. “A wise man once said—”

  “What wise man?” Jack inquired sleepily.

  “Aristoph—something or other,” Rob mumbled. “What does it matter, Jack? Anyway, he once said, ‘There’s nothing in the world worse than woman … save some other woman.’ He couldn’t have been more correct, the ol’ Greek bugger.” Rob took another long drink of gin.

  Jack pulled thoughtfully on his chin. “Tha’s a good one, Rob. Very much to the point, eh? But I like this one better.” He cleared his throat and endeavored to keep his eyes open by raising his brows as high as they could possibly go. “An anonymush fellow once said, ‘Woman is the chain by which man is attached to the chariot of”—he hiccuped—”folly.’ ”

  Rob nodded gravely. “Too true, Jack. If not fer women, we’d be as happy as larks in a hedgerow, eh?”

  Jack pursed his lips and squinted his eyes. “That makes me think of another one, Rob. I believe it was that old woman-hater Tom Dekker who said, ‘Were there no women, man might live like gods.’ ”

  “Gods. There you go, Jack,” said Rob, much impressed. He raised his tumbler high for a toast. “That says it perfectly. And that’s just how we’ll live now that we’re rid of women for good … right?”

  “Right!” Jack said, then lifted his own nearly empty tumbler and attempted to make contact with Rob’s. After three tries, the tumblers connected and the chime of crystal rang through the room.

  “Like the gods!” they chorused.

  After downing the remaining contents of their glasses and ordering another round, Rob’s head sunk to the table. Rolling his brow against the wood, he lamented, “Oh, why wouldn’t Charlotte have me, Jack? I thought we were friends, she and I!”

  Jack shrugged and sucked his teeth. “You pounced too soon, Rob. She wasn’t over me yet, I daresay.”

  “You bloody sod,” Rob grumbled, his words muffled by his mouth’s proximity to the tabletop. “Don’t know why women like you so much and me so little!”

  Jack frowned and sighed. “Don’t all of ‘em like me. ‘Manda don’t like me above half. Won’t marry me. And now I don’t think I’ll ever stick my tail in parson’s mousetrap. Love ‘er like mad … don’t ya know. Bloody shame she don’t love me back.”

  Full of self-pity, Jack lowered his own head to the table as well, his forehead hitting the wood with a dull thump at the end of his hopeless descent.

  “Good Gawd!” drawled a familiar voice, and Jack peered up into the revolted face of his elder brother. Julian held his quizzing glass aloft and was staring down at him through it with obvious contempt. His pale, cold eye appeared enormous at the opposite side of the glass, and the effect was chilling.

  “What are you doin’ here, Julian?” Jack wondered aloud. “Ain’t your sort of place at all.”

  A corner of Julian’s upper lip lifted in a sneer as he took a swift and scathing appraisal of their surroundings. “Indeed not, little brother. Nor is it your sort of place, either.” He reached down and took hold of Jack’s arm just above the elbow. “Been looking for you all over town, you young jackanapes.”

  “What for, Julian?”

  “We need to talk. You’re coming home with me, where I can pour black coffee down your throat till you’re sober enough to comprehend what I’m saying.”

  Jack wobbled to his feet. “Don’t mind goin’ home, Julian,” he admitted, his head throbbing from the sudden change of altitude. He made a wide gesture toward the table. Rob’s eyes were closed, and he was drooling. “But what about Rob? Think he’s passed out, Julian. Can’t leave ‘im to the mercies of th’ pickpockets and guttersnipes.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Julian replied unenthusiastically, “though they’d get little enough for their trouble. Nevertheless, I’ll have the postilions carry him out and put him in a hack. Don’t worry. If I make myself known to the driver and pay him well enough, he’ll get your … friend home and into his lodgings without mishap.”

  Jack nodded and allowed himself to be partially supported as he stumbled out to Julian’s shiny black-and-silver drag. The moment he got inside and settled himself against the plush gray squabs, he lost consciousness. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in Julian
’s dark panelled library on the leather couch.

  Several cups of black, scalding coffee later, he was wide-eyed and sober, his head pounding from the after-effects of another night spent drowning his sorrows in cups of gin. Sitting opposite him in a wing chair by the fire, Julian watched Jack’s gradual return to sobriety with a sapient eye.

  Jack felt his hackles rising. “You look at me as though I’ve sprouted an extra nose.”

  “I wish you’d sprout another brain. The one you’ve got now doesn’t seem to be working very well.”

  Jack frowned. “What’s the matter, Julian? You’ve seen me drunk before.”

  “You used to get foxed now and then, just like every other reckless scapegrace about town, but lately you’ve made a bloody habit of it.”

  Jack shrugged and flashed a rakish grin, even though the effort made his head throb all the worse. “I’ve been celebrating my lucky escape from the nuptial knot, don’t you know.”

  “You’ve been doing nothing of the sort,” Julian replied repressively. “You’re wallowing in drunkenness to numb your sensibilities, brother. You’re trying to forget that Miss Darlington refused your offer of marriage.”

  Jack stiffened and set down his cup of coffee with a shaky hand. “How do you know about that?”

  “Amanda’s aunts told me. They tell me everything.” He smiled ruefully. “They tell me some things I’d just as soon they’d keep to themselves.”

  “Got cozy with them all, have you? You take a lively interest in the welfare of that family,” Jack growled, his jealousy stirred. “Tell the truth, Julian…. Are you after Amanda for yourself?” Every muscle in Jack’s body tensed while he waited for Julian’s reply.

  Julian stared haughtily down his aristocratic nose. “Certainly not. Do you think I’d pursue a female my brother is passionately in love with? And a woman, moreover, with whom he’s been … intimate?”