by Lisa Kleypas
“Unfortunately, one cannot simply go out and make oneself fall in love with an appropriate man.”
Sophia made an impatient gesture. “Love is not the issue, dear. Why do you think I settled for marrying Henry?”
The question stunned Amanda. “Why, I…I never realized you considered it ‘settling.’ You’ve always seemed so happy with Henry.”
“And so I have been,” Sophia replied pertly. “That is my point. When my marriage began, I did not love Henry, but I recognized that he possessed an admirable character. I understood that if I wanted a family and a solid place in society, I needed a respectable partner. And love, or something very much like it, does come in time. I enjoy and value the life I have with Henry. It is something you could have, too, if you are willing to set aside your stubborn independence and your romantic illusions.”
“And if I don’t?” Amanda murmured.
Sophia met her gaze directly. “Then you will be the worse off for it. It is always more difficult for those who swim against the current. I am only stating the facts, Amanda, and you know that I am right. And I tell you most emphatically, you must shape your life to fit the conventions. My advice is to end the affair at once, and apply yourself toward finding a gentleman who will be disposed to marry you.”
Amanda rubbed her aching temples. “But I love Jack,” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone else.”
Sophia regarded her sympathetically. “Believe it or not, I do understand, dear. However, you might bear in mind that men such as your Mr. Devlin are like rich desserts—enjoyable for the moment, but generally bad for the constitution. Moreover, it is no crime to marry a man whom one likes. In fact, in my opinion, it is a great deal better than marrying a man whom one loves. Friendship always lasts longer than passion.”
“What is the matter?” Jack asked quietly, stroking the curve of Amanda’s naked back. They lay together amid a tangle of sheets, the air humid and scented like sea salt in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Jack leaned over to kiss the back of her pale shoulder. “You’ve been distracted tonight. It has something to do with your sister’s visit today. Did the two of you quarrel?”
“No, not at all. In fact, we had a nice long talk, and she dispensed a great deal of sensible advice before she departed back to Windsor.” Amanda frowned as she heard him mutter some foul words regarding her sister’s “sensible advice,” and she propped herself up on one elbow. “I could not help agreeing with many of her opinions,” she murmured, “even though I did not want to.”
His hand stilled on her back, his thumb resting lightly on the indentation of her spine. “What opinions?”
“Sophia has heard rumors about our relationship. She said that a scandal is brewing, and that I must end the affair at once or risk having my reputation destroyed.” A wan smile touched her lips. “I have a great deal to lose, Jack. If I become a ruined woman, my entire life will change. I will no longer be invited to social gatherings, and many of my friends will no longer speak to me. Most likely I will have to move to a remote place in the country, or go to live abroad.”
“I am taking the same risk,” he pointed out.
“No,” she replied with a wry smile, “you know quite well that men are never judged the same as women in these matters. I would become a pariah, whereas you would receive a mere slap on the wrist.”
“What are you saying?” Suddenly his tone was laced with baffled anger. “I’ll be damned if you’re going to end the affair a month and a half early!”
“I should never have agreed to such an arrangement.” She turned away from him with a miserable groan. “It was madness. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
Jack pulled her back against him, his hands moving possessively over her body. “If you’re worried about scandal, I’ll find ways for us to be more discreet. I’ll buy a house in the country where we can meet without anyone’s notice—”
“It’s no use, Jack. This…this thing that has happened between us…” Amanda paused in sudden consternation, searching helplessly for the appropriate word. Finding none, she sighed impatiently at her own lack of nerve. “It cannot continue.”
“A few words from your straitlaced older sister, and you’re ready to end our relationship?” he asked incredulously.
“Sophia confirmed my own feelings. I’ve known since the beginning that this was wrong, and yet I haven’t been able to face that fact until now. Please don’t make things difficult.”
He swore savagely and pressed her onto her back, his powerful body looming over hers. His face was set, but Amanda could practically see the rapid calculation of his thoughts. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. “Amanda, I’m not going to lose you. You and I both know that our three-month agreement was just a game. The affair was never going to be limited to such a short time. From the beginning, I understood the risk of scandal, and I decided that I would protect you from any and all consequences of our relationship. You have my word on that. Now, let’s be done with this nonsense and continue as we have been.”
“How could you possibly protect me from scandal?” Amanda asked, bewildered. “Are you saying that you would marry me to save my ruined reputation?”
He met her gaze without blinking. “If necessary.”
But the unwillingness in his eyes was easy to read, and Amanda understood how unpleasant a duty it would be for him to marry anyone. “No,” she murmured. “You have no desire to be a husband or father. I would not ask that of you…or of myself. I deserve better than to be regarded as a millstone around your neck.”
The words seemed to hang suspended in the air. Amanda felt both resigned and wretched as she watched Jack’s set face. He had never pretended to want more of her than a mere affair. She could hardly blame him for his feelings. “Jack,” she said unsteadily. “I will always think of you with…with fondness. I hope that we may even continue to work together. I very much want the relationship between us to remain friendly.”
He looked at her in a way he never had before, his mouth twisting at one corner, his eyes gleaming with something akin to outrage. “So friendship is what you want,” he said softly. “And fondness is all you feel for me.”
Amanda forced herself to hold his gaze. “Yes.”
She did not entirely understand the cast of bitterness on his face. A man did not look like that unless he had been deeply hurt, and yet she did not believe that he cared enough about her to feel that way. Perhaps his pride was wounded.
“It is time to say good-bye,” she whispered. “You know it is.”
His face was blank as he continued to stare at her. “When will I see you again?” he asked gruffly.
“In a few weeks, perhaps,” she said hesitantly. “And then we will be able to meet as friends, I hope.”
The air was charged with a peculiar, pained silence until Jack spoke again. “Then let’s say good-bye in the same way we began,” he muttered, and reached for her with rough hands. In all the times Amanda had imagined or written about lovers parting, it had never been with this harsh urgency, as if he wanted to hurt her.
“Jack,” she protested. The grip of his hands eased, secure but no longer punishing.
“One more display of fondness isn’t too much to ask, is it?” He spread her legs with his knee and thrust inside her with no preliminaries. Amanda caught her breath at the feel of him driving deep inside her, establishing a demanding, pounding rhythm that resonated throughout her being. The pleasure kindled and rose, her hips arching with each stroke. Her eyes closed, and she felt his mouth on her breasts, catching at her nipples, gently biting and stroking with his teeth and tongue. She struggled to press closer to him, urging her entire body up into his, craving the heat and weight of him. He kissed her, his mouth opening hungrily over hers, and she moaned as a rippling climax overtook her, washing through her in searing waves. He withdrew from her in an abrupt jerking motion, his breath rattling in his throat, his body trembling and taut in the throes of his own release.
; 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.
Chapter 12
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 a
s 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.”
