“Please,” she interrupted, her heart contracting with anxious alarm. She did not want him to make any confessions to her…God forbid that he might say he loved her, when she was pregnant with another man’s child! “Charles, you are a dear friend, and I have been fortunate to have known you these past several weeks. But let us leave it at that, please. I am departing for the Continent in a matter of days, and anything you say cannot change that fact.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be silent.” He held her hands more tightly, although his voice was still calm and warm. “I will not let you go without telling you how very much I value you. You are very special to me, Amanda. You are one of the finest women I have ever known, and I want—”
“No,” she said, her throat suddenly aching. “I am not a fine woman, or a good one in any regard. I have made terrible mistakes, Charles, ones that I have no wish to explain to you. Please, let us say no more, and part as friends.”
He considered her for a long time. “You are in some kind of trouble,” he said quietly. “Let me help you. Is it financial? Legal?”
“It is a kind of trouble that no one can solve.” She could not look at him. “Please go,” she said, rising from her chair. “Good-bye, Charles.”
He tugged her back to the settee. “Amanda,” he murmured, “in light of my feelings for you, I believe you owe me something…the chance to be of service to someone I care for deeply. Tell me what is the matter.”
Half touched and half annoyed by his persistence, Amanda forced herself to look directly into his gentle brown eyes. “I am pregnant,” she blurted out. “You see? There is nothing that you or anyone can do. Now please leave, so that I may sort through the utter mess I’ve made of my life.”
Charles’s brown eyes widened, and his lips parted. Of all the things he might have suspected, it was clear that this was the last. How many people would be similarly shocked, Amanda thought, by the fact that the sensible spinster novelist would have carried on an affair and become pregnant as a result? In spite of her dilemma, she almost took a grim satisfaction in having done something so utterly unpredictable.
Charles continued to hold her hands in a secure clasp. “The father…I assume it is Jack Devlin,” he said rather than asked, with no trace of censure in his tone.
Amanda colored as she stared at him. “You’d heard the rumors, then.”
“Yes. But I could see that whatever had occurred between you in the past was definitely over.”
Amanda let out a small, dry laugh. “Apparently it is not quite over,” she managed to reply.
“Devlin is not willing to do his duty by you?”
Charles’s reaction was not at all what she might have expected. Instead of withdrawing from her in distaste, he seemed as calm and friendly as ever, genuinely interested in her welfare. Amanda knew that he was too much of a gentleman to betray her confidence. Anything she told him would not be turned into gossip-fodder. It was a tremendous relief to confide in someone, and she found herself returning the pressure of his grip as she spoke.
“He does not know, nor will he ever. Jack has made it quite clear in the past that he does not want to marry. And he would certainly not be the kind of husband I would wish for. That is why I am going away…I cannot stay in England as an unwed mother.”
“Of course. Of course. But you must tell him. I do not know Devlin well, but he must be given the opportunity to take responsibility for you and the child. It is not fair to him, or the child, to keep such a secret.”
“There is no point in telling him. I know what his response will be.”
“You cannot bear this burden alone, Amanda.”
“Yes, I can.” Suddenly she felt very calm, and she even smiled slightly as she looked into his broad, concerned face. “Truly, I can. The child will not suffer at all, and neither will I.”
“Every child needs a father. And you will need a husband to help and sustain you.”
Amanda shook her head decisively. “Jack would never propose to me, and if he did, I would never accept.”
The words seemed to unlock some secret daredevil in Charles, some extraordinary impulse that exhorted him to blurt out a question that amazed her. “What if I proposed to you?”
She stared at him without blinking, wondering if he had taken leave of his senses. “Charles,” she said patiently, as if half suspecting that he had not understood her before, “I am expecting another man’s child.”
“I would like to have children. I would regard this one as my own. And I would very much like to have you as my wife.”
“But why?” she asked with a bewildered laugh. “I’ve just told you that I’m going to have a child out of wedlock. You know what that indicates about my character. I am not at all the kind of wife you require.”
“Let me be the judge of your character, which I find as estimable as ever.” He smiled into her pale face. “Do me the honor of becoming my wife, Amanda. There is no need for you to move far away from family and friends. We would have a very good life together. You know we suit each other. I want you…and I want this child as well.”
“But how can you accept someone else’s bastard as your own?”
“Perhaps many years ago I would not have. But now I am entering the autumn of my life, and one’s perspective changes greatly with maturity. I am being offered a chance at fatherhood, and, by God, I will take it.”
Amanda regarded him with astonished silence, and then an unwilling laugh escaped her. “You surprise me, Charles.”
“You have surprised me,” he returned, his beard parting with a smile. “Come, do not take a long time to consider my proposal—it is hardly flattering.”
“If I did accept,” she said uncertainly, “you would claim this baby as your own?”
“Yes—on one condition. You must first tell Devlin the truth. I could not in good conscience rob another man of the chance to know his own child. If what you say about him is true, he will certainly not cause any trouble for us. He will even be glad to be absolved of the responsibility for you and the child. But we must not begin a marriage with lies.”
“I can’t tell him.” Amanda shook her head decisively. She could not conceive what his response might be. Anger? Accusation? Sullen resentment or mockery? Oh, she would rather burn at the stake than have to present him with news of his unborn bastard!
“Amanda,” Charles said softly, “it is likely that someday he will find out. You cannot spend years with that possibility hanging over your head. You must trust me in this…telling him about the child is the right thing to do. After that, you have nothing to fear from Devlin.”
She shook her head unhappily. “I don’t know if it would be fair to any of us if I agreed to marry you, and I can’t be certain that telling Jack about the baby is the right thing. Oh, I wish I knew what to do! I used to be so certain about the correct choices…I used to think I was so wise and practical, and now the sterling character I thought I possessed is in shambles, and—”
Charles interrupted with a quiet chuckle. “What do you wish to do, Amanda? The choice is simple. You may go abroad and live among strangers, and raise your child without a father. Or you may stay in England and marry a man who respects and cares for you.”
Amanda regarded him uncertainly. Put that way, the choice given to her made everything clear. A curious sense of relief mingled with resignation caused her eyes to sting. Charles Hartley was so quietly strong, with a flawless moral compass that amazed her. “I had no idea you could be so persuasive, Charles,” she said with a sniffle, and he began to smile.
In the four months since Jack had begun publishing regular installments of An Unfinished Lady, it had become a sensation. The clamoring on the “Row,” that section of Paternoster Row north of St. Paul’s, was deafening each month on Magazine Day, and the booksellers’ representatives all wanted one thing—the latest issue of Unfinished Lady.
Demand was climbing higher than Jack’s most optimistic estimations. The success of Amanda’s s
erial publication could be attributed to the excellent quality of the novel, the intriguing moral ambiguity of the book’s heroine, and the fact that Jack had paid for extensive publicity, including advertisements in all the notable London newspapers.
Now vendors were selling Unfinished Lady merchandise: a specially created cologne inspired by the novel, ruby-colored gloves similar to the ones the heroine wore, gauzy red “Lady” scarves to be worn around the throat or tied around the brim of a hat. The most requested music at any fashionable ball was “The Unfinished Lady” waltz, composed by an admirer of Amanda’s work.
He should be pleased, Jack told himself. After all, he and Amanda were both making a fortune from her novel and would continue to do so. There was no doubt that he would sell many editions of the final book when he finally brought it out in a handsome three-volume format. And Amanda seemed agreeable to the prospect of writing a brand-new serial novel for his publishing division.
However, it had become impossible for Jack to take pleasure in any of the things he used to. Money no longer excited him. He did not need further wealth—he had made far more than he could spend in a lifetime. As London’s most powerful bookseller as well as publisher, he had acquired so much influence over the distribution of other publishers’ novels that he could exact huge discounts from them for any book they wished him to carry. And he did not hesitate to make use of his advantage, which had made him even richer, if not exactly admired.
Jack knew that he was being called a giant in the publishing world—a recognition he had long worked for and craved. But his work had lost its power to absorb him. Even the ghosts of his past had ceased to haunt him as they once had. Now the days passed in a dull gray haze. He had never felt like this before, impervious to all emotion, even pain. If only someone could tell him how to break free of the suffocating gloom that enshrouded him.
“Merely a case of ennui, my boy,” an aristocratic friend had informed him sardonically, using the upper-class term for a case of terminal boredom. “Good for you—a solid case of ennui is quite the fashion nowadays. You would hardly be a man of significance if you didn’t have it. If you wish for relief, you need to go to a club, drink, play cards, diddle a pretty light-skirts. Or travel to the Continent for a change of scene.”
However, Jack knew that none of these suggestions would help worth a damn. He merely sat in his prison of an office and dutifully negotiated business agreements, or stared blankly at piles of work that seemed exactly like the work he had finished last month, and the month before. And waited intently for news of Amanda Briars.
Like a faithful hunting hound, Fretwell brought him tidbits whenever he came across them…that Amanda had been seen at the opera with Charles Hartley one evening, or that Amanda had visited the tea gardens and had looked quite well. Jack mulled over each piece of information incessantly, damning himself for caring so deeply about the minutiae of her life. Yet Amanda was the only thing that seemed to reawaken his pulse. He who had always been known for his insatiable drive could now only seem to work up an interest in the sedate social activities of a spinster novelist.
When he found himself too frustrated and restless to attend to his work one morning, Jack decided that physical exertion might do him some good. He was accomplishing nothing in his office, and there was work to be done elsewhere in the building. He left a pile of unread manuscripts and contracts on his desk and occupied himself instead with carrying chests of freshly bound books to a wagon at street level, where they would be carted off to a ship moored at the wharf.
Removing his coat, he worked in his shirtsleeves, lifting the chests and crates to his shoulder and carrying them down long flights of stairs to the ground floor. Although the stock lads were a bit unnerved at first to see the owner of Devlin’s performing such menial work, the hard labor soon caused them to lose all trace of self-consciousness.
After Jack had made at least a half-dozen trips from the fifth floor to the street, lugging book-filled crates to the wagon behind the building, Oscar Fretwell managed to find him. “Devlin,” he called, sounding perturbed. “Mr. Devlin, I—” He stopped in amazement as he saw Jack loading a crate onto the wagon. “Devlin, may I ask what you are about? There’s no need for you to do that—God knows we hire enough men to carry and load crates—”
“I’m tired of sitting at my damn desk,” Jack said curtly. “I wanted to stretch my legs.”
“A walk in the park would have accomplished the same thing,” Fretwell muttered. “A man in your position does not have to resort to stockroom labor.”
Jack smiled slightly, dragging his sleeve across his damp forehead. It felt good to sweat and exercise his muscles, to do something that did not require any thought, but merely physical effort.
“Spare me the lecture, Fretwell. I was of no use to anyone in my office, and I’d rather do something more productive than stroll through the park. Now, is there something you wished to tell me? Otherwise, I have more crates to load.”
“There is something.” The manager hesitated and gave him a searching stare. “You have a visitor—Miss Briars is waiting in your office. If you wish, I will tell her that you are not available…” His voice trailed away as Jack strode to the stairs before he had even finished the sentence.
Amanda was here, wanting to see him, when she had taken care to avoid him for so long. Jack felt a peculiar tightness in his chest that gave a strained quality to his heartbeat. He struggled not to take the stairs two at a time, but proceeded up the five flights to his office at a measured pace. Even so, his breathing was not quite normal when he reached the top. To his chagrin, he knew the overexertion of his lungs had nothing to do with physical labor. He was so damned eager to be in the same room with Amanda Briars that he was panting like an amorous lad. He debated whether he should change his shirt, wash his face, find his coat, all in the effort to appear collected. He decided against it. He did not want to keep her waiting any longer than necessary.
Struggling to maintain an impassive facade, he entered his office and left the door slightly ajar. His gaze immediately shot to Amanda, who was standing by his desk with a neat paper-wrapped package held at her side. A strange expression crossed her face as she saw him…he read anxiety and pleasure there before she sought to cover her discomposure with a bright, false smile.
“Mr. Devlin,” she said briskly, coming toward him. “I’ve brought you the revisions for the last installment of Unfinished Lady…and a proposal for another serial novel, if you are interested.”
“Of course I’m interested,” he said thickly. “Hello, Amanda. You’re looking well.”
The commonplace remark did not begin to describe his reaction to her appearance. Amanda looked fresh and ladylike, dressed in a crisp blue-and-white gown with a pristine white bow tied at the throat and a row of pearl buttons that extended down the front of the bodice. As she stood before him, he thought he detected the scent of lemons and the whisper of perfume, and all his senses kindled in response.
He wanted to crush her against his hot, sweating body, kiss and maul and devour her, tangle his big hands in her neat braided coiffure, rip the row of pearl buttons until her sumptuous breasts spilled into his waiting hands. He was ravaged by an all-consuming hunger, as if he hadn’t eaten for days and suddenly realized that he was starving. The violent rush of awareness and sensation, when he had felt nothing for weeks, made him nearly dizzy.
“I am quite well, thank you.” Her forced smile disappeared as she stared at him, and there was a flash in her silver-gray eyes. “There is a streak of dirt on your cheek,” she murmured. She tugged a clean, pressed handkerchief from her sleeve and reached toward his face. Hesitating almost imperceptibly, she dabbed at the right side of his face. Jack stood still, his muscles turning rigid until his body seemed to have been carved in marble. After the smudge was removed, Amanda used the other side of the handkerchief to blot the streaks of sweat on his face. “What in heaven’s name have you been doing?” she murmured.
&nb
sp; “Work,” he muttered, using all the force of his will to keep from seizing her.
A faint smile touched her soft lips. “As always, you cannot seem to conduct your life at a normal pace.”
The remark did not sound admiring. In fact, it almost sounded a touch pitying, as if she had come to some new understanding that eluded him. Jack scowled and leaned over her to place the paper-wrapped package on his desk, deliberately forcing her to retreat backward a step or else have her body come into full contact with his. He was pleased to see that she flushed, some of her composure eroding. “May I ask why you brought this to me in person?” he asked, referring to the revisions.
“I’m sorry if you would have preferred—”
“No, it’s not that,” he said gruffly. “I just wanted to know if you had a particular reason for seeing me today.”
“Actually, there is something.” Amanda cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I will be attending a party tonight given by my lawyer, Mr. Talbot. I believe you have received an invitation—he indicated that you were on his guest list.”
Jack shrugged. “Mostly likely I did receive one. I doubt that I’ll attend.”
For some reason, the information seemed to relax her. “I see. Well, perhaps it is best that you receive the news from me this morning. In light of our…considering that you and I…I did not want you to be caught off guard when you heard…”
“Heard what, Amanda?”
The color in her face climbed higher. “Tonight, Mr. Hartley and I will be announcing our betrothal at Mr. Talbot’s party.”
It was news that he had been expecting, and yet Jack was stunned by his own reaction. Some great yawning gap opened inside, admitting a spill of pain and ferocity. The rational part of his mind pointed out that he had no right to be angry, but he was. The blistering anger was directed toward Amanda, and Hartley, but most of all to himself. Grimly he controlled his expression and forced himself to remain still, though his hands actually trembled with the urge to shake her.