Tempting the Heiress (10 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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“I accept them, my lord,” she rushed, wanting an end to the conflict. “Please, Mr. Bedegrayne. I am satisfied.”
With reluctance, Brock released the earl and shoved him toward the door. Amara sensed he hoped Lord Cornley was foolish enough to attack. His body vibrated with the need for a fight and it had more to do with his hatred for the blond gentleman than any insult he perceived toward her.
Lord Cornley must have discerned this as well. He took a moment to smooth his hair and gave his coat a straightening tug. The earl encompassed them both in his considering stare. “I concede, Mr. Bedegrayne. You wielded your advantage and can claim victory this hour. I hope it brings you pleasure.” His mouth lifted in a sneer. “For within a month, I will claim what you lust for and can never have.” Executing an exaggerated bow toward Amara, he touched the door for balance as he made his way out of the room.
Amara felt ill. She stared at Brock. His expression was still murderous, yet he was not running after his adversary. She blamed the earl’s parting words for Brock’s anger. Cornley had spoken in jealousy. He had not understood that their affection had grown from a solid foundation of years of childhood friendship. It encompassed not only Brock, but also his brother and sisters. “You humiliated him in front of his friends. For that alone, he will seek vengeance,” she warned, praying she was wrong.
Flexing the hand he had used to hold the earl, he gave her an enigmatic look. Walking up to her, he gently touched each bruise on her arms. Amara was still trembling from the altercation, and Brock’s concern was feeding her agitation.
“Little dove,” he said, his voice roughening with emotion. “The bastard has already had his revenge.”
Pressing her face deeper into the pillow, Amara murmured Brock’s name. Within the foggy labyrinth of dreams, she separated from her sixteen-year-old dream image. Had she been so young and naïve? The residual fear of the dream was still pumping through her, melding nightmare and reality.
She recognized the nightmare. It had haunted her off and on for six years. Her fingers dug into the mattress. The fading images diffused into random colors and patterns as she fought her way out of the mist.
She lost the battle.
The weight of sleep pulled her down into its murky depths. The image distorted and suddenly she was sixteen again, standing in front of the window watching the rain turn into snow. It was so cold, she thought, shivering.
Turning, she walked out of the room. Instead of the outer hall, she was in the attic. A soft whisper in her head questioned the contradiction with her memory, but Amara ignored the warning. Her mother had sent her upstairs into the old nursery on an errand. Amara dared not defy her. Papa was sulking about His Royal Highness’s absence and Mama was smiling so much her cheeks must have hurt.
An impromptu play had been proposed by one of the guests, and now everyone had been put to work. While the majority of the guests were playing cards, those enlisted for the play were learning their lines. Amara had been sent up to the old nursery to search for suitable costumes.
Unlocking the door, she entered the room. The glow of her candle sliced through the inky interior. The room had been closed off for years. With dust tickling her nose, she lifted the brass candlestick higher and worked her way through a maze of covered discarded furniture and trunks.
She searched the room three times before she found the trunk she needed. It had been shoved against the wall and hidden behind a black lacquered bookcase that was missing two drawers. The leather appeared black in the candlelight. The ornate brass mounts and nailing were tarnished, but the trunk was still a beautiful piece. Setting down the candlestick, she tried pulling on the handle. The trunk would not budge. Annoyed, she bent over and lifted the latch. Using her weight for leverage, she pushed the lid up and secured it. Riffling through the old costumes, she scowled at the sound behind her.
“Naturally, you arrive when I have completed all the difficult tasks. You might as well leave, else I will be tempted to lock you in this trunk when I have finished. I still have not forgiven you, Doran. Nor will I for some
time,” she said, her mind more on the costumes than chastising her tractable brother.
“A pity. A sister should find leniency in her brother’s faults.”
Her heart stuttered at the sound of the earl’s voice. “I do,” she said, her throat tightening. She gathered up the clothes, not caring if they were suitable for her mother’s needs. “Lord Cornley, it is unseemly for you to be here. Lady Claeg would be embarrassed to learn you were in such an unkempt room.”
Putting his finger to his lips, he reached back with his other hand and shut the door. “I can keep a secret if you can. Your brother was detained by your father, so I offered my assistance.”
“You have my gratitude, my lord. If you will carry these garments, I will light your way.”
He smiled indulgently. “There is no need for haste, Amara. I am almost your husband, so your reputation will not be ruined if you are found in my care.” He took the bundle of clothing in her arms and dropped it back into the trunk.
“My lord, the others await our return.”
He took her hand, and brushed his thumb in a gesture of comfort. “I think your mother has given up on the play. Most of the players are too fuddled to recall their lines. And just moments ago, while practicing a mock sword fight, one of the fools managed to pierce his opponent through the arm. The blood flowed as boundless as your father’s claret, causing several of the ladies to collapse. Trust me, we will not be missed.”
“Perhaps I am needed.” She picked up the candlestick, uncertain how to get by the earl without insulting him.
“No more than you are here.”
Lord Cornley took the candlestick from her limp grasp and placed it on the bookcase. Bracing one arm on the bookcase, he allowed his gaze to drift lower than her face. Nature had given him a lean build and an interesting face cut in sharp angles. Cast in shadows, the compelling lines segmented and hollowed his visage. With the exception of the polished gleam in his gray eyes, it appeared as if pieces were missing from him.
“I regret the manner in which I approached you earlier. You have yet forgiven your brother. Is there charity in your heart for me?”
She managed a slight smile. “Of course. It is forgotten.”
“You are more generous than I deserve.” He stepped closer, his size blotting the warm candlelight. She made a small, frightened noise when his hands curled around her elbows and pulled her to his chest. “No one is watching, Amara. Let me taste your generosity.”
Amara tilted her chin up and accepted his kiss. His lips were smooth and cool, as he claimed hers. He tasted of spirits. She turned her face away. “The room is cold, my lord. Let us rejoin the others before we are missed.”
“Innocent,” he teased, leaning heavily on her for support. “Tarry a moment longer in my embrace and you shall forget all about the chill.”
“Please, my lord.” She stared down at the trunk. “Mama insisted I bring the costumes—”
“Confound it, forget about those damnable rags!” His weight pushed them backward against the wall. Lord Cornley was sweating despite the coolness in the room. “You were friendly enough with Bedegrayne. Doran mentioned that he caught you kissing him.”
She pushed against him. “Doran lied.” Clenching her teeth, she strained against him.
“I disagree. You see, I have watched Bedegrayne around you. He huffs and stomps about like a stud denied his favorite mare.”
Appalled by his coarseness, she said, “You have had a cup too many if you believe such nonsense. My family has been friends with the Bedegraynes longer than I can recall. Before this evening, months have passed since I was in the company of Brock Bedegrayne. When have we been carrying on this supposed tryst? Lest you should forget, I am your betrothed!”
“Ah, the crux of my argument. Or should I say thrust?” He pressed his pelvis against hers, laughing while she tried to writhe out of his embrace.
“You are a scoundrel! When my father learns of your conduct, he will end this betrothal,” she panted. His abrupt stillness had her regretting her angry words.
“I think not,” he contradicted, his confidence frightening her more than his proximity. Grabbing the front of her bodice, he rended the delicate fabric. Ignoring her cry of outrage and pounding fists, the earl put his mouth on the tender flesh above her corset. He bit her, hard. The pain barely registered through the shock.
“Tell your father,” he dared her, and she could see that her fear was increasing his excitement. “Lord Claeg will understand a man’s impatience for his bride. The fact you may be breeding when we have finished will assure your family’s backing.”
Twisting in his arms, she begged, “Do not do this! I will not tell anyone! You have my word.”
“A woman’s word? It is not worth a farthing.” Putting his arm horizontally against her throat, he added pressure until she was seeing tiny flickering white lights inches from her nose. Using his teeth to remove his glove, he
discarded it. The earl reached down, and unfastened the outer buttons securing the falls on his breeches. He gave little consideration to the five inner buttons. With a savage tear, the buttons burst their thread anchors and struck the floor like a hail of pellets.
Wildly, she glanced down at the frightening shadows of linen and flesh between his hips. She repeatedly kicked his shins, but Lord Cornley was too drunk to feel any pain. In retaliation, he increased the pressure against her throat, dulling her attack so her concern was focused on drawing her next breath. Working his free hand down, his fingers caught the hem of her skirt and buried his hand underneath.
Amara screamed when his fingernails scratched her upper thigh. It was a pathetic hoarse cry. If anyone had been about, she doubted they would have heard it outside the room.
Lord Cornley, however, was prudent. Freeing his hand from her skirts, he used his full strength to lift her up and slam her body several times against the wall. Her teeth rattled together as her head ricocheted and her forehead struck his shoulder.
“Not a peep,” he whispered, “unless you want me to share you with the others.”
Others? It was a threat, Amara was certain. She just could not understand its meaning. The room seemed to be spinning and her head ached. “I feel poorly.”
“Lying on the floor should accommodate both our needs.” Catching her under the arms, he slid her between his legs onto the floor. Before she could roll away, he landed on his knees, pinning her.
Slapping his hands away from her ruined bodice, she arched her neck, preparing to scream. The earl smothered
her cry with his gloved hand. The taste of wet leather made her gag. Impervious to her flailing arms, the earl reached down with his other hand and worked her skirt higher. She twisted her head.
“You will learn how to pleasure me, Miss Claeg. When your education is complete, your skills will rival those of any doxy.”
Amara moaned against his palm. Tears she had no time to indulge streamed down her temples into her hair. Her struggles weakened with each passing minute. She closed her eyes and despaired when his bare fingers prodded her intimately. For violating her this night, marriage would be his reward.
“Open your eyes, and acknowledge me as your husband.” He slapped her across the face when she did not comply. With her mouth free, she drew in a deep breath and screamed. He struck her again, but she was beyond caring.
“Damn you, settle down!” he commanded. Moving up her body, Lord Cornley locked her wrists together and secured them above her head with one hand. He bit her lower lip, drawing blood. Using his free hand, he tugged on her corset until her breasts spilled out of the top. He lowered his head and pressed his face into the soft flesh. Trembling, he bruised her with every touch.
The earl raised his head, and even in the dim light, she read the intent in his cold gray gaze. Shifting, he shoved the fabric of her skirt higher. Impatient, he pulled out his own shirt and cupped his rigid flesh. Stroking it, he positioned himself between her thighs.
“Scream if you like. It fires my blood,” he said, ramming his flesh into her, forging a burning path into her.
Amara cried out; the pain was a thousand times worse
than she had imagined. While she struggled to get away from him, his hand tightened over her joined wrists as he pounded into her.
“So Bedegrayne did not have you, after all,” Lord Cornley gloated, hellfire glittering in his savage eyes.
Amara screamed. The remnants of her nightmare had her body jackknifing on the bed.
“No! No!” she said, confused by the darkness and the past. She batted and kicked at the bedding, which trapped her legs. The frantic movements tumbled her out of the bed. She landed on her side, the impact strong enough to knock the breath out of her. As she gasped for breath, the pain in her hip brought her mind to the present.
“Not real,” she murmured, pressing an unsteady hand to her hammering heart. “Just a dream.” For an assurance, it was ineffective. The residual pain of her nightmare lingered with her current injuries. Curling into herself, she sobbed against her knees. It had been almost a year since she had dreamed of that terrible night. Why tonight? The answer was obvious. Brock. His return had stirred up her feelings for him again. Witnessing the earlier altercation between him and Conte Prola had merely reminded her of Lord Cornley. She pounded her fists on her knees in frustration. The earl was dead. How long would the hateful scoundrel haunt her?

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