Tempting the Heiress (22 page)

Read Tempting the Heiress Online

Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
3.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Amara smiled faintly at the suggestion. Curiosity had drawn her to the hearth. Uncorking the wine, he stared at her as she peered into the pot.
“What are you cooking?”
“Your bath.”
She straightened in surprise. “There was no need to bother.”
Brock tipped the bottle to his lips. It was not vinegar. He presented her the bottle. “Consider it a reward for cleaning up.”
Amara closed the gap between them and took the bottle from his hand. As she did so many things, she sampled
the hock suspiciously. “Not vinegar,” she said, wiping the wine from her lips.
With his gaze fixed on her wet lips, he rose from the chair. Clasping his hand around the neck of the bottle, he gave in to the temptation and kissed her. The tip of his tongue flicked her bottom lip before he retreated. “You are correct.”
Picking up a rag, he removed the pot from the fire. “Is it too warm?” he asked, not wanting to scald her.
Amara dipped her finger quickly in the water. “Perfect. Where should I—ah—?” She broke off, uncomfortable.
It was warmest near the hearth. He discarded the thought, realizing the large hall would not satisfy her need for privacy. He set the bottle of hock on the floor. “Take the candle and follow me.”
Brock led her up the stairs into one of the bedchambers. Like most of the house, the chamber was empty. The windows were shuttered from the outside so the fading twilight provided no illumination in the room. Placing the pot and rag near the unlit fireplace, he took the candle from her, and headed to a smaller adjoining room to an oversized trunk. Her soft footfalls revealed she stopped at the threshold.
“Hold this.” Brock returned the candle to her and lifted the lid of the trunk. Inside, he had stored three shirts, blankets, and several feather pillows. “I prefer my comforts. Sleeping on cold stone was getting rather tiresome. One of these visits, I will get around to putting a decent bed in this house.” Reaching deeper into the trunk, he retrieved a piece of soap. “Forgive me if it is not your favorite scent, but it will have to suffice.” He pressed it into her hand. Grabbing one of the blankets, he escorted her back into the bedchamber.
“Will I be sleeping here?” She did not seem pleased by the prospect.
“No, I think we should remain together. Parts of this house are too unsound to risk having you walk about it at night. We will make our pallets downstairs. The large hearth in the hall will keep us warm through the night. I just thought you might enjoy some privacy.”
“Thank you.” She set the candle on the mantel.
“You will have to use this as a towel,” Brock said apologetically. He needed to get out of the room, before he did something foolish such as asking her if he could stay. Muttering an oath, he returned to the trunk and gathered up the remaining blankets and pillows.
As he headed for the door, the glass buttons on the back of her gown glinted and caught his attention when she reached down to pick up the discarded blanket. Dropping the bundle of bedding outside the door, he approached Amara. “You are trapped.”
Bewildered, she replied, “Pardon?”
“You need your maid to get yourself in and out of all that feminine equipage.” Girding himself with determination, he said, “Turn around.”
“Absolutely not!”
Trying to view her as one of his willful sisters, he spun her around and plucked at her buttons. “Do not be ridiculous. You can use one of my shirts as your nightdress.”
“None of this is proper.”
“Pretend I am your brother,” he suggested, ignoring her sound of disbelief. He silently agreed. When he touched her, he was not thinking of her as a sister. The back of her gown opened, revealing a corset beneath. He set about freeing her from her whalebone cage.
Amara gritted her teeth. “Your expertise with a lady’s
underclothes rivals my maid’s. I would wager I am not the first female you have undressed.”
He clenched and released his fingers, willing them not to tremble. “Just honing my skills for you, dove,” he assured her. “Finished.” He stepped away from her and swiped at the sweat forming above his upper lip. “I will leave you to your ablutions.” He backed out the doorway. “Unless you require further assistance?”
Recovering from his audacity, she slammed the door.
Piper was not enjoying the rout. Playing cards for endless hours at the town house of some high stickler whose name she had already forgotten was not her notion of merriment. Lady Keyworth’s insistence that she lacked the proper social polish for the
haut monde
was becoming tiresome. Where was the lack? She was prettier than most of the ladies in the room. All she had to do was look at a gentleman, and soon he was begging the host for an introduction.
Her most recent conquest was awaiting her return. Mr. John Abbot was young, moderately handsome, and the owner of four breweries. He lacked the peerage so many doting mamas demanded for their homely daughters, but his wealth still opened their doors.
“Cousin, what a delightfully wicked smile. I pray it was for me.”
Mallory Claeg took her hand and bowed in a manner that stated he was subservient to no one. Oh, he was a handsome devil. His light blue eyes were disturbing and intriguing. Their peculiar pale depths beckoned a person to look deeper. That, combined with his unfashionably
long hair, reminded her of a sorcerer or a mystic. Realizing she was staring, she said, “You are too close.”
Amusement swirled like blue mist in those enthralling orbs. “Is there such a thing?”
“Blood,” she clarified. “Besides, your sister considers you too old.” Piper detested agreeing with Amara, but in this instance her cousin was correct. She wanted a husband who could be swayed by her looks and unspoken promises. Call it instinct, but she doubted any woman dominated Mallory Claeg.
“Oh, by aeons,” he said, too pleasantly for her liking. “Then again, I have spent most of my life flitting from one impropriety to the next.”
She could well imagine. Piper had overheard Lady Keyworth’s opinion to Mrs. Sheers regarding his connection with a Mrs. LeMaye. None of it was flattering. “Does it ever become tedious?”
“It?”
She made a broad gesture with her fan as she searched the room for Mr. Abbot. “Debasing the family with your notorious exploits and overblown mistresses. Considering your advanced age, you might want to settle down before it not only looks tedious but seems positively bizarre.”
“Sort of like prostituting yourself for a husband, hmm?”
Her eyes flared when she found Mr. Abbot. Oh, the fickleness of the men! Instead of awaiting her return near the balcony doors, he was across the room and engaged in an absorbing conversation with Miss Vining. The enigmatic half-smile she had perfected flattened, losing its beatific softness. How could the gentleman prefer the simpering Miss Vining to her?
“I believe she has a distant connection to a marchioness,” Mallory Claeg said, confirming that she had
spoken the question aloud. “Her dowry is rather substantial and includes an estate in Surrey.” Dismissing the couple, he returned his attention to her. “Forget about Abbot.”
Her throat tightened. She did not need this blue-eyed satyr to explain why most of her admirers drifted to the Miss Vinings in the room. Piper silently cursed her father for not having an understanding for business like Lord Keyworth. All her father was good at producing was daughters. “Why, Mr. Claeg? Am I too poor?” The notion truly stung.
“No,” he said gently. “Marrying a man like Abbot would never satisfy such a romantic creature as yourself. Blame your lapse on the season. It tends to muddle even the most sensible creatures. Like my sister,” he added as an afterthought. “Speaking of the fair Amara, did she join you and my mother this evening?”
His kindness humbled her. She had thought him so jaded that he was beyond understanding her mortifying predicament. Not wanting him to see how moved she was by his words, Piper glanced away. “Your sister despises card parties.”
Leaving me to attend these dreary functions with her indomitable mother.
“Where might I find her?”
She hesitated, and then shrugged. Mallory Claeg did not seem to be a man who dallied in gossip. “Your sister is visiting Lord A’Court’s widow.”
“Lady Keyworth permitted her unmarried daughter to leave town during the season? I think not.”
His cutting skepticism revived her flagging spirit. “I am not your sister’s cater-cousin. She was rather mute on the details, but the young widow is discreetly in residence. Your mother and I were sworn not to tell anyone that the woman was in town.”
Mallory’s expression grew speculative. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“Nothing, my dear,” he assured her. “I was just wondering if my sister is developing a few of my bothersome tendencies.”
Amara touched the soft linen of the shirt, wishing for the hundredth time that she could see her reflection. Brock had been correct. His shirt covered her as well as any nightdress. However, she still felt that wearing it was improper. It was his shirt, after all.
Squaring her shoulders, she retrieved the candle from the mantel. Amara left her clothes laid out on the floor, since she would use the room again in the morning. Before she lost her courage, she opened the door. Brock was not below as she had expected. He sat on the floor outside her door, his long legs stretched out in front of him. If he had not brought another candle, she might have tripped over him.
“You forgot your hairpins,” he said, his gaze resolutely fixed on her face.
Confused by the comment, Amara touched the coil of hair at the back of her head. “Oh, yes, well, I can remove them later.”
The hall seemed smaller when he stood. He circled around her, keeping his distance.
“I prepared a pallet for you near the fire. You can enjoy some of the hock you discovered while I clean up. You should have told me I smelled like perch.”
“I am too intelligent to insult the man who was feeding me,” she teased. “I—” She stared at his hands, trying not to remember the strength and feel of them on her as he
had undressed her despite her protests. No, she had not been thinking about the fish. “I should go below.”
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard the door close. Whether she desired his protection or not, Brock intended to look after her. It comforted her and left her restless at the same time.
He had prepared two pallets. The bottle of hock was set between them. In spite of the fire, the night had cooled the air in the hall. Amara chose the right pallet and slipped under the woolen blankets. She was too accustomed to the late evenings of town to be tired, so she remained seated. Reaching for the bottle, she drank. The hock was warm. She wondered if the fire or Brock’s hands had heated the wine. Amara took another contemplative sip.
A muffled thud from above had her cocking her head. Moments later, she heard footfalls on the stairs. From under the blanket, she drew her knees up. Brock had been quicker bathing than she had been.
As he entered the room, she noted the changes in his attire. He had discarded his coat and cravat, and the shirt he had donned was the twin of the one she wore. He wore it loose, although with deference to modesty, he still wore breeches. Like her, his stockings and shoes had been removed.
Closing the door behind him, so the heat of their fire was contained in the hall, his brow furrowed when he saw her wrapped up in the bedding. “Are you cold? Do you need more blankets?” he asked, concerned.
She felt too awkward explaining that glimpses of her bare legs and feet had more to do with her being under the blankets than the cold. “No, I am comfortable. You are a considerate host.”
“Considerate for a kidnapper, you mean,” he said. The hint of derision was directed inward.
This day had developed in a way she had never anticipated. She had not found her brother. The accident at the square had frightened her. And then, there was Brock. Strong, dependable, he had offered her comfort and yelled at her for her foolishness. He was no saint. Brock blatantly had used her deceit to his own advantage. Regardless, she knew of no other who cared about her as much.
Deciding he had suffered enough, she said, “I hate dispelling any
folie de grandeur
you might have regarding your abduction capabilities, Brock, however, no one can charge you with kidnapping. Or, if someone tries, I will be forced into confessing that I was a willing captive.”
“An explanation, if you please.”
Wonderful. Now he was insulted.
“Brock, both of us know I could have started screaming the minute I learned you were not escorting me home.” She took a fortifying sip of the wine. “Therefore, no kidnapping occurred.” He looked so cross standing there with his damp hair and bare feet. Amara could not stop from giggling.
Brock’s eyelids narrowed in suspicion. “Are you drunk?”
Now he was being insulting. “It takes more than a few sips of wine to get a Claeg foxed.” She held the bottle up for inspection. “See for yourself, if you do not believe me.”
He snatched the bottle from her hand and sat crosslegged on the pallet. Brock scrutinized the contents. Satisfied the hock had not inspired her confession, he imbibed deeply. “Before you pardon me, you should be aware that I had cheerfully planned to gag you if you had screamed.”
Amara gasped. “You are jesting!”
He took another swig from the bottle. “Am I? Let us both be grateful your faith in me is untried.” He passed her the bottle.
She accepted it, but did not imbibe. A piece of wood popped and shifted in the grate. There was something soothing about firelight. She was not half as concerned as she should have been. Gracious, she was sitting undressed in an empty house with a man. The situation warranted a swoon, she thought. For some reason, she could not muster any enthusiasm about propriety. Perhaps it was the company and the hock. She felt … safe.
“Do you plan on cuddling the bottle all night?”
Casting the shade of propriety into the netherworld, Amara stuck out her tongue. She surrendered the wine. Resting her chin on her knees, she studied her companion. Brock was a handsome man, she decided, approving of the changes the passing years and experience had etched on his visage. Conte Prola seemed almost too pretty when compared with her unshaved and brooding companion, although she doubted Brock would appreciate the compliment.
Brock wore his hair untied. The ends were slightly damp from his bath. Where she had buttoned the three shell buttons on her borrowed shirt, he had left his open, making her curious about the shadowed flesh she had glimpsed.
“Did your mother not tell you that it is impertinent to stare?”
Amara wrinkled her nose. “It is only impertinent when the individual you are admiring stares back,” she blithely corrected. “Do you want to know what I was thinking?”
“No,” he replied, too quickly. “Go to sleep.”
Disgusted she was being dismissed, Amara slipped deeper into the bedding. “I am not sleepy.”
“A pity. I am. Just close your eyes and think of—”
“What?” she demanded. “An ermine tippet, lemon ices, and ivory elephants?”
Her peevishness only made him chuckle. “So you liked my gift? You never mentioned receiving it.”
“Was it from you?”
So much had happened, she had forgotten. The mysterious package she had been carrying the afternoon she had caught Piper in her bedchamber had contained the elephant. About ten inches in height, and the length of her arm, the whimsical creature was made from pieces of ivory. A net of wire and semiprecious jewels adorned its head, back, and legs.
“The workmanship is exquisite. I have never seen its equal.” She rolled onto her side. “You have been so generous, Brock.”
“Is this a complaint?”
Amara treasured every gift he had sent her. “No. Yes! You have to cease sending gifts to the house.”
“What about the rosewood desk I have set aside for you? You will not find this kind of ivory inlay in England.” He ignored her beleaguered groan. “I found it in Vizagatapatam. A—”
She stopped listening. He was probably teasing her. There was no rosewood desk, no ivory inlay. How could she explain away such an exotic gift? It was all too overwhelming. Amara closed her eyes. Papa would never permit her to marry a baronet’s son who had made his fortune in trade.
“Amara?”
She turned her face toward him and opened her eyes. “Did you buy me a desk?”
“Have you not been paying attention?” he chided, any
humor he perceived in the question fading when he gazed into her eyes. “No gift should summon the misery I see in your eyes. I regret—”
“Do not apologize!” she begged. Kicking off her blankets, on all fours she crawled to his side. She rested her hands on his rigid shoulders. “I love the gifts you have selected for me. I love—”
Sometimes words were wholly inadequate. Could he not sense what she felt? Amara leaned into him and pressed her lips against his. His mouth was unmoving under her tender onslaught. Brock had initiated each kiss they had shared. She was trying to show him without words that he had taught her the pleasure of giving too.
Amara heard him whisper her name against her lips. Encouraged, she drank in his breath and nipped his lower lip lightly with her teeth. His hands settled on her waist and drew her closer. Shedding his docility, Brock parted his lips and feasted on her mouth. The man knew how to kiss a lady! A surge of dizziness assailed her. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, Amara held on. She could not match his proficiency, she mused, trying not to dwell too much on the countless women the rake had kissed before her. However, what she lacked in practice she could balance with eagerness. The notion of kissing Brock often was not repugnant at all!

Other books

Jordan County by Shelby Foote
Murder Is Private by Diane Weiner
The Great Betrayal by Pamela Oldfield
Nothing by Barry Crowther
A Demon in Stilettos by LaBlaque, Empress
Refund by Karen E. Bender
The Time Portal 2: Escape in Time by Joe Corso [time travel]
Cavanaugh Hero by Marie Ferrarella
The Mer- Lion by Lee Arthur