Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
Tempting the Heiress (11 page)
A soft tap at the door had her sitting up. She held her breath, wondering if she should feign sleep.
“Miss Claeg, are you well?” her cousin queried from the other side of the door.
She could not have her cousin spinning tales at breakfast. Wiping her eyes, she sniffed. With a slight limp, she
walked to the door. Amara gave her face a final scrub and opened the door, glaring expectantly at her cousin. The lateness of the hour had not diminished Miss Novell’s beauty. Wearing a plain white nightshift, she had wrapped an unremarkable brown blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the late hour. Her waist-length black tresses were tucked neatly within a frilly cap.
walked to the door. Amara gave her face a final scrub and opened the door, glaring expectantly at her cousin. The lateness of the hour had not diminished Miss Novell’s beauty. Wearing a plain white nightshift, she had wrapped an unremarkable brown blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the late hour. Her waist-length black tresses were tucked neatly within a frilly cap.
Amara, on the other hand, was feeling rather dowdy and waterlogged. “It is rather late for pleasantries, Miss Novell.”
Her cousin, as she had expected, bristled at the remark. “If you do not desire visitors, then you should refrain from carrying on as if someone were murdering you in your bed. What is wrong with you?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “Did you have a nightmare?”
The worst, but she was not about to share her fears with anyone, least of all Miss Novell. If her slightly bored expression was crumbling around the edges, then it was all the more imperative that she end her cousin’s curiosity. “It was the eels, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I get ghastly indigestion from them. The nightmares are only part of the aftermath,” she cheerfully confessed, silently willing her to go.
“What eels?” her cousin asked, clearly confused by the conversation.
Gripping the door, Amara closed the gap. “I never realized the purgative qualities of sharing one’s confidences. I could go on forever.”
“But—”
“However, the hour is late and you are looking pale. Sleep well, cousin,” she bade her, and shut the door.
It was not until she heard the woman’s departing
footfalls that she sagged in relief. If Miss Novell tattled, she would be receiving a resounding lecture from her mother concerning her rudeness. Not that she cared, she thought, padding over to the washstand. She did not bother with a candle. Her fingers touched cool porcelain before finding the water abandoned from her evening ablutions. Water trickled through her fingers as she splashed the wetness to her cheeks.
footfalls that she sagged in relief. If Miss Novell tattled, she would be receiving a resounding lecture from her mother concerning her rudeness. Not that she cared, she thought, padding over to the washstand. She did not bother with a candle. Her fingers touched cool porcelain before finding the water abandoned from her evening ablutions. Water trickled through her fingers as she splashed the wetness to her cheeks.
Amara picked up a towel and dried her face. Casually discarding it, she walked past her rumpled bed. She grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her body as she continued on to her favorite chair near the window. Sleep had always eluded her after this particular dream. Drawing the curtains back, she opened the window and shivered at the rush of early morning air. More out of habit than thought, she pulled the pendant out from underneath her bedclothes and held it in her palm. Miss Novell’s nocturnal visit and the cold air had cleared the lingering confusion of what was real and what was best buried in the past.
The young girl Lord Cornley had brutally ravished was gone. It was difficult regretting the loss. She had been too vulnerable. After that night, she had erected an impenetrable barrier around herself. She had needed time to heal. Although she doubted her family had noticed. They had been too concerned about losing Lord Cornley. Brock Bedegrayne had noticed her retreat; then again, he had been part of her nightmare.
Laid out and weakened, there was nothing she could do but endure until the earl had exhausted himself. She had lost her voice. Her screams had disintegrated into soft
whimpering. Amara stared at the flickering candle on the bookcase, distancing her mind from the violence.
whimpering. Amara stared at the flickering candle on the bookcase, distancing her mind from the violence.
There was a sudden crush of weight, and then Lord Cornley was pulled off her. Scrambling backward, she pushed down her skirts. With her knees to her chest, she gathered up the flaps of her torn bodice and pressed herself against the trunk. She watched in a daze the two obscured combatants in the dark. The sickening sound of flesh connecting with flesh was too much for Amara. Covering her ears with her hands, she burrowed her face into her skirt. She rocked herself, praying the numbness settling into her bones would consume her.
“Amara.”
She snapped her head up on hearing her name. Her vision blurred as the man on his hands and knees advanced slowly toward her. She was too agitated to recognize the man. A vulnerable sound vibrated in her throat, halting him.
“Dove, you are hurt. Let me help you,” the man said, his own pain evident with each word.
“I—I—” She looked beyond him into the darkness.
“He cannot hurt you. I cracked his damn skull with a steel coal shovel and locked him in the night nursery. I doubt he will awaken any time soon. Regardless, it will not save him after what he has done,” he promised, his anger so palpable that she cringed. He inched closer, wanting her to become comfortable with his proximity. “You know you can trust me, Amara. I just need to see how badly the bastard hurt you.”
Reaching up for the candlestick, he brought the light closer. The glow of the candle warmed his harsh features. As he placed the candle on the floor, she blinked away her
tears and focused on the strong, handsome face she knew so well.
tears and focused on the strong, handsome face she knew so well.
“Brock?” her ruined voice rasped.
“Aye, dove.” He blinked back the moisture in his own eyes. “Would you—I need to hold you. Please, Amara, I will not hurt you. I swear—”
When his voice broke, she slowly crawled into his arms. His gratitude for her trust was muffled as he pushed his face into her neck and held her too close. She clung to his chest, feeling his strength pour into her.
“I—I am sorry, I was too late.” He pulled back and lightly kissed her bleeding lower lip. “Cornley is a coward. I should have known he would seek you out and use you to gain his revenge against me. When you both were unaccounted for, I feared the worst.”
“Mama sent me up for the costumes.” The excuse was so inane she started laughing. She could not seem to stop. Shivering, she gestured at the trunk while she tried to blank her mind of the terrifying ordeal.
Refusing to release her, Brock leaned them both to the side until he could catch the hem of one of the abandoned garments. Dragging it nearer, he draped the old mantle over her torn bodice.
“Will he die?” She could not bear speaking his name.
He glanced back. “Not yet.” He subtly shifted them so Amara could not see the door barricading Cornley inside. “We have to get you out of here. You are trembling and your skin is ice.” He hesitated, unsure of his next words. “A physician should be summoned. Your injuries, they need to be examined.”
The thought of another man examining her intimately had her clutching Brock, a hold that must have been
strangling him. “I could not bear it. No physician. Promise me!” The hysteria she had warded off during the attack surfaced now that she was safe.
strangling him. “I could not bear it. No physician. Promise me!” The hysteria she had warded off during the attack surfaced now that she was safe.
His jaw tensed while she sobbed in his arms. He rubbed her back, allowing her to cry out her fears and misery. Finally, he made her look at him. Using the edge of the musky mantle, he wiped her tears from her cheeks. “You are not being sensible, Amara. When your parents learn of Cornley’s treachery, they will call for a phys—”
“They must never know!” The fear of discovery dried up her tears. “You cannot tell anyone what he has done!”
“Amara—” Brock began, the argument already brewing in his eyes.
She grasped his coat and gave it a tug to make certain he was paying attention. “H-he boasted that violating me would only gain my family’s backing on the marriage. My father approves of him. If there is a chance I could be breeding …” She trailed off, horrified by the possibility.
Rage hardened his visage. “He was still—” He visibly swallowed. Talking about it was difficult for them both. “I believe I stopped him before he could—” He cursed, unable to finish. “Christ, I will never forgive myself for not finding you before he touched you!”
“He spoke the truth. My family will marry me off to him if they learn of this.” She gazed up at him, begging for his understanding. “I would rather die than yield to him again. Please. Please, Brock.”
“Do you think I want you marrying this bastard? If your family supports him, I will make you a widow before your wedding night.”
She could see that he meant every word. “If you kill him, you will be charged with his murder. Even if you
leave the country, do you believe I would permit such a sacrifice?”
leave the country, do you believe I would permit such a sacrifice?”
“It is my fault he hurt you.”
Wearily, she shook her head and leaned against him. “He is a monster. Wedding pledges and the sanction of the church would not have altered his brutal nature.”
Brock was silent. She listened to the rapid cadence of his beating heart—or was it her own? After a moment, he said, “It serves his own purpose to gloat about his deed. Denying it will not save you.”
Within the comfort of his arms, Amara marveled at how clear her thoughts seemed. Even the pain had diminished. However, the tremors in her body had not relented, nor had the cold. “He was anticipating only my parents would know what had happened. They would have paid any price for his silence to avoid the scandal. Your presence has complicated things.”
He nodded, immediately following her logic. “If he reveals himself, he opens himself to be challenged. For if your family will not demand retribution for his depraved actions, then I will not hesitate to do so.”
“The earl’s cowardice will keep him silent. I will convince my father that I find the match disagreeable. I will tell him of the rumors I have heard. Lie, if I must. Papa will not force the marriage if he believes Lord Cornley has not been truthful about his finances. Papa prides himself in being able to judge the honesty of a gentleman. I do not have the same confidence about his compliance, if he learns his daughter has been disgraced.”
“Have some faith in me, Amara. Your secret is safe.” His gaze grew critical. “It will be my pleasure to remove Cornley from the house. Once he awakens, the beaten cur
will likely run with his tail tucked. Your bruises and bloodied scratches, however, will be more difficult to conceal.”
will likely run with his tail tucked. Your bruises and bloodied scratches, however, will be more difficult to conceal.”
“If I head straight for my bedchamber, I can change my gown and burn the evidence of my—my—” She felt her eyes fill with burning tears. “When the maid finds me, I will say that I fell down the stairs while carrying the costumes for the play. No one will know,” she said fiercely, needing them both to believe it.
“Can you stand?” he asked, still dubious of her condition. At her shaky nod, he shifted her to the floor so he could assist her. “Here, take the candle.” Even with his support, her knees collapsed under her.
“I am so weak,” she complained, and then let the tears overwhelm her.
Swearing at the man who had hurt her, Brock scooped her into his arms. He backed into one of the covered chairs and sat down. “Heed me, Amara. You are not weak. I cannot think of another person who has the strength you possess.”
She buried her face in the mantle. “If I fail in convincing them, I will be lost.”
“With me aiding you, how can you fail?” He dug under his cravat and pulled out a long gold chain. Sliding the length over his head, he grasped the swinging oval pendant. “Do you know what this is?”
Confused by the sudden change of topic, she replied dully, “Should I?”
The pendant must have been an antique. The gold bezel was dull, almost looking like tarnished brass in the candlelight. The agate within had something, figures perhaps, carved into the surface, although it was too dark to pick out the details. She lifted the pendant for a closer inspection. The stone felt hot beneath her fingers.
He stared at her instead of the pendant. “It belonged to my mother, and her mother before her. When she died, it came to me. Since then, I have always worn it close to my heart. It reminded me of her generosity and love. It brought me comfort when I thought of what I had lost.” Releasing the pendant, he worked the chain over her head. “It is yours now.”
She curved her fingers around the pendant. “Brock, this is too precious. No, take this back. It belongs—”
“To you,” he interjected.
To your wife,
she thought, but could not bring herself to speak the words aloud.
she thought, but could not bring herself to speak the words aloud.
He stood and adjusted her so she was balanced in his embrace. “Let it be your talisman, Amara,” he coaxed. “Wear it, and feel my strength when yours wanes, even if we are apart.” He carried her out of the room.
She despised asking, but she had to know. “What will you do with him?”
His arms tightened around her at her question. As he carried her swiftly down the stairs, they both were wary of servants and guests encountering them. She had finally given up on him, when he replied, “Have I ever broken a promise?”
“No,” Amara whispered, holding the candle out so as not to ignite the old mantle. If she had closed her eyes, she would have succumbed to the exhaustion battering her.
He pressed his face against her cheek, humbled by the purity of her faith in him. “I promise you this. Cornley will never bother you again.”
Still shaken from her restless night, Amara had fled her house and sought refuge at the Benevolent Sisterhood. The charity had once been used as a ruse to aid her brother Doran when he had found himself imprisoned in Newgate for his part in a coining operation. Their efforts to rescue him had failed miserably. Afterward, Wynne Milroy had breathed life into the illusion by officially establishing the Benevolent Sisterhood. Like most beginnings, the business had faltered; however, her friend had been determined.
What had started out as a means to feed and clothe a few more lost souls had evolved with the help of her husband into a small shelter. While the Foundling Hospital would only accept children twelve months or younger, Wynne had understood misfortune was indiscriminate of age. Her heart in particular bled for the women and children beaten down by their circumstances.
Undaunted, she had wielded her intelligence and considerable charm influencing wealthy benefactors. Amara had been enlisted long before even the Bedegrayne family had been privy to Wynne’s activities. At first, she had
agreed because the Bedegraynes had supported Doran even though his own family had abandoned him when faced with scandal. Later, she had been swept up in Wynne’s enthusiasm. It had been during one of their misadventures that Keanan Milroy had come to their rescue. The chance meeting had altered all their lives.
agreed because the Bedegraynes had supported Doran even though his own family had abandoned him when faced with scandal. Later, she had been swept up in Wynne’s enthusiasm. It had been during one of their misadventures that Keanan Milroy had come to their rescue. The chance meeting had altered all their lives.
“It’s crooked,” the six-year-old girl beside her complained, throwing her slate board on the floor.
“There, there, it is not so bad,” Amara said, retrieving the board. “Your printing is improving.”
One of the older boys, not to be outdone, leaned across the table and studied the girl’s efforts. “Looks like maggots squirming uphill,” he scoffed, which promptly launched the offended child into a fierce bout of tears.
“Nicely done, Jamie,” she drawled, placing a firm hand on his neck. “It took you less than a minute to give our girl the sulks. This must be a new record for you.” She gave him a nudge. “Try again.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, he sent the pouting child a fuming glare. The girl retaliated by sticking her tongue out. “I beg pardon. Grand letters, really.”
Amara gave him an approving squeeze. Looking to the right, she noticed Wynne had arrived and was enjoying the scene as much as she. “Keep practicing. And no fighting.”
Jamie waited until he thought Amara was out of range, before he softly added, “Grand, really, for squirming maggots.”
Wynne hooked her arm through Amara’s, dragging them both off before they burst into laughter. “Oh, that Jamie is an imp!” she said once they were out of the room. “He reminds me of someone.”
“Brock?” She tensed for no reason since her guess had been a reasonable one.
“No, Nyle. He spent most of his childhood getting his backside whacked.” The delight in her face diminished. Catching herself, she gave her head a rueful shake. “Brothers. Even when they are lost to the family, one cannot cease worrying.”
Amara thought of Doran, wondering if he had found happiness in his life outside England. “No, one cannot,” she softly agreed.
“I was so pleased when your note arrived this morning. Our time together has been so limited.” Striding to her desk, Wynne gestured toward a nearby chair.
She sat down and watched the bustling activity through the doorway. “The charity seems to run itself.”
“In a way, I suppose it does. People who have come to us for assistance carry out many of the daily tasks. Too many of these people have lost more than a job or a warm bed. They need confirmation that they have something to offer to the world.” Her smile brightened at the sudden appearance of a gentleman. “And I have Mr. Lyndall, who is truly the buttress of the charity. I thank Milroy daily for our introduction.”
At the apex of his twenties, Mr. Lyndall had started out as a coalheaver. He had told them once that the conditions had been so harsh, the chance to pit his physical strength against an opponent in the prize ring had seemed like a way to improve the lives of his family. His powerful build and natural skill had given him some minor successes, but the life of a fighter was a brief one. When Keanan Milroy had approached him about assisting his wife with the charity, the man had eagerly embraced the opportunity.
He removed his hat and bobbed his head respectably. “You are too generous, Mrs. Milroy,” he replied. “I don’t mind lending a strong back when it’s needed.”
“A humble gentleman,” she added. “After meeting my husband, I was convinced all fighters were exceptionally arrogant.”
“Only second to brothers,” Amara chimed in, slightly amused by the adoring expression he had when gazing at his beautiful employer. Wynne could tease a smile out of the bitterest curmudgeon. Poor Mr. Lyndall succumbed effortlessly.
He flashed Amara a quick smile and slapped his hat back on his head. “I just come to tell you. Miss Wyman arrived with her escort. I put her to work in the kitchen. She isn’t pleased and you will most likely hear about it.”
“Do not worry about her, Mr. Lyndall. Unlike her brother, she has never refrained from speaking her mind. I believe her little grievances result from habit more than genuine dislike. Give her time. Maddy will settle into whatever task you have given her.”
“Aye, ma’am. Oh, what of the gent who come with her? He’s dressed a bit fancy, but is willing to help in the unloading of the wagons.”
Her gaze holding Amara’s, Wynne calmly said, “It will not be the first coat my brother has ruined. Tell him I will come out later and check his progress.” She lifted her brow in a conspiring manner. “That should keep him in a temper for at least half an hour.”
“You have a wicked wild streak in you for someone so tiny. Milroy must have fallen for you the first time you put him in his place.” He touched his hat. “It was good to see you again, Miss Claeg.” Mr. Lyndall left the office.
The knowledge Brock was close sent a surge of panic through Amara. “I cannot remain for much longer. I had planned continuing on to Albemarle Street. Papa managed to get me a yearly subscription at the Royal Institute. One
of the chemical professors is conducting a public experiment and I have been meaning to attend.”
of the chemical professors is conducting a public experiment and I have been meaning to attend.”
Closing the ledger in front of her, Wynne noted the tight grip Amara had on her reticule, and her rigid bearing, poised for flight. “We have been friends too long for you to placate me with lies, Amara. If I had known my brother’s presence would send you running off, I would have never made up the excuse for him to escort Maddy here.”
She sensed Wynne’s hurt and despised herself for it. “You do not understand,” Amara said helplessly.
“I could if you would tell me what is going on between you and Brock.”
When put that way, it seemed like a reasonable request. She shifted in her seat. “What is there to explain?” Amara tried not to wince at the disappointment in Wynne’s eyes. Her expression reminded her so much of Brock that the pain was almost too much to bear. “Does he know I am here?”
Wynne hesitated. “No”
Amara’s relief was acute, but she kept it well hidden. “I doubt he will thank you for your efforts. The last time we spoke he was rather cross with me.” She gave her friend a speculative look. “Heavens, Wynne, tell me you were not trying your hand at matchmaking?”
Wynne’s mouth quirked into an unapologetic grin. “He has been very curious about you since his return. Actually, it began before he left England. He made me promise—” She stopped, realizing her confession might not be well received.
“What? He made you promise …” she prompted.
“It was trivial, really. He just wanted me to spend time with you. I suppose he was worried about you after Doran’s death.”
Surprise competed with anger, so she was more stunned than her friend when her eyes glistened with tears. “You befriended me at the request of your brother?”
“Initially, I acted on my brother’s behalf,” she reluctantly confessed.
Both abruptly stood. While Amara thought only of escaping, Wynne was just as determined to prevent it.
“It was a difficult time. You had buried your brother. Devona blamed herself, and your mother was—not kind.” Her lips quivered, recalling the old grief. “I was thinking only of my family. Brock had the generosity of heart to think of you too. Our friendship might have started as a favor, but it continues because I care for you as if you were my sister.”
Digging into her reticule, Amara pulled out her handkerchief. She dabbed at the tears. “I had always longed for a sister.”
“You have one. Several, if you want to claim all the Bedegrayne women.” Wynne was reaching for her own handkerchief. “Although you might want to pass on Irene. Devona and I accept her only with great sufferance.”
Amara laughed. “She is not so awful.”
With feigned reluctance, Wynne sighed. “I suppose not. Still, nothing short of torture will ever gain a confession from me within her presence.”
They embraced. Amara pulled back first. “I must go.”
Wynne walked her to the door. “Do not be nettled by Brock’s actions. His approach may have seemed devious, but his concern was sincere.”
“Your brother oversteps himself,” Amara said, her anger renewing at the thought of his imperial manner. “He always has,” she muttered under her breath as she walked away from Wynne.
She stepped outdoors. The passing of several wagons had stirred small whirlwinds of dirt in the street. Waving away the encroaching cloud of dust, she coughed into her hand. Amara hesitated. Before she could change her mind, she reentered the building. It was cowardly to avoid Brock because of nightmares that were beyond his control. Nodding at the greeting the children shouted, she strode by the office where Wynne sat diligently at the desk studying the ledger entries. She was too absorbed in her reading to notice Amara. Without stopping, she headed for the kitchen.
Harried, Maddy Wyman lifted her head from her task of splitting boiled pigs’ trotters. The apron she had pinned to her gown bore several unidentifiable smears and her light brown hair was untwining from the single braid she preferred. Maddy dug her knuckles into her slender hips. “Has Mr. Lyndall banished you to the kitchen as well? The man goes too far. Next he will have Wynne in here. If you have any sense, you will slip out the front door. Otherwise, he will have you skinning and boning the eels,” she said, with an exaggerated shudder.
Eyeing the sharp knife the young woman was wielding with dangerous enthusiasm, Amara maintained a prudent distance as she proceeded to the door. “I will concede to your wise judgment, Maddy.” Acting as a scullery maid held no more appeal for her than it had for Maddy.
“Not that door,” she cautioned. “The man himself is just beyond the door unloading provisions.”
“Is Mr. Bedegrayne with him?”
Maddy skillfully cleaved several trotters on the table. For all the woman’s peevishness about the task, Amara was rather impressed by her versatile talents.
“I doubt any individual with two good hands could
deflect Mr. Lyndall and his intentions.” Sensing that the question went beyond polite conversation, Maddy speculatively cocked her head. “If you have need of him, pray do not worry about denying me an escort. Wynne has invited me to supper. She feels I deserve some reward for my sufferance. I have been told her cook will be preparing several of my favorite dishes.”
deflect Mr. Lyndall and his intentions.” Sensing that the question went beyond polite conversation, Maddy speculatively cocked her head. “If you have need of him, pray do not worry about denying me an escort. Wynne has invited me to supper. She feels I deserve some reward for my sufferance. I have been told her cook will be preparing several of my favorite dishes.”
What it revealed was that Wynne Milroy was not above using bribery. Amara wrinkled her nose. If she had spent the afternoon dismembering an animal carcass, it would have taken more than a favorite dish or two to recompense her. She shivered in distaste. “For your sake, I hope the reward is worth the undertaking. I bid you good day.”
Maddy Wyman held her pleasant smile, until Amara had departed. Very odd, she thought. She would have never imagined the pairing of the reserved Amara Claeg with the rakish elder Bedegrayne. Then again, there was an inner intensity underneath his handsome face that would intrigue even the most wary maiden. Mumbling an uncharitable thought, she scowled at the growing pile of trotters. She could concoct a hundred chores superior to the one before her. Sitting outside and flirting with Brock Bedegrayne would have been an improvement in her day. Quashing the pang of envy in her breast, she heartily wished Amara luck, for the Bedegraynes were a wily clan.
Brock practically dropped the wooden crate he was carrying when he espied Amara. Sheer pride kept him on his feet. She had come to him, despite his harsh words and the confrontation with Prola. Suddenly, her appearance made him wary. Amara was a cautious soul. In all his
fevered imaginings, he could not come up with one reason why she would seek him out. At least an optimistic one, he silently amended.
fevered imaginings, he could not come up with one reason why she would seek him out. At least an optimistic one, he silently amended.
“Miss Claeg,” he greeted her, with a jerk of his head. He halted, keeping his gaze purposely impassive.
“Mr. Bedegrayne.” Her hands betrayed her nerves as she gestured at the door. “Wynne mentioned that you were out here. It is kind of you to help.”
He stared at her. The weight of the crate was straining his already abused muscles in his arms and bound ribs, but he loathed walking away from her until he knew why she was deigning to speak to him. He rolled his shoulders in a feeble attempt to ease his burden.
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