Suddenly You(3)

“Are you planning to beat me away with that?” her unwanted guest inquired politely.

“If necessary.”

An amused snort greeted her statement, and he touched her chin, nudging her to look up at him.

“Sir,” she exclaimed. “Do you mind—”

“My name is Jack.” The shadow of a smile crossed his lips. “And I’ll leave soon enough, but not before we discuss a few things. I have some questions for you.”

She sighed impatiently. “Mr. Jack, I have no doubt you do, but—”

“Jack is my first name.”

“Very well…Jack.” A scowl settled over her features. “I would appreciate it if you would kindly leave without delay!”

He wandered farther into the entrance hall, seeming as relaxed as if she had invited him in for tea. Amanda was forced to reconsider her early opinion of his slow-wittedness. Now that he had recovered from the surprise of being yanked inside her house so quickly, his intelligence was showing signs of rapid improvement.

The stranger gave her house a sweeping glance of assessment, noting the classically designed pieces of furniture in her cream-and-blue parlor, and the mahogany pier table surmounted by a framed looking glass at the back of the entrance hall. If he was looking for fancy embellishment, or obvious signs of wealth, he was to be disappointed. Amanda couldn’t bear pretension or impracticality, and so she had chosen furniture for function rather than for style. If she bought a chair, it must be large and comfortable. If she bought a side table, it must be sturdy enough to hold a stack of books or a big lamp. She did not like gilding and porcelain disks, nor all the carving and hieroglyphics that were currently fashionable.

As her visitor paused near the doorway of her parlor, Amanda spoke dryly. “Since it appears that you’re going to do as you please regardless of my wishes, go right in and sit down. Is there something I can offer you? A glass of wine, perhaps?”

Although the invitation had been offered with purest sarcasm, he accepted with a quick grin. “Yes, if you’ll join me.”

The flash of white teeth, the unexpected dazzle of his smile, caused a strange sensation to creep over her, rather like the feeling of sinking into a hot bath after a gray winter day. She was always cold. The damp, overcast climate of London seemed to sink into her bones, and in spite of her liberal use of foot warmers, lap blankets, hot baths, and brandy-laced tea, she was never far from feeling the chill.

“Perhaps I will take some wine,” she heard herself say. “Please have a chair, Mr…. er, that is, Jack.” She shot him an ironic glance. “Since you’re in my parlor now, you may as well tell me your full name.”

“No,” he said quietly, the smile remaining in his eyes. “In view of the circumstances, I think we will remain on a first-name basis…Amanda.”

Well, he certainly didn’t lack nerve! She gestured abruptly for him to sit while she went to the sideboard. However, Jack remained standing until she had poured a glass of red wine for each of them. Only when she had lowered herself to the mahogany settee did he choose to occupy the nearby Trafalgar armchair. The light from the well-stocked fire in the white marble hearth flickered over his shining black hair and smooth, gold-tinted skin. He fairly gleamed with health and youth. In fact, Amanda began to wonder suspiciously if he wasn’t a few years younger than she.

“Shall I make a toast?” her guest inquired.

“You obviously wish to,” she returned crisply.

That drew a flashing grin from him, and he raised his glass to her. “To a woman of great boldness, imagination, and beauty.”

Amanda did not drink. She frowned at him as he sipped from his glass. Really, it was shameful of him to force his way into her house, refuse to leave when he was asked, and then make jest of her.

She was an intelligent and honest woman who knew what she was…and she was no beauty. Her attractions were moderate at best, and that was only if one completely discounted the current feminine ideal. She was short, and while on some days she could be described as voluptuous, on others she was most definitely plump. Her hair was a reddish-brown, wildly chaotic mass of curls—hateful curls that successfully defied any substance or implement used to straighten them. Oh, she had nice skin with no pockmarks or blemishes, and her eyes had once been described as “fine” by some well-meaning friend of the family. But they were plain gray eyes, with no shade of green or blue to enliven them.

Without physical beauty, Amanda had chosen instead to cultivate her mind and imagination, which, as her mother had gloomily predicted, had been the final stroke of doom.

Gentlemen did not want wives with well-cultivated minds. They wanted attractive wives who never second-guessed or disagreed with them. And they certainly didn’t seek women with vibrant imaginations who daydreamed about fictional characters in books. Therefore, Amanda’s two prettier elder sisters had both caught husbands, and Amanda had resorted to novel-writing.

Her unwelcome guest continued to stare at her with those keen blue eyes. “Tell me why a woman with your looks should have to hire a man for her bed.”

His bluntness offended her. And yet…there was something unexpectedly entertaining about the prospect of talking with a man without any of the usual social restraints.

“First of all,” Amanda said tartly, “there’s no need to patronize me by implying that I’m Helen of Troy when it’s clear that I’m no beauty.”