by Lisa Kleypas
“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 appea
red, 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?”
“No,” she said, and he laughed suddenly, his eyes bright with passion.
“Then I’ll keep you in this bed until you change your mind.” He reached down to the front of his trousers, freed himself, and climbed over her. “You will, eventually. Do you doubt my stamina?”
Her legs spread, and her entire body jumped in reaction as she felt the stiff, blunt-tipped heat of his sex brush against the nest of dark curls between her thighs. She strained upward, wanting him so badly that she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. “You are mine,” he whispered, entering her slowly, the head of his shaft nudging inside. “Your heart, your body, your mind, the seed growing in your belly…all of you.” He filled her, impelling himself deeper until she had to lift her legs around his back to accommodate him.
“Tell me who you belong to,” he whispered, pushing rhythmically, stretching her swollen flesh until she groaned at the weight of him inside her, over her, around her.
“You,” she gasped. “You. Oh, Jack—”
He thrust again and again, his body tireless, his hand slipping between her thighs to touch and stroke the vulnerable peak hidden in the thicket of curls. She climaxed at once, overcome with the searing delight of his possession.
Keeping their bodies joined, Jack rolled onto his back so that she straddled his long, muscular body, and he clasped her hips to guide her in a new rhythm. “I can’t,” she moaned, her breasts swaying before his face, but his hands gripped and moved her insistently, and she felt the urgent need building again. This time when she convulsed, he joined her with a deep groan, driving the pounding climax into the center of her body. They remained fused together for long, throbbing minutes, their skin warm and salty with mingled perspiration.
Clasping his hands around her curly head, Jack brought Amanda’s mouth to his. He kissed her lightly, his lips warm and teasing. “Sweet Amanda,” he whispered, and she felt him smile against her mouth. “I swear I’ll have a ‘yes’ out of you by morning.”
Amanda’s small, expedient wedding to Jack Devlin caused an uproar among family and friends. Sophia could not have been more disapproving, predicting that the union would someday result in separation. “I hardly need point out that the two of you have nothing in common,” her sister had said acidly, “except for certain physical appetites that are too indecent to mention.”
Had Amanda not been in the midst of emotional upheaval, she would have replied that there was one more thing that she and Jack had in common. However, she was not yet ready to impart the news of her pregnancy, and she managed to remain silent.
It had not been so easy, though, to face Charles Hartley. She would have preferred condemnation to the gentle kindness he showed her. He was so forgiving, so damnably understanding, that she felt utterly wretched as she tried to explain that she would not be marrying him, but Jack Devlin.
“Is this what you want, Amanda?” was his only question, and she responded with a shamefaced nod.
“Charles,” she managed to say, nearly choking on her guilt, “you have been dreadfully ill-used by me—”
“No, never say that,” he interrupted, beginning to reach for her, then checking himself. He held back and gave her a faint smile. “I have been the better for knowing you, Amanda. All I desire is your well-being. And if marriage to Devlin will secure your happiness, I will accept it without complaint.”
To Amanda’s annoyance, when she repeated the conversation to Jack later, he did not seem to feel a shred of remorse. He only shrugged nonchalantly. “Hartley could have fought for you,” he pointed out. “He chose not to. Why should you or I take the blame for that?”
“Charles was being a gentleman,
” she retorted. “Something you obviously have little experience with.”
Jack grinned and pulled her onto his lap, his hands cupping insolently over her bodice. “Gentlemen don’t always get what they want.”
“And scoundrels do?” she asked, making him laugh.
“This scoundrel has.” He kissed her soundly, until all thoughts of Charles Hartley were banished from her mind.
* * *
To Amanda’s dismay, the news of her hasty marriage had filled the gossip pages of London papers with lurid speculation. The publications that Jack owned were, of course, moderately respectful, but the ones he did not own were merciless. The public seemed titillated by the marriage between London’s most successful publisher and a celebrated novelist. During the fortnight after their wedding, new details of their relationship—many of them fabricated—surfaced every day in publications such as The Mercury, The Post, The Public Ledger, The Journal, and The Standard. Understanding the voracious appetite of the news industry, Amanda told herself that soon the gossips would lose interest in her marriage to Jack and find some new subject to exploit. However, there was one story that managed to distress her, and despite its obvious untruth, she was disturbed enough to approach her new husband with it.
“Jack,” she said warily, approaching him in their massive green-and-burgundy bedroom.
“Mmm?” Jack shrugged into a neat charcoal-colored waistcoat that matched his trousers exactly. The sleek, powerful lines of his body were followed faithfully by the clothes, which had been tailored in the new fashion, a fit that was easy and comfortable rather than snug. Picking up a patterned silk stock that had been selected by his valet, Jack examined it critically.
Amanda extended the paper to him. “Have you seen this item in the London Report‘s gossip section?”
Jack set aside the stock and took the paper. His gaze scanned the rustling page with practiced speed. “You know I don’t read gossip.”
Amanda frowned and folded her arms across her chest. “It is about you and me.”
