Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
Tempting the Heiress (16 page)
He gritted his teeth. “Not precisely.”
“I will not deny there is an attraction between us.” She took a deep breath. “In all honesty, I wish I could consign my feelings for you into oblivion as easily as you thrust the other women out of your life.”
“You are deliberately twisting my meaning.”
She tossed her head back in a haughty manner. “You are pleasing to the eye and your touch is sorcery. Why should I not enjoy a dalliance?”
She pricked not only his pride, but also his temper. “The devil you will, Amara Claeg!” he roared. “You are not the sort of woman a man takes on as his fancy piece.”
Her cheeks suffused with color. “I do not pretend I am a diamond of the first water, but neither am I a woman at her last prayers.”
Brock tensed, prepared to pounce if she tried to leave him. Espying her fallen reticule, she stomped over to the bench and claimed it. “Furthermore, I have reconsidered our earlier debate.”
“How could we debate?” he taunted, intentionally baiting her. “You were too engrossed sucking my tongue!”
She ignored his vulgarity. “I am referring to our discussion about animals.” Slicing the air with her reticule she nearly struck him on the head. “I agree. You are not comparable to a kitten, lamb, or dormouse. Brock Bedegrayne, you are unquestionably a conceited, braying ass!”
He was risking his neck, but he could not help it. Brock laughed down into her gloriously furious face. She shrieked and launched herself at him. Catching her by the
wrist, he spun her around and hugged her to his chest. “Such vile language. What would your mother say?”
wrist, he spun her around and hugged her to his chest. “Such vile language. What would your mother say?”
“Go to hell!”
“Hmm, she might at that,” he said with a chuckle.
Amara writhed in his arms. “Release me.”
“Have a care, if you please. I develop a rather unruly response every time you rub up against me.”
She ceased her struggles. Had she been so lost in her fury that she had not noticed that her enticing backside was pressed up against his turgid cock? Egad, she was an innocent.
“Heed me, my dove. Since you are apparently dense, it appears this is the time for plain speaking.” When she protested, Brock intentionally ground his pelvis against her as a reminder of her tenuous position. “This is no dalliance. This is a courtship.”
“A courtship?” she choked out.
“Yes. It is certain to be a difficult one since it involves the two of us.”
She sniffed, and managed to exude contempt despite her predicament. “There is no need to trouble yourself. I already have one suitor I do not
want
.”
want
.”
It had been unwise of her to mention Prola. He felt completely unreasonable when he thought of the man. “Oh, it is no trouble at all,” he purred, “since I do not intend to be your suitor. I intend to be your lover.” Brock nuzzled her closer.
“Lover? Touch me and I will scratch your eyes out.”
She was trembling under all that bravado. He, more than anyone, understood what he was asking. He had seen how her face had paled when she finally noticed his arousal and remembered the violence done to her. “Damn it, I am not Cornley!”
She sagged against him. “I know. I know.”
“I am tired of the past standing between us.”
“Cornley is dead.”
Brock whirled her around, keeping her within reach. “I am not speaking of that bastard. When are you going to forgive me?”
The vivid passion he so admired faded into enigmatic coolness. “I do not understand.”
“You are a liar, Amara, and a bad one at that.” He let go, fearing in his present mood that he might actually hurt her.
“I should return to the Haslakes.”
Now that the passion and temper had passed, she was trying to rebuild the walls he had meticulously destroyed. This was one occasion she would be walking away disappointed.
“Amara, I care little of which path we choose. The result will be the same. I can kiss you senseless or prod your cursed temper until neither of us sees reason. Either way, it will be my body covering yours, my name you cry out when the passion crests, making you wonder if a person could die from the shattering joy.”
They stared at each other, both remembering the kisses they had shared, and she forgot to be angry or afraid of him. He could make her feel that way again. She must have sensed his purpose because she asked, “This is your notion of a courtship?”
“No, just a pleasurable means to end the madness. From my way of thinking, the last ten years or so have been a courtship of sorts. It is not my fault if you have not been paying attention.”
“You are late.”
Matteo scowled at his accuser as he entered the room. “It was unavoidable.”
He strolled to the four gentlemen seated at the table, peering over the shoulder of the rude cur who only offered his back. It was apparent they had been playing the game of connexions for hours. Matteo silently studied the stranger to the left. His face revealed much, making him at best a mediocre gambler. The trump he played seconds later was not unexpected. Winning the trick, the man crowed his triumph.
Matteo met the sardonic gaze of the man who had scolded him.
Fat pigeon,
those pale cynical eyes seem to say. There was no doubt who was really controlling the game.
Fat pigeon,
those pale cynical eyes seem to say. There was no doubt who was really controlling the game.
Losing interest in their card game, he strode by the table, wondering where he could place his cloak without soiling it. The room might have been private, but it was beneath his refined tastes. A scarred table and six roughhewn chairs were the extent of the furniture. The hearth
was black with soot and had not been clean in days. Utterly disgraceful. Opening a small box on the mantel, Matteo selected a brimstone match. He retrieved from the inside pocket of his coat the remnants of a cigar. Crouching down in front of the fire, he ignited the match. He suckled the cigar as impatiently as a newborn hungering for its mother’s breast as he held the flame to the tobacco. Tossing the match into the hearth, he closed his eyes and savored the cigar.
was black with soot and had not been clean in days. Utterly disgraceful. Opening a small box on the mantel, Matteo selected a brimstone match. He retrieved from the inside pocket of his coat the remnants of a cigar. Crouching down in front of the fire, he ignited the match. He suckled the cigar as impatiently as a newborn hungering for its mother’s breast as he held the flame to the tobacco. Tossing the match into the hearth, he closed his eyes and savored the cigar.
With deference to Miss Claeg he had curtailed his favorite habit. He could not properly court the lady when she complained at their second meeting that the putrid odor clinging to his coat sickened her. So he suffered. A man was willing to endure any hardship as long as the prize was worthy. Miss Amara Claeg was one such treasure.
“Remove your cloak before a spark turns you into a thrashing conflagration,” the dealer said, his gaze focused on the cards on the table.
Patience,
Matteo counseled, when several of the gentlemen chuckled. Obeying the gruff order, he placed his cloak on an empty chair. Another man might have been angry, he mused, exhaling a cloud of smoke. What Matteo felt was pity. He deliberately leveled his gaze on his cohort. Threequarters of the man’s face and the left side of his neck gleamed like melted wax. This was an individual who understood intimately how fire ravaged tender flesh.
Matteo counseled, when several of the gentlemen chuckled. Obeying the gruff order, he placed his cloak on an empty chair. Another man might have been angry, he mused, exhaling a cloud of smoke. What Matteo felt was pity. He deliberately leveled his gaze on his cohort. Threequarters of the man’s face and the left side of his neck gleamed like melted wax. This was an individual who understood intimately how fire ravaged tender flesh.
“How was your evening at the theater?”
“Sadly flat,” he confessed, questioning the wisdom of this particular discussion in front of strangers. “The uproar from the pit fatigued my ears.”
The extensive damage had left the dealer’s face an impassive mask. Only his pale eyes glowed with menace. “Fortunate for you that your interests resided aloft.”
“Yes.” Matteo paused, waiting until the man played his card. “Miss Claeg introduced me to Lady Haslake and her enchanting daughters.”
“I assume the Countess of Haslake shamelessly lapped the butter from Conte Prola’s lips.”
He flicked the ash from his cigar on to the floor. He smiled, recalling his discourse with the older woman. The countess was an engaging, generous woman. She was also regrettably very devoted to her earl. “The ladies, they always find pleasure in my company,” he said with a careless shrug.
“And Miss Claeg?”
“Like the ripest fruit. Just out of reach,” he said, feigning regret.
The man sneered. “So cut down the tree.”
Matteo puffed his cigar. A man in his position would never tolerate abuse from an inferior. This crippled, pathetic devil only possessed the power he, Conte Prola, gave him. He tapped a finger against his lower lip, considering his friend’s suggestion. “A wasted effort, I fear, since someone pilfered the proverbial tree.”
The man crushed the cards in his hands. The game was forgotten. His companions’ grumbles further agitated him. Pounding his fists on the table, he yelled, “Leave us!” He threw silver coins at their retreating backs.
Matteo smiled behind his cigar. He found it rewarding to remind a man who prided himself on his control that he lacked it when he needed it most.
With his hands braced against the table, his chest heaving, that horrible mask peered up at him. “Who?”
Although he was not pleased with the answer, he relished the role of messenger. “Bedegrayne.” He held up a silencing hand. “The gentleman is infuriating, I agree.”
Fists clenched, the man closed the gap between them. “He is—”
“A gadfly. Nothing more.” Matteo crossed his arms, confident. “I have taken care of him.”
It was almost four o’clock in the morning when Amara arrived home. She expected that her maid had fallen asleep hours earlier by the fire awaiting her return. The lateness of the hour had her staggering, but it was her encounter with Brock that had left her oddly drained and her mind hazy.
After his proclamation, he had escorted her back to her seat beside his aunt. To her credit, Aunt Moll had not told the others what she had witnessed in the anteroom. She had only smiled at Amara when she had sat down and patted her hand. Devona had distracted her by inquiring after Mallory. She had assured her friend that all was well. The mere fact that she had put the violets from her mind once Brock had begun stripping her gloves off proved how true his parting words were. It was so easy imagining them together as he had promised. Threatened, she silently revised. It worried her, although not in the manner it should.
“Amara, a moment.”
Leaning over the balustrade, she watched her father cross to the bottom of the stairs. “Good evening, Papa.” Tiredly, she rubbed the corner of her right eye. “Or rather, good morning,” she corrected, covering a yawn.
“How was your evening with the Haslakes?”
Something in her father’s inflection slithered through her weariness. “I enjoyed myself immensely. Lord Haslake
joined us for a late supper after the play. He sends his regards.”
joined us for a late supper after the play. He sends his regards.”
They heard an indistinct thud several stories up. “The servants are waking,” Lord Keyworth muttered, irritated his privacy was about to be disturbed. “Come, let us continue in my library.”
Feeling the chill of the morning air, she gripped the edges of her cloak together. Amara kept silent as she followed her father. The inescapable lecture was already clearing her head. Everyone had had plans for the evening, she was certain. Her father had been at one of his clubs. Mama and Miss Novell had been expected at a card party.
“Cease your dawdling.”
Amara passed through the arch into her father’s realm. Set-in bookcases divided the walls of the room. A diverse assortment of subjects populated the shelves besides the mandatory parliamentary accounts and law tomes. Books on husbandry, agriculture, math, and flora and fauna resided alongside topography, military campaigns, poetry, and fiction. Fluted columns with gilded capitals supported a rectangular plasterwork ceiling design that her father claimed was faithfully copied from a Roman tomb.
Amara skirted the circular rosewood library table, which was the final repose of a baleful stuffed peregrine. The creature had been one of her father’s beloved falcons. Obsidian glass eyes mirrored her movements, giving them the brief illusion of life.
Lord Keyworth lit a branch of candles near the mulberry and gold floral sofa. “Sit.”
While Amara sat where she had been directed, her father grasped a painted klismos chair through its rectangular open back and dragged it closer to her. Instead of
sitting as she had expected, he headed in the opposite direction. Bracing her head against her propped hand, she watched him remove a decanter from its hull-shaped leather coaster.
sitting as she had expected, he headed in the opposite direction. Bracing her head against her propped hand, she watched him remove a decanter from its hull-shaped leather coaster.
“I apologize for bothering you at this late hour.” He poured the claret into two wineglasses. “This should warm us.” Returning to her side, he offered one of the glasses.
Amara sipped the claret. The wine mixed poorly with her growing dread. “It is very good.”
Bracing a hand on the back of the chair, he asked, “Do you love me, daughter?”
Perplexed, she replied, “Of course, Papa.”
Lord Keyworth nodded, satisfied with her answer. “Would you say a loving father is deserving of his daughter’s loyalty as well?”
She took another sip, clearing the sudden dryness in her throat. “One’s duty is to the family.”
“Ah.” He stared down into his glass. “Then tell me, daughter, why do you shame me?”
The fevered image of her and Brock embracing, tongues mating, rose unbidden in her mind. “I—I do not understand.”
“Conte Prola, girl!” he shouted, fixing his incensed gaze on her. “How long must I wait until you accept his offer of marriage?”
“The subject has never been broached, Papa,” she denied.
“Bah! Why do you think he accepted my invitation? He is young, ambitious, and holds some influence in his own country. My support—”
“Your money,” she interjected without thought. She regretted the hastily uttered words when he towered over her.
“A father is always gratified by his daughter’s concern. Never fear, I shall profit from the arrangement.”
“Marriage,” she said in a stark whisper.
“I have been too indulgent with you,” he said, his voice filled with recrimination. “You were so inconsolable after Lord Cornley’s death, I hesitated pressuring you into another marriage.”
Choking on a sob, Amara set her wineglass on the table lest she spill claret on her gown. “Your generosity has been boundless, Papa.” Her stomach roiled, thinking of her grief if Cornley had lived.
“As is your selfishness!” he retorted, rankled by the edge of sarcasm he detected in her praise. “You mope around in front of Conte Prola as if the man were eighty and without a tooth in his bald head!”
“I have been courteous to him,” she argued, defiant.
“Unfailingly so, it seems,” he said, the bitterness of his displeasure sullying the compliment. “And what of Brock Bedegrayne? I was told you were quite accommodating to him this evening.”
Comprehension lit in her blue gaze. “Prola sought you out after he left the theater.”
The whining toad!
“Did he tell you the truth? Mr. Bedegrayne was simply the courier for his family. Lady Tipton, Lady Sutton, and Mrs. Bedegrayne were responsible for the invitation issued. If I had spurned their gentle request in front of Lady Haslake and her guests then I would heartily be deserving of your censure.”
The whining toad!
“Did he tell you the truth? Mr. Bedegrayne was simply the courier for his family. Lady Tipton, Lady Sutton, and Mrs. Bedegrayne were responsible for the invitation issued. If I had spurned their gentle request in front of Lady Haslake and her guests then I would heartily be deserving of your censure.”
Amara met his anger with a mutinous stare. She cared little if her explanation was riddled with omissions and half-truths. Conte Prola had plummeted in her estimation. She had no qualms about matching his duplicity.
“Perhaps he misunderstood,” her father conceded,
finishing the remains of his claret. “Nevertheless, you are not entirely blameless in the matter. You were observed leaving the box unescorted. Bedegrayne departed minutes after you.”
finishing the remains of his claret. “Nevertheless, you are not entirely blameless in the matter. You were observed leaving the box unescorted. Bedegrayne departed minutes after you.”
“Papa, my leaving had nothing to do with Mr. Bedegrayne,” she assured him, wearily getting to her feet.
“If you have any maggoty notions about young Bedegrayne, you will forget them. I have higher aspirations for my daughter than squandering her on a baronet’s son.”
“I have no intention of marrying anyone, including Conte Prola,” she said recklessly. “It seems it matters not which Claeg the conte marries, so if there must be a blood sacrifice let Mallory make it!”
She had gone too far. Smashing his wineglass to the floor, Lord Keyworth rushed Amara. She yelped as he grabbed her by the arm and struck her across the face. “Disrespectful minx!” He violently shook her.
“No, I—”
He slapped her again. She flinched when he raised his fist. “Papa, please!” she begged.
Roaring his frustration, Lord Keyworth lifted her off her feet and hurled Amara away from him. She landed with a bounce on the sofa. Too frightened to feel any pain, she drew her knees up to her chin and curled into a ball.
Her father shook his fist at her. “I am tiring of your drivel.” He reached down and seized her wrists. He hauled Amara to her feet. “Look at you. Hair disheveled, blotchy face, and sniveling. What man would have you?”
She yanked her arms free and swiped under her nose. “Forgive me, Papa.”
“‘Forgive me, Papa,’” he mimicked. “I see nothing of myself in you, girl. I do not even believe you are mine!”
She vehemently shook her head. The cruel words were meant to wound, make her doubt. “That is not true.”
“Have you spread your thighs for Bedegrayne?” he crudely speculated. “If so, you come by your whoring naturally. Mallory is the only one of you three I am convinced is from my seed.”
Shivering, she pushed her hair from her face. “You are drunk. Mama would never betray you. You are only saying this to hurt me.”
“Are you so certain?”
He walked over to her abandoned claret and picked up the wineglass. He twirled the stem with his fingers. “I dislike conversing business with women. However, I see an exception is called for. Nine months ago, I took some heavy losses on an ill-fated venture in Jamaica. Although Prola is unaware of my unfortunate predicament, the profits from my arrangement with him will satisfy the incurring debt and the other investors.”
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