Tempting the Heiress (25 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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He leaned toward her and took a bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he held her gaze while he caressed her knee. His hand slid between her legs and up her inner thigh. “Are you terribly sore?” He found her silken nest, and she dampened under his skillful fondling.
“I—I am not c-certain,” she stammered. The forgotten bean tart fell from her hand to the stone floor.
Reaching for her hand, he meticulously licked the crumbs from her fingers. Shivering, she closed her eyes.
“Then I will have to find out for myself.”
The hackney had been her inspiration. If she had allowed Brock to have his way, he would have driven her home and brashly escorted her to the door. That would have been a fearsomely awkward scene. At the sight of her in Brock Bedegrayne’s custody, her mother would have collapsed in an apoplectic fit while her father quietly started plotting Brock’s murder.
She could not let that happen.
They had argued most of their journey back to London. In the end, he had conceded to her wishes and put her in the hired coach. The hard kiss he had pressed onto her tender mouth had not been half as daunting as his parting words.
“Retreat if you must, but remember well that you are mine.”
How could she forget? She ached from his claiming and was likely to for days. There was no part of her that had not been marked with his mouth and hands. Even the morning had not hindered his ardor. Shameless, he had risen naked from the pallet and led her to one of the chairs near the hearth. After what they had done, she wondered if she could ever look at a chair without blushing.
Remember well.
Oh, she would indeed. Although she had washed away the evidence of their night together, his unique male scent
clung to her, mingling with her own. She could close her eyes, but it was his green hungry gaze that devoured her in her mind, his guttural voice that demanded she take more of him.
Nothing could make her regret their lovemaking. Even though she had been terrified initially, he had spent the night banishing her demons one by one. She had brought him pleasure as well, she thought, a dreamy smile softening her lips. If one day was all the fates offered them, she would be content, for the memory of them together would warm her heart for a lifetime.
Lost in her thoughts, she was only vaguely aware that the hackney had stopped. The door opened and Amara looked blankly at the face of the coachman.
“’Ere ye go, lass,” he said encouragingly, helping her out of the coach.
The front door of their town house swung open. Their butler, Buckle, must have noticed her arrival from one of the windows. Rushing forward, he was at her side before she had taken four steps.
“Thank you for your services,” the butler said to the hired coachman. “I will return with your fee after I have seen to Miss Claeg.”
“The g—”
“The good man has been paid, Buckle,” she said, rushing over the man’s declaration that a gentleman had paid her way in advance.
The coachman cleared his throat, understanding too well her need for discretion. “True ’nuff. A good day to you, miss.” He tugged the rim of his hat and backed away.
“You look tired, Miss Claeg. Shall I call for a bath or have Cook fix you a tray?”
She absently patted her stomach. Brock had distracted
her earlier when she had been hungry. “Both. I am famished. Are my parents at home?”
“No, miss. Lord Keyworth departed with Conte Prola an hour ago. I believe they were anticipating a falconry demonstration at one of the commons.”
“And my mother and Miss Novell?”
“At the dressmaker’s. Lady Keyworth expressed concern that you were not available for the fitting of your new gown.”
Amara winced at the reminder of the upcoming ball being held in honor of her birthday. She had deliberately skipped several of her fittings when she had begun to suspect the true reason for the festivities. Lord and Lady Keyworth intended to announce her betrothal to the conte.
“Is something troubling you, Miss Claeg?” he politely inquired, noting her pained expression.
“Nothing important. Just a loose pin,” she improvised, recalling the trouble Brock had had acting as her maid. They had quickly discovered that duplicating Corry’s efforts was more challenging than he had arrogantly assumed. “Anything else?”
“Just your brother.”
She halted and gripped the butler’s arm. Doran had tried contacting her, and once again she had missed him. “There has been a message from my brother?”
If he thought her reaction odd, his visage did not betray his opinion. “Mr. Claeg surprised the household with an unexpected visit this morning. He was rather intent on speaking with you.”
“Mallory,” she said cautiously.
“Yes, miss. He and Lord Keyworth briefly exchanged words and then Mr. Claeg departed.”
She doubted their meeting had been a pleasant one.
“Were they arguing, Buckle?” If there was discord between father and son, the entire staff would have witnessed a thunderous display.
“I cannot say. I was not privy to their discourse.”
It was too much to hope they had put aside their differences. Something was troubling her brother to rouse him out of his bed before twelve. “Very well. Thank you, Buckle.” She moved toward the stairs.
“Miss Claeg?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me for any disrespect, however, I must inquire. Are you all right?” he asked, his gaze dwelling on the soiled condition of her gown.
She glanced down ruefully at the front of her skirt. “It is the gown that inspires your concern. A sorry state, I must confess. I am dreading Corry’s scolding when she sees what my clumsiness has done to her fine handiwork.”
Amara waved farewell to the butler and rushed up the stairs before he asked questions she was not prepared to answer.
Entering the house he had rented for the season, Brock longed for a bath, food, and a few more hours of sleep. He was not particular about the order. No one rushed out to greet him as he discarded his hat and gloves. Amara had teased him about his lack of staff at Whitmott Park. This house could use a few more servants too. Only a manservant, cook, and housemaid were looking after him. It had seemed enough a few weeks ago, but he suspected the trio fell short of a lady’s expectations. After all, the household was a woman’s domain.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bedegrayne,” the manservant said, struggling to put his arm into the sleeve of his coat. “Forgive my tardiness.”
“I managed to open the door all on my own, Sellick.” Brock could not say the same for his manservant. The man was contorted and flapping about like an outraged goose. He grabbed the servant by the scruff of his neck and forced him to stand still while he worked the man’s arm into his sleeve.
“Thank you, sir.” He tripped over his own foot as he picked up the hat and gloves Brock had tossed on the floor. “I suppose you will want refreshments for you and your guest.”
“Entertaining whilst I am out of town, Sellick?”
The younger man’s eyes rounded in horror. “Oh, no, sir! The gentleman claimed he was a close friend of yours. He assured me that you would not mind if he waited for your return.”
Brock heard a suspicious sniffle. “Good God, man, are you crying?”
“The dust, sir, it tickles my nose.”
He had a servant who suffered from an aversion to dust running his household. Brock liked Sellick well enough, but it was obvious the man was too inexperienced for his position. On the morrow, he would consult Wynne about finding some additional staff. As for Sellick, well, perhaps the man would be better suited as his valet.
“Get rid of whoever hoodwinked you to get into my parlor. Friend or foe, I have no interest in entertaining anyone.”
“Interesting choice of words, Bedegrayne,” Mallory Claeg said, striding toward them. “I was deliberating on which
f
-word applied to you.”
Whatever brought Claeg to his door, he had come on his own. He glanced at the manservant. “Tell Cook we will need those refreshments you had mentioned.” He turned on his heel and headed for the parlor he had never used. “Claeg, you surprise—”
Claeg tackled him from behind. They landed on the sofa. Clipping his chin on the wooden frame, he tasted blood. If this continued, one of them was going to get seriously hurt. Feeling he had no choice, Brock smashed
the back of his head into the other man’s face. Whirling on his attacker, he cocked his fist. “I prefer having you as a friend, not an enemy.”
Wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, he saw that Amara’s brother had no intention of being reasonable. “Where have you been?” Mallory growled.
Trying for amusement, Brock lowered his fist. “It has been years since I answered to anyone.” He took a few prudent steps backward and sat in a chair. “However, since you asked so politely, I will tell you. I went north to check on some property I own.”
“Alone?”
“I believe that is not your concern.”
Mallory stood; his long hair had become loose in their brief fight. His gaze glittered with malice. “It is, if my sister was at your side.”
Having recently been in Mallory’s position, he empathized with the man. “Have you spoken to your sister?”
“No,” Claeg curtly replied. “Like you, Amara has spent the night elsewhere.”
“Why have you deduced she was with me?”
“Several reasons. I was told my sister went to visit A’Court’s widow.”
“So? Are the women not friends?”
“Yes. I also know my sister lied. The dowager is not in London.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Claeg said succinctly. “My sister has the penchant for lies when the truth involves a Bedegrayne.”
The brother suspected, but he had no proof. Brock silently contemplated his choices. “Amara is loyal to those she loves. She long ago gave up believing Lady
Keyworth’s tripe about Devona’s being responsible for Doran’s tragic demise.”
Claeg visibly cringed at the comparison to his vitriolic mother. “Amara was with you,” he said, mutinous.
The notion of facing him at dawn was unpalatable. Shooting Claeg, even if he deserved it, would not endear him to the family. “If you insist on knowing your sister’s whereabouts, ask her.”
“I will. If you have dishonored her, Bedegrayne, my seconds shall be pounding at your door.”
Brock stretched his long legs out, appearing relaxed. “I will not fight you, Claeg, but know this. My intentions toward Amara have always been honorable. She will be my bride before the year expires.”
The other man curled his hand over his fist. “Is that why you seduced her? Did you think my family would hand her over to the man who had defiled her?”
Brock jumped to his feet. The two men glared at each other with mutual dislike. “Tread carefully. I still have not forgiven you for not asking these questions when they might have been useful.”
“What are you saying, or more to the point, what are you
not
saying?”
Amara trusted him with her secrets. He would not betray her, even if he could benefit from it. “Claeg, Claeg, do not ask questions for which the answers will only upset you,” Brock chided.
Realizing he would not gain any further explanation, Claeg said, “Have you spoken to my father concerning your intentions, or is this blathering about marriage simply Bedegrayne arrogance?”
He planned to speak with Lord Keyworth as quickly as he could arrange it. “I can be quite convincing.”
Claeg snorted. “You will have to be bloody extraordinary with the ball being days away.”
The hairs on Brock’s neck prickled with foreboding. He knew about the Keyworths’ upcoming ball. Amara had not mentioned it, and now her silence disturbed him. “What is so important about the ball?”
“Amara did not tell you? Our father plans to use the occasion to announce her betrothal to Prola.”
Sellick knocked, and entered the room carrying a tray. “I have brought the refreshments, sir.”
“Not now,” he growled. So, his dove thought she could fly from his arms to another’s, did she? The lady might be a horrendous liar, but she had perfected the passiveness of omission with a competence that would likely get her bottom paddled the next time they met.
The manservant babbled an apology and turned to leave them. The hasty retreat slid everything on the tray to one side. Countering the shift by raising the opposite end higher, the servant gave a shout of dismay as pieces of china shattered on the floor.
Most of the anger had faded from Claeg’s shrewd gaze. Surveying the wreckage created by his unexpected visit, he said, “You have much to resolve, Bedegrayne.” He shook his head in pity at Sellick’s sniffle. “By God, I almost hope you succeed.”
The rosewood desk with its rich ivory inlay was delivered the next afternoon. The footman’s announcement had Amara scurrying down the stairs, the dressmaker’s protests echoing behind her. The gown she wore was held together by dozens of pins and it seemed every breath drove the sharp points into her tender flesh.
The servants had left the desk in the front hall, awaiting instructions on where it should be placed. As Brock had promised, the desk was beautiful and exotic. It was perfect.
“Amara! We have precious little time for your whims. Madame must finish her measurements, else the gown will not be ready for tomorrow evening.”
Lady Keyworth had not joined her below. She stood on the upper landing, her hands clasped in agitation. Amara unconsciously placed herself in front of the desk, blocking her mother’s view.
“I was returning, Mama.”
The older woman tilted her head, attempting to see what her daughter was protecting. “A gift from the conte?”
Hiding her clenched fist behind her back, the edges of her fingernails cut into her palm. What was she to do? She had begged Brock not to send the desk. He knew the magnitude of such a gift would cause her difficulty.
“Conte Prola did not send this. The desk is a gift from Mr. Bedegrayne.”
Her eyes full of speculation, Lady Keyworth pursed her lips. “Why would Sir Thomas’s eldest son believe you would be receptive to such an expensive offering?”
“I suppose in honor of my birthday,” she explained, furious with Brock for creating this unpleasant predicament. “You did send invitations to the Bedegraynes?”
“Come upstairs. We will discuss the small issue of the desk later.”
Her mother’s evasion was telling. “How could you? These women are my friends.” Realizing arguing about friendship would not soften Lady Keyworth’s heart, she appealed to the older woman’s self-importance. “Despite
your feelings for anyone named Bedegrayne, the family holds influence in this town. Tipton and Sutton will not be pleased their wives were insulted, nor will Milroy.”
“Milroy,” her mother scoffed.
“Is the half brother of a duke! Do not underestimate the reach of his influence.” She ruthlessly pressed on. “Papa understands the necessity of courtesy, even to one’s enemy. What will he think of your oversight?”
Her mother paled, the consequences of her cruel slight finally cutting through her need for petty revenge. “Miss Novell, in my haste I have neglected several invitations. You will assist me. My daughter will continue her fitting without our guidance.”
Piper stepped into view. “Yes, ma’ am.”
Amara was not surprised her cousin had been eavesdropping. She could almost see the wheels of calculation rotating in the woman’s head as she wondered how she could benefit from the exchange she had overheard.
“Will we be sending an invitation to your friend, the mysterious dowager?”
Amara lifted her chin at the subtle cynicism she detected in the question. “Your rough edges are showing again, cousin.” Piper stiffened at the insinuation. “To answer your question, the countess is still in mourning. I am certain while my mother writes her apologies to Sir Thomas and his family”—she stared sharply at her mother—“she will explain the courtesy we bestow on the dead.”
“Just as you, my dear daughter, will display tomorrow evening how one goes about honoring the living.”
Amara sagged against the edge of the desk. She yelped, jumping up as a dozen carefully placed pins jabbed her in the backside. Even when she was in the
wrong, her mother always had a knack for lopping any advantage Amara had won.
Cloaked in colors of the night, Brock stealthily moved past the Keyworth stables and into the gardens. Within he listened to the muffled laughter of the male occupants. They were too busy with their card game to heed any noise he might make. Approaching the house, he kept his gaze on the prize. Light emanating from the window revealed his quarry was in her bedchamber and she was awake.
Good.
He wanted her alert when they had their conversation. Using the trellis as a ladder, he climbed up to one of the balconies. The next part was trickier. Unwinding the coil of rope he had slung around his neck, Brock tossed the weighted end up to the smaller balcony above. He flinched at each failure, the minutes ticking by loudly in his head as he waited for someone to become curious about the noises outside. He had padded the hook with rags but there was always a risk. His fourth attempt almost knocked him unconscious. He stifled a groan. Although his hat had cushioned the blow, the top of his head was aching. His own family would haul him in front of the magistrate if they learned of this. It was incentive enough not to fail.
The hook caught the railing on his sixth attempt.
Hand over hand, he silently pulled himself up the rope. Despite the coolness of the night, sweat beaded and coursed down his face and back. Softly grunting, he seized the top of the railing and swung a leg over. He landed in a crouch.
No one approached the window.
Brock wiped his damp forehead, giving himself a few minutes to regain his composure. Gathering the rope, he left it in a heap on the balcony. This was indeed an unusual courtship. He doubted his brothers-in-law had endured such trials when wooing his sisters. Disgusted by the madness Amara had managed to instill in him, he vowed the next time he entered the Keyworth residence, it would be through the front door.
Amara glanced up from her book for the third time and stared at the window. She should have been asleep hours ago, yet sleep eluded her. Perhaps her ennui had saved her life. She jolted at the muted thud outside her window. Setting aside her book, she quietly slid off her bed. She removed a pair of scissors from the table beside her bed. Amara slapped her hand over her mouth, containing her shriek, when Brock’s face peered through the glass.
She pressed her hand to her heart. “Damn you, Brock Bedegrayne,” she muttered, marching toward the window. She freed the latch and pushed open the panels. “I resisted stabbing Tipton when he tried this. You, on the other hand, tempt me over the verge of sanity!”

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