Suddenly You(38)

“Why should that have mattered?” Amanda asked. “I’ve never heard that the sexual act requires any particular intelligence. From what I’ve observed, many stupid people are easily able to produce children.”

For some reason, that remark caused Devlin to laugh until he nearly choked. Amanda waited impatiently for him to regain his self-possession, but every time he glanced at her inquiring expression, it set off another spasm of laughter. Finally he downed half a glass of wine and stared at her with slightly watering eyes, a flush of color edging his cheekbones and the strong bridge of his nose.

“True,” he said, his deep voice enriched with lingering amusement. “But the question betrays your lack of experience, peaches. The fact is, sexual satisfaction is often more difficult for women to achieve than it is for men. It requires a certain amount of skill, care, and yes, even intelligence.”

As the subject for suppertime conversation, it was so far outside the bounds of propriety that Amanda turned red to her hairline. She glanced at the doorway, making certain that they were completely alone before she spoke again. “And it was Mrs. Bradshaw’s opinion that you possessed the necessary qualities to, er, please me…whereas her employees did not?”

“Apparently.” He had set his silverware down, watching the progression of emotions on her face with keen interest.

The knowledge that she should end this scandalous conversation at once, clashed violently with her curiosity to know more. Amanda had never been able to ask anyone about the forbidden subject of sexual intercourse, certainly not her parents, nor her sisters, who despite their married status seemed only a little less uninformed than she.

But here was a man who was not only able but willing to enlighten her on any question she cared to ask. Abruptly she gave up the struggle with propriety—after all, she was a spinster, and what good had her propriety ever done her? “What about men?” she asked. “Do they ever have difficulty in finding satisfaction with a woman?”

To her delight, Devlin answered the question without mockery. “To a young or inexperienced man, it’s generally sufficient to have a warm female body in his vicinity. But as a man matures, he wants something more. The sexual act is more exciting with a woman who offers a bit of a challenge, who interests him…even a woman who makes him laugh.”

“A man wants a woman to make him laugh?” Amanda asked with uncut skepticism.

“Of course. Intimacy is the most pleasurable with a partner who is willing to be playful in bed…someone who is amusing and uninhibited.”

“Playful,” Amanda repeated, shaking her head. The idea contradicted all her long-held ideas of romance and sex. One did not “play” in bed. What did he mean? Was he implying that sexual partners enjoyed jumping on the mattress and throwing pillows, as children did?

As she stared at him in bewilderment, Devlin appeared suddenly uncomfortable, his gaze alive and hot, as if blue flame had been captured in his eyes. A slight flush had risen on his face, and he seemed unable to loosen his tight clutch on his silverware. When he spoke, his voice had taken on a gravelly softness. “I’m afraid, Miss Briars, that we’re going to have to change the subject. Because there’s nothing I’d like better than to demonstrate what I mean.”

Chapter 7

Devlin meant, Amanda realized, that he was becoming aroused by the conversation. She was stunned and embarrassed to discover that her own body had also been awakened by the intimate exchange. She felt sensation brushing along her nerves, centers of heat collecting in her br**sts and stomach and between her thighs. How odd that the sight of a man, the sound of his voice, could produce such feelings—even in her practical, functional knees.

“Have I earned my apricot-jam pudding?” Devlin asked, reaching for a covered dish. “Because I’m going to have some. I warn you, only physical force will prevent it.”

A smile came to her face, as he had intended. “By all means,” Amanda said, pleased by the steadiness of her voice. “Do help yourself.”

He expertly ladled two plump little puddings onto his plate and dug into them with boyish enthusiasm. Amanda searched for some new avenue of conversation. “Mr. Devlin…I would like to know how you became a publisher.”

“It seemed a hell of a lot more interesting than scratching out numbers at some bank or insurance company. And I knew I wasn’t going to make any money by becoming an apprentice. I wanted to start with my own shop, complete with inventory and employees, and the means to begin publishing right away. So the day after I graduated, I headed for London with a few of my schoolmates in tow and…” He paused, and a strange shadow crossed his face. “I arranged for a loan,” he said finally.

“You must have been quite persuasive for the bank to advance you a loan sufficient to cover your expenses. Especially at such a young age.”

Amanda’s remark was complimentary, but for some reason, Devlin’s eyes became dark and his mouth took on a moody curve. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice laden with self-mockery. “I was quite persuasive.” He drank deeply of his wine, then glanced at Amanda’s expectant face. He resumed the story as if picking up an unwieldy burden. “I decided to begin with an illustrated magazine, and edit and publish a half-dozen three-volume novels within six months after starting the firm. There weren’t enough hours in the day to get it all done. Fretwell, Stubbins, Orpin, and I all worked until we dropped—I doubt any of us slept more than four hours a night. I made decisions quickly, not all of them good, but somehow I managed to avoid making a mistake large enough to sink us. To start with, I purchased five thousand surplus books and sold them at cut-rate prices, which did not endear me to my fellow booksellers. On the other hand, I made money quickly. We couldn’t have survived any other way. My peers called me an unscrupulous traitor—and they were right. But in the first year of business, I sold a hundred thousand volumes off my shelves, and paid back my loan in full.”