by Lisa Kleypas
“No, that is not what I think.” Sophia’s lips curved into an unexpected smile. “I was referring to demands of an emotional nature, Devlin. I do not believe that even you would be so brutish as to force yourself on a woman in Amanda’s condition.”
“Thank you,” he said sardonically.
They studied each other for a moment, the smile remaining on Sophia’s face. “Perhaps I have been wrong in making such a harsh judgment of you,” she announced. “One thing has become clear to me of late…no matter what your faults, you do seem to love my sister.”
Jack met her gaze squarely. “Yes, I do.”
“Well, perhaps in time I may give my approval to the match. Certainly you are no Charles Hartley, but I suppose my sister could have married someone worse than you.”
He smiled wryly. “You’re too kind, Sophia.”
“Bring Amanda to Windsor for a visit when she is ready,” Sophia commanded, and he bowed as if in obedience to a royal edict. They shared strangely companionable smiles before a footman escorted Sophia to her waiting carriage.
Wandering upstairs, Jack found his wife at the bedroom window, watching as Sophia’s carriage rolled along the front drive. Amanda was staring at the scene outside as if transfixed, a visible pulse beating in her throat. There was an untouched supper tray on a nearby table.
“Amanda,” he murmured, willing her to look at him. For a moment her spiritless gaze held his, then dropped when he came to stand behind her. She stood and suffered his brief hug without responding. “How long will you go on like this?” he couldn’t help asking. When she did not respond, he swore softly. “If you would just talk to me, dammit—”
“What is there to say?” she replied tonelessly.
Jack turned her to face him. “If you have nothing to say, then, by God, I do! You’re not the only one who has lost something. It was my child, too.”
“I don’t want to talk,” she said, wrenching herself away from him. “Not now.”
“No more silence between us,” he insisted, following as she retreated. “We must deal with what happened, and find a way to put it behind us.”
“I don’t want to,” she choked. “I…I want to end our marriage.”
The words shocked him down to his marrow. “What?” he asked, stunned. “Why in God’s name would you say that?”
Amanda struggled to answer, but no more words were possible. Suddenly all the emotion she had battened down for the past three weeks surged upward with desperate force. Although she tried to stem the painful eruption, she could not suppress the sobs that seemed to rip the inner cavities of her chest. She crossed and uncrossed her arms around her body, over her head, trying to contain the violent spasms. She was frightened by her own lack of self-control…feeling as though her very soul would crumble to ruins. She needed something, someone, to restore her disintegrating sanity.
“Leave me alone,” she whimpered, covering her streaming eyes with her hands. She felt her husband’s gaze rake over her and she stiffened. She could not ever remember falling to pieces like this in front of anyone, having always believed that such ugly emotions should be managed in private.
Jack’s arms closed around her, cuddling her against his broad chest. “Amanda…darling…put your arms around me. There.” He was so solid, steady, his body supporting hers, the scent and feel of him as familiar as if she had known him for her entire life.
She clutched at him while words tumbled forth in wild abandon. “The only reason we married was because of the baby. Now he is gone. Nothing will ever be the same between us.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You didn’t want the baby,” she wept. “But I did. I wanted him so much, and now I’ve lost him, and I can’t bear it.”
“I wanted him, too,” Jack said in a shaken voice. “Amanda, we’ll get through this, and someday we’ll have another.”
“No, I’m too old,” she said, and a fresh deluge of painful tears welled from inside her. “That’s why I miscarried. I waited too long. I’ll never be able to have children now—”
“Hush. That’s ridiculous. The doctor said he’s delivered babies from women much older than you. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Jack picked her up easily and carried her to a small velvet-upholstered armchair, then sat with her in his lap. He picked up the folded linen napkin from the dinner tray and blotted her eyes and cheeks. He was so capable and steady that Amanda felt some of her panic evaporate. Obediently she blew her nose into the napkin and let out a quivering sigh, resting her head on his shoulder. She felt the warmth of his hand on her back, moving in a slow stroke that calmed her shattered nerves.
He held her for a long time, until her breathing eventually matched the even rhythm of his, and the tears dried to salt trails on her cheeks.
“I didn’t marry you just because of the baby,” Jack said quietly. “I married you because I love you. And if you ever mention the idea of leaving me again, I’ll…” He paused, clearly trying to think of a punishment dire enough. “Well, just don’t,” he finished.
“I’ve never felt as terrible as I do now. Not even when my parents died.”
His deep chest reverberated beneath her ear as he spoke. “Neither have I. Except…I’m so damned glad to hold you. It’s been hell the past few weeks, not being able to talk to you, touch you.”
“Do you really think we could have a baby someday?” she asked in a raw whisper.
“If that’s what you want.”
“Is it what you want?”
“At first it was difficult for me to accept the idea of being a father,” Jack admitted. He kissed the edge of her jawline, and the side of her throat. “But then we started to make plans, and the baby became real to me. And I thought of all the small boys at Knatchford Heath whom I was never able to help or protect, and instead of the old despair, I felt…hope. I realized that at last there was going to be one child in this world I could take care of. It was a new beginning for me. I…I wanted to make his life wonderful.”
Amanda raised her head and stared at him with swimming eyes. “You would have,” she whispered.
“Then let’s not give up hope just yet, peaches. When you’re ready, I’ll devote myself day and night to the task of getting you with child. And if it doesn’t take, we’ll find some other way. God knows there are plenty of children in the world who need a family.”
“You would do that for me?” she asked tremulously, unable to believe that the man who had once been so opposed to the idea of having a family was now prepared to make such a commitment.
“Not only for you.” He kissed the tip of her nose and the soft curve of her cheek. “For myself as well.”
Amanda put her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. Finally the crushing grief began to ease its iron grip around her heart. She felt a sense of relief that was so acute, it made her light-headed. “I don’t know what to do now,” she murmured.
Jack kissed her again, his mouth hot and tender against her flushed skin. “Tonight you’re going to stop thinking for a few hours, and eat, and rest.”
The thought of food made her wince and grimace. “I couldn’t.”
“You haven’t eaten in days.” He reached for the tray, uncovered the plate of food, and picked up a spoon. “Try a little,” he said firmly. “I’m a great believer in the restorative powers of…” He glanced at the contents of the bowl that had been hidden by the silver-domed cover. “Potato soup.”
Amanda regarded the spoon and his purposeful face, and for the first time in three weeks, a wobbly smile touched her lips. “You’re a bully.”
“And I’m bigger than you,” he reminded her.
She took the spoon from him and leaned over to glance at the velvety-white soup, scattered with chopped watercress leaves. A griddle-cooked muffin reposed on a small plate beside it, as well as a dish of berry pudding heaped with fresh raspberries. Pudding à la framboise, the cook called it, having recently taken a fancy to renaming man
y of her recipes in French.
Jack surrendered the chair and watched her dip the spoon into the soup. She ate slowly, the warmth of the soup filling her stomach, while Jack sat beside her and frequently held a goblet of wine to her lips. As Amanda drank and ate, the color came back to her face, and she relaxed heavily into the chair. She glanced at the handsome man beside her, and a rush of love nearly overwhelmed her. He made her feel as if anything were possible. Impulsively she caught at his large hand, bringing it to her face. “I love you,” she said.
He stroked her cheek and caressed the line of her jaw with the backs of his knuckles. “I love you more than life, Amanda.” He leaned close and brushed his mouth over hers, gently, as if he understood how bruised and vulnerable she felt…as if he could heal her with a kiss. She lifted her hand to the back of his neck and let her fingertips drift into the thick locks of hair at his nape. She accepted the subtle intrusion of his tongue in her mouth, let him search for the taste of wine, until the kiss seemed to burn with volcanic heat.
She turned her head to the side with a little murmur, feeling drowsy and enervated, her eyes closing as she felt his fingers at the bodice of her gown. One button was released, two, three, in a series of light tugs that caused the concealing fabric to fall away from her skin. His lips drifted to her throat, finding the sensitive place at the side, and he nibbled softly until she gave a faint moan.
“Jack…I’m so tired…I don’t think…”
“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispered against her throat. “Just let me touch you. It’s been so long, sweetheart.”
Breathing deeply, Amanda did not try to summon any more words, only leaned her head back against the chair. Feeling dreamlike, she did not open her eyes when she felt him move away, but waited passively while he dimmed the lamps and then returned to her. The subdued light was almost ghostly, barely penetrating the darkness of her closed eyelids. Jack had removed his shirt…her hands encountered the bareness of his shoulders, brawny and warm and burgeoning with muscle. He knelt before her chair, between her parted knees, and reached inside the open front of her dressing gown to cup her breasts in his gentle hands. His thumbs smoothed over the nipples, stroking, teasing, until they contracted into firm nubs. He leaned forward to take one in his mouth.
Amanda arched away from the chair, her head tilted back, and she gasped at the sweet tug of his mouth. He pinched her other nipple between his thumb and forefinger, in a light but persistent stroke that made her fingertips dig into the resilient surface of his shoulders. She felt imprisoned by his mouth and hands, every part of her focused on his slow and deliberate seduction. He lifted the lacy hem of her dressing gown, pushed it to her waist, and drew his thumbs from her dimpled knees to the voluptuous inner curves of her thighs. Her legs parted for him, muscles trembling in response to the heat of his hands. Although he knew how badly she wanted him to touch her, he kept his hands on the tops of her thighs.
Jack possessed her mouth with kisses so light and lazy that she clenched her fists in frustration, wanting more. Smiling against her beseeching mouth, he ran his hands down her taut legs to her knees. His fingers tucked behind them, finding the softly creased hollows in back. Gently he bent her knees, lifting first one, then the other, until her legs were hooked over the padded arms of the chair. She had never been so brazenly displayed, held open and stretched before him.
“Jack,” she protested, her breasts lifting as she struggled for breath, “what are you doing?”
He took his time about answering. His agile mouth wandered from her throat to the hard peaks of her breasts, while his hands smoothed over the little hill of her stomach, the fleshy curves of her hips, the soft upturned shapes of her buttocks. It was hardly a flattering position, but a flicker of embarrassed vanity was immediately extinguished in a torrent of desire. Her toes curled as pleasure surged through her, and she began to lift her legs free of the chair.
“No,” came his silken whisper, and he pressed her back down, keeping her legs spread wide apart. “I’m having my dessert. Amanda à la framboise.”
He reached for the table, plucked something from a china plate, and brought it to her lips. “Open your mouth,” he said, and she obeyed in confusion. Her tongue curled around the small shape of a ripe raspberry. The sweet, tangy flavor burst in her mouth as she chewed and swallowed. Jack’s lips urged hers to open, and he shared the taste with her, his tongue hunting for every trace of fruity sweetness that lingered inside. Another raspberry was placed in the little indentation of her navel, and she gasped as he bent to lap it up with his tongue, tickling and swirling inside the sensitive hollow.
“That’s enough,” she said shakily. “Enough, Jack.”
But he seemed not to hear, his hands wicked and gentle as he reached between her thighs…and suddenly she jolted from the peculiar sensation of his fingers nudging something inside her…raspberries, she thought, her muscles tightening as she felt the trickle of fruit juice in the intimate recess of her body. Her mouth trembled, barely able to form words. “Jack, no. Take them out. Please—”
His head lowered obligingly, and her limbs went taut with shame and pleasure as his mouth covered her. Guttural moans slipped from her throat as he gently licked and ate, devouring raspberry sweetness along with the moisture of her body. Her eyes closed tightly, and she panted for breath, holding still as his tongue reached inside her with silken strokes.
“How delicious you are,” he whispered against her sensitive flesh. “The raspberries are gone, Amanda. Shall I stop now?”
Desperately she reached for his dark head, pulled him harder against her, and his tongue slipped over the aching bud of her sex. The silence of the room was punctured by her gasping breaths, the suckling sounds he made, and the creak of the chair as she rocked forward, upward, straining to capture his tantalizing mouth. Just as she thought she could no longer bear the intimate torture, the tension exploded in a rapturous burst of fire. She cried out and shuddered, her legs jerking against the upholstered chair arms, and the spasms went on and on until she finally begged him to stop.
When the racing of her heart slowed and she could summon the strength to move, she unhooked her legs from the chair and reached for Jack. She clung to him as he picked her up and carried her to the bed. As he settled her onto the mattress, she refused to release her hold around his neck. “Come to bed with me,” she said.
“You need to rest,” he replied, standing beside the bed.
She caught at the front of his trousers before he could move away, and pried the top button loose. “Take these off,” she commanded, working at the second button, and the third.
Jack’s grin gleamed in the semidarkness, and he obeyed, stripping away the rest of his clothes. The sleek, powerful heaviness of his naked body joined hers on the bed, making her shiver pleasantly at the feel of his warm skin. “Now what?” he asked. His breath caught as she moved over him, her round breasts brushing his chest and then his stomach, while her long locks dragged gently against his skin.
“Now I shall have my dessert,” she said, and for a long time there were no words, no thoughts, only the two of them joined in passion.
Afterward, he cuddled her at his side and a sigh of contentment escaped him. Then his chest moved with a rumbling laugh, and Amanda stirred against him. “What is it?” she asked curiously.
“I was thinking of that first night we met…that you were willing to pay me for doing this. And I was trying to calculate how much you owe me after all the times we’ve slept together.”
As weary as she was, Amanda couldn’t prevent a sudden laugh. “Jack Devlin…how can you think of money at a time like this?”
“I want you to be so deeply in my debt that you’ll never be free of me.”
She smiled and pulled his head to hers. “I’m yours,” she whispered against his lips. “Now and forever, Jack. Does that satisfy you?”
“Oh, yes.” And he spent the rest of the night showing her how much it did.
&n
bsp; Epilogue
“Papa, you’re supposed to catch me!” the small boy exclaimed, toddling toward his father’s long form stretched on the grass.
Jack smiled lazily at the dark-haired child who stood above him. Named for Amanda’s father, Edward, their son possessed an unending supply of energy and a vocabulary that far outstripped the average three-year-old. Young Edward loved to talk, which was hardly a surprise when one considered his parentage. “Son, I’ve spent the better part of an hour playing chase with you,” Jack said. “Let an old man have a few minutes of rest.”
“But I’m not finished yet!”
With a sudden laugh, Jack seized the boy and pulled him down for a game of roll-and-tickle.
Lifting her gaze from the papers in her lap, Amanda watched the pair play. They were spending the hottest part of the summer at Jack’s inherited estate, a place so exquisitely landscaped that it could have been the subject of a painting by Rubens. All it required were a few angels and billowing clouds overhead, and the illusion would have been complete.
The estate garden led from a semi-circular brick pattern at the back of the seventeenth-century house to a manicured upper garden, a white stone arch, and a vividly hued wilderness garden and oval pond below. The family often had picnics beneath the shade of a majestic old sycamore tree, its trunk clothed in thick swaths of hydrangea. The nearby pond, edged with feathery grass fronds and yellow irises, provided a welcome place to dangle their feet.
Replete from a lavish picnic that had been packed by the cook, Amanda tried to turn her attention back to the work she had brought. After four years under her management, the Coventry Quarterly Review had become the most widely read review magazine in England. Amanda was proud of her accomplishments, particularly in proving that a female editor could be as bold, intellectual, and freethinking as any man. When the public had eventually discovered that a woman was the driving force behind a national magazine, the controversy had only helped to increase sales. As he had promised Jack had been a stalwart defender, sharply denying all suggestions that it must be he, and not his wife, who had done the work on the paper.