Suddenly You(17)

“Yes, you will,” he said, knowing somehow that she could not resist him any more than he could resist her.

The guests proceeded into the dining room, a large mahogany-paneled room filled with two long tables, each set with fourteen places. Four gloved, liveried footmen bustled quietly around the tables, assisting guests to their chairs, pouring wine, and bringing out huge silver-plated platters of oysters. Next came sherry and bowls of steaming turtle soup, followed by turbot fish dressed with tart hollandaise.

Jack found himself seated next to Mrs. Francine Newlyn. He had a feeling that Francine had designs on him, but though he considered her attractive, she was hardly worth the trouble of having an affair with. Especially if one didn’t care to have one’s personal life revealed in detail to a horde of gossips. Still, her hand kept sliding to his knee beneath the table. Each time he brushed the hand away, it returned to explore further territory of his leg.

“Mrs. Newlyn,” he muttered, “your attentions are most flattering. But if you don’t remove your hand…”

Francine’s hand slid away, and she regarded him with a catlike smile, her eyes round with mock innocence. “Forgive me,” she purred. “I had merely lost my balance and was trying to restore it.” She picked up her small sherry glass and sipped delicately. The tip of her tongue retrieved a golden drop that clung to the rim. “Such a strong leg,” she commented softly. “You must take exercise quite frequently.”

Jack suppressed a sigh as he glanced at the other long table, where Amanda Briars had been seated. She was involved in an animated conversation with the gentleman on her left, something about whether the new serial novels published in monthly installments were truly novels. The debate was currently a popular one, as several publishers—including himself—were launching serial novels without much success so far.

Jack enjoyed watching Amanda’s face in the candlelight, her expression by turns thoughtful, amused, and lively, those gray eyes gleaming more brightly than the polished silver.

Unlike the other women present, who picked at their food with appropriately feminine disinterest, Amanda displayed a healthy appetite. Apparently it was one of the privileges of spinsterhood, that a woman could eat well in public. She was so natural and straightforward, a refreshing change from the other sophisticated women he had known. He wanted to be alone with her. He envied the man seated next to her, who seemed to be having a better time than anyone else present.

Francine Newlyn persistently pressed his leg with her own. “My dear Mr. Devlin,” she said silkily, “you can’t seem to take your gaze from Miss Briars. But surely a man like you couldn’t entertain an interest in her.”

“Why not?”

A laugh came sputtering from her lips. “Because you’re a young, full-blooded man in his prime, and she…well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Oh, men like Miss Briars, certainly, but only in the way they would like a sister or an aunt. She’s not the kind who would arouse a man’s amorous instincts.”

“If you say so,” he replied blandly. The woman clearly considered her own attractions far superior to Amanda’s, never dreaming that a man might prefer a spinster’s charms to hers. But Jack had been involved with women like Francine before, and he knew what was beneath her shallow, pretty facade. Or, more to the point, what was not beneath it.

A footman came bearing a dish of creamed pheasant, and Jack accepted a serving with a nod, suppressing another sigh of frustration as he thought of the long night ahead. Tomorrow morning, and Amanda’s visit to his offices, seemed like an eternity away.

Chapter 4

I’ll send a carriage for you tomorrow at ten.

I won’t come.

Yes, you will.

The remembered exchange had troubled Amanda all night, echoing in her dreams, causing her to awaken far earlier than usual the next morning. Oh, how she would love to give Mr. John T. Devlin a well-deserved set-down by refusing to step into his carriage! However, his underhanded acquisition of her novel An Unfinished Lady would have to be dealt with. She did not want him or anyone else to publish it.

It had been years since she had written or read the thing, and although she had done her best at the time, the novel undoubtedly contained many faults of plotting and characterization. Were Unfinished Lady printed now, she feared it might be harshly reviewed by the critics and reviled by readers unless many revisions were made. And she had neither the time nor the inclination to do painstaking work on a novel for which she had received only ten pounds. Therefore, she would have to retrieve the book from Devlin.

There was also the matter of potential blackmail. If he spread the rumor around London that Amanda was the kind of woman who hired male prostitutes, her reputation and career would be in tatters. She would somehow have to secure Devlin’s promise that he would never breathe a word about that dreadful birthday night to anyone.

And much as she hated to admit it, she was curious. No matter how much she berated herself for letting her dratted curiosity get the better of her, she wanted to see Devlin’s establishment, his books, his bindery and offices and everything else inside that massive building on the corner of Holborn and Shoe Lane.

With Sukey’s assistance, Amanda pinned her hair into a tightly braided coronet atop her head, and dressed in the most severe gown she owned, a snugly fitted, high-buttoned gray velvet with regally swishing skirts. The gown’s only ornamentations consisted of a narrow belt that looked like interwoven silk cords fastened with a silver buckle, and a full white lace ruff that nestled high beneath her chin.