It finally dawned on Amanda that this was the reason she had been invited to the ball—the family must have agreed that she was to be given the honor of writing their pompous heir’s biography.
“You’re very kind,” she murmured, caught between outrage and laughter as she glanced around at her surroundings for any avenue of escape. “However, I must tell you that biographies are not my forte—”
“We will find a private corner,” he interrupted her, “and we will sit together for the rest of the evening while I tell you the story of my life.”
Amanda’s blood curdled at the prospect. “Mr. Stephenson, I could not deny the other women at the ball the chance to enjoy your company—”
“They will have to console themselves,” he said with a regretful sigh. “After all, there is only one of me—and for this evening, Miss Briars, I am yours. Come now.”
As Amanda was practically dragged to a small velvet settee in the corner, she saw Jack Devlin’s dark face. The sight of him caused her heart to lurch. She had not known that he would be attending the ball…it was all she could do not to stare openly. Jack was handsome, princely even, in his black formal wear, his black hair brushed back from his face. He was standing in a group of men, watching her over the rim of his brandy glass with an expression of mocking satisfaction. His white teeth gleamed in a quick grin as he witnessed her predicament.
Abruptly Amanda’s longing changed to burning annoyance. The evil wretch, she thought, glaring at him as she was tugged along behind Stephenson’s corpulent form. She should not be surprised that Jack would take pleasure in seeing her discomfort.
Silently Amanda fumed as Stephenson monopolized her for the next two hours, orating grandly about his beginnings, his accomplishments, his opinions, until she longed to scream. Sipping from a glass of punch, she watched as everyone else at the party was happily dancing, laughing, and talking, while she was trapped on a settee with a self-important windbag.
Worse, every time someone approached them, and it looked as if rescue might be likely, Stephenson waved the person away and continued his incessant chatter to Amanda. Just when she was considering a feigned illness or a pretend swoon in order to be rid of him, help came from the quarter she desired the least.
Jack stood before them with an expressionless face, ignoring Stephenson’s attempts to shoo him away. “Miss Briars,” he murmured, “are you enjoying the evening?”
Stephenson responded before Amanda could speak. “Devlin, you have the honor of being the first to hear the good news,” he crowed.
Devlin arched his brow as he glanced at Amanda. “Good news?”
“I have convinced Miss Briars to write my biography.”
“Have you?” Devlin sent Amanda a mildly chiding gaze. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Miss Briars, that you have contractual obligations to me. Despite your enthusiasm for the project, you may have to delay it for a while.”
“If you say so,” she murmured, nearly choking with a galling mixture of annoyance and gratitude. Silently she flashed him a message, her gaze promising vengeance if he did not rescue her immediately.
Devlin bowed and extended a gloved hand. “Shall we discuss the matter further? During a waltz, perhaps?”
Amanda needed no further urging. She practically leapt from the settee, which had developed all the appeal of a torture chamber, and seized Devlin’s hand. “Very well, if you insist.”
“Oh, I do,” he assured her.
“But my life’s story…” Stephenson protested. “I haven’t yet finished with my years at Oxford…” He spluttered indignantly as Jack ushered Amanda toward the whirl of dancing couples in the drawing room. An effervescent waltz floated through the air, but its cheerful melody did little to soothe Amanda’s irritation.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?” Jack asked. He took her gloved hand and slid his arm around her.
“Thank you for what?” she responded sourly. Her cramped leg muscles objected to the prospect of a dance after the prolonged stay on the settee, but she was so relieved to be away from her tormentor that she ignored the pain.
“For rescuing you from Stephenson.”
“You waited two hours to do so,” she said tersely. “You’ll get no thanks from me.”
“How was I to know that you wouldn’t find Stephenson attractive?” he asked, all innocence. “Many women do.”
“Well, they are welcome to him. You have allowed me to be tormented by the most pretentious ass of a man that I’ve ever encountered.”
“He is respectable, educated, unmarried, and wealthy—what more could you want?”
“He is not educated,” Amanda countered with barely suppressed vehemence. “Or at least, if he is, his knowledge is limited to one subject. Himself.”
“He knows a great deal about gemstones,” Jack remarked blandly.
Amanda was tempted to hit him, right there before the mass of dancing couples. Reading her expression, Devlin laughed and tried to appear contrite. “I’m sorry. Truly. Here, I’ll make it up to you. Tell me whom you most want to meet tonight, and I’ll see to it at once. Anyone at all.”
“Don’t bother,” she said grudgingly. “Being subjected to Mr. Stephenson for so long has put me in a foul temper. I’m only fit company for you.”
His eyes gleamed with heathen laughter. “Dance with me, then.”
He pulled her into the waltz with splendid economy of movement, somehow compensating for the radical difference in their heights. Amanda was struck anew how tall he was, the strength and sleek power of his body concealed in civilized evening attire.
As she might have expected, he was an excellent dancer, not merely proficient but graceful. He led her firmly, allowing no opportunity for a misstep. His hand was strong on her back, providing just the right amount of support and pressure to guide her.
The smell of starched linen mixed with the scent of his skin, salty and clean and spiced with a hint of cologne. Amanda hated it that Jack smelled so much better than any other man she knew. If only she could bottle the essence and pour it on some other man.
The ebullient music flowed around them, and Amanda felt herself relaxing in Devlin’s firm hold. She had seldom danced in her youth, since most men of her acquaintance had seemed to think she was too dignified to enjoy such an activity. Although she had not been precisely a wallflower, she had certainly not been in high demand as a dance partner.
As they turned and circled amidst the other couples, Amanda noticed the subtle changes in Devlin’s face. In the weeks since their separation, it seemed that he had lost some of his jauntiness and swagger. He appeared older, with new brackets forming on either side of his mouth, and a pair of creases that frequently appeared between his heavy brows. He had lost weight, which threw his cheekbones into new prominence and emphasized the hard angle of his jaw. And there were shadows beneath his eyes that attested to a regular lack of sleep.
“You look very tired,” she said bluntly. “You should sleep more.”
“I’ve been languishing for want of you,” he said in a voice so light and mocking that it implied just the opposite. “Is that the reply you were hoping for?”
She stiffened at the soft jeer. “Let me go. The strap on my slipper has come loose.”
“Not yet.” His hand remained at the center of her back. “I have some good news to share with you. The first issue of Unfinished Lady has sold out completely. Installment number two is in such high demand that I’m doubling the print order this month.”
“Oh. That is indeed good news.” But the pleasure she ordinarily would have felt was undercut by the terrible tension that stretched between them. “Jack, my slipper—”
“Dammit,” he muttered, stopping the swirling waltz and leading her away from the dancing.
Amanda held onto his arm as he guided her to a gilded chair set at the side of the drawing room. Silently she cursed the slipper and the delicate ribbon that tied it to her ankle, feeling it loosen until she could hardly keep the thin
g on.
“Sit,” came Jack’s curt order, and he knelt beside her, reaching for her foot.
“Stop that,” Amanda snapped, aware that they were attracting many amused and curious glances.
A few guests were even tittering behind fans or gloved hands at the spectacle of proper Miss Amanda Briars being attended to by a notorious rake like Jack Devlin. “People are staring,” she said in a softer tone as he drew the slipper from her foot.
“Settle your feathers. I’ve seen slipper-ribbons come loose before. In fact, some women even arrange it on purpose as an excuse to show off their ankles to their partners.”
“If you are implying that I would use such a stupid pretext to—to—well, you are even more insufferably conceited than I thought!” Amanda flushed with embarrassment and glared at him as he glanced down at the flimsy slipper with a sudden smile.
“Why, Miss Briars,” he murmured. “How frivolous of you.”
She had purchased the dancing slippers on impulse. Unlike her other shoes, they had been designed with no thought to functionality or quality. They were hardly anything more than a thin sole and a one-inch heel held together with bits of lace and ribbon, and tiny embroidered flowers at the toe. One of the frail silk ribbons that affixed the shoe to her ankle had snapped in two, and Jack knotted the two frayed ends with a few deft twists of his fingers.
He assumed a properly impassive expression as he replaced the slipper on her foot and wrapped the ribbon around her ankle. However, there was a betraying remnant of laughter in his eyes, making it clear that he was enjoying her helplessness, and the attention they were attracting. Amanda kept her face averted, focusing fiercely on her hands as they twisted together in her lap.
Devlin took care to keep from exposing an untoward glimpse of Amanda’s ankle as he replaced the shoe, his fingers cupped briefly around the back of her foot to hold it steady. She had never liked her legs, for they were sturdy and too short. Odes were never written to a woman with practical ankles, only to those who had slender, dainty ones. Yet her unromantic ankles were exquisitely sensitive, and she couldn’t keep from quivering as she felt the clasp of Devlin’s fingers, the heat of his hands penetrating the silk barrier of her stocking and burning the skin beneath.
The touch was fleeting, but Amanda felt it down to the marrow of her bones. She was confounded by the immediacy of her desire, the way her mouth turned dry, the nerve-rattling thrill of pleasure that went through her entire body. Abruptly she did not care that they were in a crowded drawing room. She wanted to sink to the polished floor with him, crush her mouth to his skin, tug his weight over her until she felt the intimate heat of him thrusting inside her. The primitive thoughts that raced through her head while she sat in these civilized surroundings made her horrified and dizzy.
Jack released her shod foot and rose before her. “Amanda,” he said quietly. She felt his gaze on her downbent head.
She could not look up at him, could barely speak. “Please leave me alone,” she finally managed to whisper. “Please.”
Strangely, he seemed to understand her dilemma, for, after giving her a polite bow, he complied.
Amanda took several long breaths to settle her thoughts. The time she had spent apart from Jack had not eased her desire for him…she was filled with a longing and loneliness that drove her close to despair. How was she to bear these infrequent encounters with him? Was she to suffer like this for the rest of her life? And if so, what was to be done about it?
“Miss Briars?”
A low-pitched voice fell pleasantly on Amanda’s ears. Raising her troubled gaze, she beheld a familiar face. A tall, brown-and-silver-haired man had approached her, his plain bearded face enhanced by a smile. His chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as he saw her hesitation. “I don’t expect you to remember me,” he said in a self-effacing way, “but we met at Mr. Devlin’s Christmas party. I’m—”
“Of course I remember,” Amanda said with a slight smile, relieved that his name had come to her mind. He was the popular author of children’s verse, with whom she’d shared an enjoyable conversation at Christmas. “How nice to see you again, Uncle Hartley. I had no idea you would be attending the party this evening.”
Hartley laughed at her use of his pen name. “I can’t comprehend why the most charming woman present would not be dancing. Perhaps you would favor me with a quadrille?”
She gave a regretful shake of her head. “The straps on my right slipper won’t tolerate it, I’m afraid. I will be fortunate if I can manage to keep the dratted thing on my foot for the rest of the evening.”
Hartley regarded her in the manner of a man who was uncertain if he was being rebuffed or not. Amanda alleviated his discomfort by giving him another smile. “However,” she added, “I do believe I could manage a trip to the refreshment table, if you would be kind enough to escort me?”
“I would be delighted,” came his sincere reply, and he proffered his arm in a show of courtesy. “I had hoped very much to see you again after our conversation at Mr. Devlin’s Christmas party,” he said as they proceeded slowly to the refreshment room. “Unfortunately, it seems that you have not moved in society very often of late.”
Amanda threw him a sharp glance, wondering if he had heard the rumors about her affair with Jack. But Hartley’s expression was kind and polite, with no trace of accusation or insinuation.
“I have been occupied with work,” she said abruptly, trying to dismiss a sudden pang of shame…the first time she had ever experienced such an emotion.
“Of course, a woman of your great talent…it takes time to create such memorable work.” Hartley brought her to the refreshment table and gestured for a servant to fill a plate for her.
“And you?” Amanda asked. “Have you been writing more children’s verse?”
“I’m afraid not,” Hartley said cheerfully. “I have been spending most of my time with my sister and her brood. She has five daughters and two sons, all of them as bright-eyed and mischievous as a pack of fox cubs.”
“You enjoy children,” Amanda remarked with a questioning lilt.
“Oh, completely. Children have a way of reminding one of the true purpose of life.”
“Which is?”
“Why, to love and be loved, of course.”
Amanda was startled by his simple sincerity. She felt a wondering smile touch her lips. How remarkable it was to find a man who was so unafraid of sentiment.
Hartley’s brown eyes were steady and warm, but his mouth softened with regret amid the neatly trimmed shape of his beard as he continued. “My late wife and I were never able to have children, to both our disappointment A house without children can be very quiet indeed.”
While they moved along the refreshment line, Amanda’s smile remained. Hartley was an impressive gentleman, kind and intelligent, and attractive despite his lack of true handsomeness. There was something about his broad, symmetrical face, with its large nose and rich brown eyes, that struck her as infinitely appealing. It was the kind of face that one could view every day and never tire of. She had been far too dazzled by Jack Devlin to notice Hartley before. Well, she vowed silently, she would not make that mistake again.
“Perhaps you will allow me to call on you sometime,” Hartley suggested. “I would enjoy taking you for an airing in my carriage when the weather turns.”
Mr. Charles Hartley was no fairy-tale hero, no dashing figure from a book, but a quiet, steady fellow who shared her interests. Hartley would never sweep her off her feet, but help her to keep them planted firmly on the ground. Although he was not what anyone would call exciting, Amanda had experienced enough excitement in her brief affair with Jack Devlin to last a lifetime. Now she wanted something—someone—who was solid and real, whose main ambition apparently was to lead a pleasant and ordinary life.
“I would like that very much,” Amanda said, and to her relief, she soon made the discovery that while she was in Charles Hartley’s solicitous company, she was able to put all thou
ghts of Jack Devlin from her mind.
Chapter 13
Making his last rounds of the day, Oscar Fretwell visited each floor of the building to check equipment and lock doors. He paused before Devlin’s office. A light was burning inside, and a peculiar scent emanated from behind the closed door…the pungent tang of smoke. Mildly alarmed, Fretwell knocked on the portal and shouldered his way inside. “Mr. Devlin—”
Fretwell stopped and regarded the man who was both employer and friend with barely concealed amazement. Devlin was seated at his desk, surrounded by the ever-present piles of documents and books, puffing methodically on a long cigar. A crystal plate loaded with burned-out stubs, and a handsome cedar box that was half filled with more cigars, attested to the fact that Devlin’s smoking had been going on for some time.
In an effort to compose his thoughts before speaking, Fretwell took the opportunity to remove his glasses and polish them with scrupulous care. When he replaced them, he gave Devlin a measuring stare. Although he rarely used Devlin’s first name, feeling it necessary to demonstrate his absolute respect for the man before his employees, he used it deliberately now. For one thing, everyone had gone home for the day. For another, Fretwell felt the need to reestablish the connection that had existed between them since boyhood.
“Jack,” he said quietly, “I didn’t know you had a taste for tobacco.”
“Today I do.” Devlin drew again on the cigar, his narrowed blue gaze fastening onto Fretwell’s face. “Go home, Fretwell. I don’t want to talk.”
Ignoring the muttered command, Fretwell wandered over to a window, unlocked the frame, and opened the panel to admit a cleansing breeze into the stuffy room. The dense blue haze that hung in the air began to disperse slowly. While Devlin’s sardonic gaze remained on him, Fretwell approached the desk, inspected the box of cigars, and drew one out. “May I?”