by Lisa Kleypas
“Would you have invited me had I waited long enough?” Devlin asked, his blue eyes wicked.
“No, I would not have,” she replied pertly. “I rarely welcome ruthless blackmailers to my table.”
“You’re not still holding that against me,” he said. “Tell me the real reason. Are you still uncomfortable because of what happened between us on your birthday?”
Even now, after all the hours she had spent with him, the slightest reference to the sexual encounter between them still caused her face to flame. “No,” she muttered, “it has nothing to do with that. I…” She stopped and sighed shortly, forcing herself to admit the truth to him. “I am not especially bold where gentlemen are concerned. Not to the extent of inviting a man to supper, unless there is some pretext such as business. I don’t much care for the prospect of being refused.”
As she had come to discover about him, Jack Devlin was fond of provoking and teasing her as long as she had all her defenses up. When she revealed the least hint of vulnerability, however, he became surprisingly kind. “You’re a woman of property, fair of face, with abundant wit and a good reputation…why in God’s name would any man refuse you?”
Amanda searched his face for signs of mockery, but there was only an alert interest that disconcerted her. “I am hardly some siren who is able to lure anyone she chooses,” she said with forced lightness. “I assure you, sir, there are indeed some men capable of refusing me.”
“They’re not worth having, then.”
“Oh, naturally,” Amanda replied with an awkward laugh, trying to dispel the disturbing sense of intimacy that blossomed in the air. She allowed him to seat her at the pretty mahogany table, set with green-and-gold Sevres china, and a silver cutlery with mother-of-pearl handles. A green glass butter dish adorned with elaborate pierced silverwork reposed between their plates. The cover of the butter dish was topped with a whimsical silver handle molded in the shape of a cow. Despite Amanda’s preference for elegant simplicity, she had not been able to resist acquiring it when she had seen it at a London shop.
Devlin sat across from her with an air of comfortable familiarity. He seemed to relish being here, about to have supper at her table. Amanda was perplexed by his open enjoyment. A man like Jack Devlin would be welcome at many tables…why did he prefer hers?
“I wonder if you’re here because of a desire for my company or a liking for my cook’s talents,” she mused aloud. The cook, Violet, was only in her twenties, but she had a way of preparing hearty, ordinary food that made it exceptional. She had acquired her skills by working as an assistant to the cook in a large aristocratic household, making extensive notes on herbs and seasonings, and writing down hundreds of recipes in an ever-expanding notebook.
Devlin gave Amanda the slow smile that never failed to dazzle, a wry unfolding of humor and warmth. “Your cook’s talents are considerable,” he acknowledged. “But your company would season a crust of bread to make it fit for a king.”
“I can’t fathom that you find me so enjoyable,” she said tartly, trying to stem the rush of pleasure that his words brought. “I do nothing to flatter or please you. In fact, I can’t think of a single conversation we’ve ever had that hasn’t resulted in some dispute.”
“I like to argue,” he said easily. “My Irish heritage.”
Amanda was instantly fascinated by the rare reference to his past. “Did your mother have a temper?”
“Volcanic,” he murmured, then appeared to laugh at some long-held memory. “She was a woman of passionate beliefs and emotions…for her, nothing was half measure.”
“She would have been pleased by your success.”
“I doubt it,” Devlin said, the amusement dispersing to a quiet flicker in his eyes. “Ma didn’t know how to read. She wouldn’t have known what to make of a son who turned out to be a publisher. Being a God-fearing Catholic, she disapproved of entertainment other than Bible stories or hymns. The materials I publish would probably have inspired her to come after me with an iron fry pan.”
“And your father?” she couldn’t help asking. “Is he pleased that you’ve become a publisher?”
Devlin gave her a long, measuring stare before answering in a cool, rather contemplative tone. “We don’t speak. I never knew my father, except as some distant figure who sent me to school after my mother died, and paid the tuition.”
Amanda was aware that they were treading on the edge of a past filled with pain and bitter memories. She wondered how much he would trust her, and if she should persist in questioning him. It was a fascinating thought, that she might have the power to entice confidences from this self-possessed man that other people could not. Why should she even dare to think that she could? Well, his presence here tonight was proof of something. He did like her company—he wanted something from her—though she couldn’t decide precisely what that might be.
Surely he wasn’t here merely because of sexual interest, unless he was so desperate for a challenge that he had suddenly found sharp-tongued old maids to his taste.
Her footman, Charles, came to serve them, deftly setting covered glass and silver dishes before them. He assisted them in filling their plates with succulent beef and buttered vegetables, and poured wine and water into their glasses.
Amanda waited until the servant had left before she spoke. “Mr. Devlin, you have repeatedly avoided my questions about your meeting with Madam Bradshaw, and put me off with mockery and evasion. However, it is only fair, in light of my hospitality, that you finally explain what was said between you and her, and why she engineered that ridiculous meeting on the evening of my birthday. I warn you, not one morsel of apricot jam pudding will be set on your plate until you do.”
His eyes gleamed with sudden enjoyment. “You’re a cruel woman, to use my sweet tooth against me.”
“Tell me,” she said inexorably.
He took his time, leisurely sampling a bite of the roast beef and downing it with a swallow of red wine. “Mrs. Bradshaw did not believe you would be satisfied with a man of lesser intelligence than your own. She claimed that her only available men were too callow and dull-witted to suit you.”
“Why should that have mattered?” Amanda asked. “I’ve never heard that the sexual act requires any particular intelligence. From what I’ve observed, many stupid people are easily able to produce children.”
For some reason, that remark caused Devlin to laugh until he nearly choked. Amanda waited impatiently for him to regain his self-possession, but every time he glanced at her inquiring expression, it set off another spasm of laughter. Finally he downed half a glass of wine and stared at her with slightly watering eyes, a flush of color edging his cheekbones and the strong bridge of his nose.
“True,” he said, his deep voice enriched with lingering amusement. “But the question betrays your lack of experience, peaches. The fact is, sexual satisfaction is often more difficult for women to achieve than it is for men. It requires a certain amount of skill, care, and yes, even intelligence.”
As the subject for suppertime conversation, it was so far outside the bounds of propriety that Amanda turned red to her hairline. She glanced at the doorway, making certain that they were completely alone before she spoke again. “And it was Mrs. Bradshaw’s opinion that you possessed the necessary qualities to, er, please me…whereas her employees did not?”
“Apparently.” He had set his silverware down, watching the progression of emotions on her face with keen interest.
The knowledge that she should end this scandalous conversation at once, clashed violently with her curiosity to know more. Amanda had never been able to ask anyone about the forbidden subject of sexual intercourse, certainly not her parents, nor her sisters, who despite their married status seemed only a little less uninformed than she.
But here was a man who was not only able but willing to enlighten her on any question she cared to ask. Abruptly she gave up the struggle with propriety—after all, she was a spinster, and what good had he
r propriety ever done her? “What about men?” she asked. “Do they ever have difficulty in finding satisfaction with a woman?”
To her delight, Devlin answered the question without mockery. “To a young or inexperienced man, it’s generally sufficient to have a warm female body in his vicinity. But as a man matures, he wants something more. The sexual act is more exciting with a woman who offers a bit of a challenge, who interests him…even a woman who makes him laugh.”
“A man wants a woman to make him laugh?” Amanda asked with uncut skepticism.
“Of course. Intimacy is the most pleasurable with a partner who is willing to be playful in bed…someone who is amusing and uninhibited.”
“Playful,” Amanda repeated, shaking her head. The idea contradicted all her long-held ideas of romance and sex. One did not “play” in bed. What did he mean? Was he implying that sexual partners enjoyed jumping on the mattress and throwing pillows, as children did?
As she stared at him in bewilderment, Devlin appeared suddenly uncomfortable, his gaze alive and hot, as if blue flame had been captured in his eyes. A slight flush had risen on his face, and he seemed unable to loosen his tight clutch on his silverware. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a gravelly softness. “I’m afraid, Miss Briars, that we’re going to have to change the subject. Because there’s nothing I’d like better than to demonstrate what I mean.”
Chapter 7
Devlin meant, Amanda realized, that he was becoming aroused by the conversation. She was stunned and embarrassed to discover that her own body had also been awakened by the intimate exchange. She felt sensation brushing along her nerves, centers of heat collecting in her breasts and stomach and between her thighs. How odd that the sight of a man, the sound of his voice, could produce such feelings—even in her practical, functional knees.
“Have I earned my apricot-jam pudding?” Devlin asked, reaching for a covered dish. “Because I’m going to have some. I warn you, only physical force will prevent it.”
A smile came to her face, as he had intended. “By all means,” Amanda said, pleased by the steadiness of her voice. “Do help yourself.”
He expertly ladled two plump little puddings onto his plate and dug into them with boyish enthusiasm. Amanda searched for some new avenue of conversation. “Mr. Devlin…I would like to know how you became a publisher.”
“It seemed a hell of a lot more interesting than scratching out numbers at some bank or insurance company. And I knew I wasn’t going to make any money by becoming an apprentice. I wanted to start with my own shop, complete with inventory and employees, and the means to begin publishing right away. So the day after I graduated, I headed for London with a few of my schoolmates in tow and…” He paused, and a strange shadow crossed his face. “I arranged for a loan,” he said finally.
“You must have been quite persuasive for the bank to advance you a loan sufficient to cover your expenses. Especially at such a young age.”
Amanda’s remark was complimentary, but for some reason, Devlin’s eyes became dark and his mouth took on a moody curve. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice laden with self-mockery. “I was quite persuasive.” He drank deeply of his wine, then glanced at Amanda’s expectant face. He resumed the story as if picking up an unwieldy burden. “I decided to begin with an illustrated magazine, and edit and publish a half-dozen three-volume novels within six months after starting the firm. There weren’t enough hours in the day to get it all done. Fretwell, Stubbins, Orpin, and I all worked until we dropped—I doubt any of us slept more than four hours a night. I made decisions quickly, not all of them good, but somehow I managed to avoid making a mistake large enough to sink us. To start with, I purchased five thousand surplus books and sold them at cut-rate prices, which did not endear me to my fellow booksellers. On the other hand, I made money quickly. We couldn’t have survived any other way. My peers called me an unscrupulous traitor—and they were right. But in the first year of business, I sold a hundred thousand volumes off my shelves, and paid back my loan in full.”
“I’m surprised that your competitors did not conspire to put you out of business,” Amanda said matter-of-factly. Everyone in the literary world knew that the Booksellers’ Association and the Publishers Committee would unify to destroy anyone who didn’t abide by the unwritten rule: never sell an underpriced book.
“Oh, they tried,” he said with a grim smile. “But by the time they organized a campaign against me, I had acquired enough money and influence to defend myself against all comers.”
“You must be quite satisfied with what you’ve achieved.”
He gave a short laugh. “In my life so far, I’ve never been satisfied with anything. I doubt I ever will be.”
“What more could you want?” she asked, fascinated and puzzled.
“Everything I don’t have,” he said, making her laugh.
The conversation became more relaxed then, and they talked of novels and writers, and the years Amanda had spent with her family in Windsor. She described her sisters and their husbands and children, and Devlin listened with an interest that surprised her. He was unusually perceptive for a man, she thought. He had a knack for hearing what she didn’t say, as clearly as he heard her spoken words.
“Do you envy your sisters for having husbands and children?” He leaned back in his chair, a lock of black hair falling onto his forehead. Amanda was momentarily distracted by the thick, springy forelock, her fingers twitching with the desire to brush it back. She had not forgotten the texture of that dark hair, as smooth and resilient as a seal’s pelt.
She pondered the question, wondering why it was that he dared to ask questions that no one else would…and why she responded to them. She liked to analyze other people’s actions and feelings, not her own. But something compelled her to answer him truthfully.
“I suppose,” Amanda said hesitantly, “that I might occasionally envy my sisters for having children. But I don’t wish for a husband like either of theirs. I’ve always wanted someone…something…very different.” As she paused reflectively, Devlin remained silent. The unhurried quietness of the room beckoned her to continue. “I’ve never been able to accept that married life is not what I imagined it could be. I always thought love should be irresistible and wild. That it should take complete possession of one. As the books and poems and ballads describe. But it was not that way for my parents, or my sisters, or indeed any of my acquaintances in Windsor. And yet…I’ve always known that their sort of marriage was the right kind, and my ideas of it were wrong.”
“Why?” His blue eyes were bright with interest.
“Because it’s not practical. And that kind of love always fades.”
The corners of his mouth lifted in a beguiling smile. “How do you know that?”
“Because that is what everyone says. And it makes sense.”
“And you like for things to be sensible,” he mocked gently.
She shot him a challenging glance. “What, may I ask, is wrong with that?”
“Nothing.” A taunting smile touched his lips. “But someday, peaches, your romantic side will triumph over your practical nature. And I hope that I’m there when it happens.”
Amanda steeled herself not to bridle at his teasing. The sight of him in the candlelight, flame and shadow playing over his striking features, golden highlights touching the generous shape of his lips and the crests of his cheekbones, made Amanda feel hollow and hot, like a bottle that had been held over fire, the pressure of heat pulling sensation inward.
She longed to touch the rough, silken filaments of his hair, the velvety-hard skin, the pulse at the base of his throat. She wanted to make his breath catch in his throat, and hear him whisper Gaelic words to her again. How many women must have yearned to possess him, she thought in a sudden wash of melancholy. She wondered if anyone would ever truly come to know him, if he would ever allow any woman to share the secrets of his heart.
“What about you?” she asked. “Marriage would be a pract
ical arrangement for a man like you.”
Devlin settled back in his chair and regarded her with a smile lurking at one corner of his mouth. “How so?” he asked in a tone that was soft but crackling with challenge.
“Why, you have need of a wife to arrange things and act as hostess, and to provide companionship. And you must certainly desire children, or whom would you leave your business and property to?”
“I don’t have to marry to get companionship,” he pointed out. “And I don’t give a damn what happens to my property once I’m gone. Besides, the world has enough children—I’ll do the population a favor by declining to add to it.”
“You don’t seem to like children,” she observed, expecting him to deny the statement.
“Not especially.”
Amanda was briefly startled by his honesty. People who did not like children usually tried to pretend otherwise. It was a virtue to make a fuss over children, even the bratty ones who whined and misbehaved and generally made themselves objectionable.
“Perhaps you might feel differently about your own,” she suggested, falling back on a piece of conventional wisdom that had often been recited to her.
Devlin shrugged and replied easily, “I doubt it.”
The subject of children seemed to have dispelled the feeling of unfolding intimacy between them. Devlin set his linen napkin on the table with great care and smiled slightly. “I should go now,” he murmured.
Her unblinking stare had made him uncomfortable, Amanda thought with a flicker of remorse. She had a way of doing that sometimes, staring at people as if she were stripping away layers to reach the inside. She never meant to do it—it was simply a writer’s habit.
“You won’t take coffee?” Amanda asked. “Or a glass of port?” When he shook his head, Amanda stood, and made to ring for Sukey. “I’ll have your hat and coat brought to the entrance hall, then—”
