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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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“Somewhat. I assumed at the time that he still felt guilty for his participation in unmasking her role in Devona’s doomed plan to rescue Amara’s brother from prison. He and Tipton caused quite a scene when they practically carried her out of the ball and frightened her into confessing all.”
His fingers tensed on her back. “Hmm … I must have missed the retelling of this particular tale. What role did you play in your sister’s ruse?”
Glancing back, she said, “I distracted the guards so Devona—” His expression silenced her confession.
Recovering quickly, she muttered, “Truly, Mr. Milroy, you can look quite intimidating when you set your mind to it.”
“I can do more than just
look,
Mrs. Milroy.” He closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of his Wynne plying her seductive skills on several cynical prison guards. The thought dried the very spittle from his mouth.
“Well, there is no need to be so vexed. Tipton arrived, ruining all our plans.”
“A fact for which I shall be grateful till I cock up me toes,” he countered, slipping into the coarser dialect of his youth. It was a vivid indicator of how upset he was about the matter.
Wynne was not impressed.
“Regardless, that was not the point I was making. Now pay attention,” she commanded, her nose crinkling in an endearing manner that showed him she was serious. “I have spent two years watching Amara tense up every time my brother’s name is uttered. There is something between them that goes beyond polite courtesies. Whatever my brother has done, Amara will not speak of it.”
Wanting to soothe the concern he heard in her voice, Keanan slid his hand over her hip and gave her a comforting squeeze. “There, there. Whatever is betwixt them is private for now. They don’t need you stepping between them.”
“You do not—”
“Aye, Wynne, I do. It seems to me that if you have time to meddle in your brother’s and Miss Claeg’s business, then I’ve been dodging my duties.” With a mischievous grin, he dragged her into the tub.
“Keanan!” she gasped, wrapping her arms around his
neck. Sitting on his lap, she needed mere seconds to grasp his intent. She enticingly bit his lower lip. “I can be quite persistent, you know.”
“I am counting on it, my damson.” Working the sodden sheet down, his hand possessively cupped her breast. She leaned closer, eager for his caress. A small sound rumbled in his throat as he nipped her shoulder. It would be hours before either gave young Bedegrayne and his curious attention to Miss Claeg another thought.
“I must confess, I find your choice of amusements this afternoon odd even for you, Miss Claeg.”
Amara sent an impatient glance at her cousin, Miss Pipere Novell. Bedecked in a flattering white cambric morning dress with a pelisse of primrose sarcenet and a bonnet of straw, her cousin, or Piper as her father had indulgently dubbed her, was fashionable. She certainly stood out from the dusty and tarnished arms and armor they had been observing for the past hour, she sourly thought, fingering one of the gilt drop buttons on her own pale blue pelisse.
“You did not find the Reverend Kendall’s lecture on entomology fascinating?”
“No, I did not,” her cousin crisply replied, her prodigious black curls bouncing with her irritation. “How could the man expect any enlightened person to heed his discourse while bugs were crawling up and down his limbs?”
Amara made a sympathetic noise. “I pray you are not
upset about that rather unfortunate incident with the cicadae. I doubt even the fine reverend could have predicted such an outcome.”
“It was not your new bonnet upon which those hideous insects alighted!”
Turning away, Amara fixed her attention on a twelfthcentury lance. She bit her tongue, hoping the pain would arrest the laughter burning her throat. Her dear cousin had indeed been a sight, flailing and screeching about the room trying to remove the curious insects. Perhaps it was horrid of her, but she could not think of another individual so deserving of an infestation.
“Although I find their evening chirr pleasant, they can be destructive little pests.”
Aghast, Miss Novell said, “Only you would find something noteworthy about the unremarkable. Your mama believes your dabbling with that little charity—oh, what is it called? The Benevolent Sisterhood? She fears it has made you shamefully provincial. I have lost count of the numerous occasions upon which she has expressed her disappointment.”
“I do not doubt it. I fear her condition is terminal,” she said lightly, ignoring the tightening in her chest. Her mother was never one to suffer in martyred silence. Amara was all too aware of her numerous grievances. What she found nettlesome was that her mother considered this poor relation nonesuch. Miss Novell’s father had sent her to London for the season in hopes that her beauty and connection to the Keyworth title would secure his daughter a respectable marriage. A sad tale, indeed, and Amara sympathized with the impoverished bookseller who had five daughters to marry off. It was regrettable that her young cousin was an opinionated,
devious harpy. Their uncomfortable situation was becoming insufferable.
“What providence stumbling across my most devoted sister.”
The amiable masculine voice reverberated about the large exhibition hall, commanding everyone’s attention. Amara could not help admiring her brother’s commanding presence, even when she dreaded being the focus of his attention. Bidding farewell to his male companions, Mallory Claeg strode purposefully toward them. She supposed most thought him a handsome gentleman, a tall imposing figure with eyes a blue hue lighter than her own. He wore his brown hair longer than most, and he had hastily tied it back as if he could not be troubled with it. Always the artist, he had his sketching journal tucked under his arm. She noticed his hands were bare.
“Amara!” Dropping his journal, he swept her into a crushing embrace and spun her as he had when she was a child. Distance and eight years stretched between them, so she assumed deviltry more than affection motivated her older sibling. Allowing Amara to regain her balance, Mallory shifted his gaze from her face and lingered on their cousin’s. “And who is your companion?”
Wary of his interest, she declared, “Our cousin, Miss Pipere Novell. Miss Novell, this is my brother, Mr. Mallory Claeg.”
Bowing, he said, “Miss Novell, pray ease my heart and tell me you are a distant relation. Very distant.” Not diverting his focus, he retrieved his journal from the floor.
Amara was amazed. Mallory’s flirtatious nature had actually flustered their beautiful cousin.
“M-my father is the son of your great-uncle through Lord Keyworth’s lineage. That makes us—”
“Temptingly distant, it appears,” he murmured. It was obvious to Amara he was silently contemplating the wicked possibilities.
She decided intervention was required or her mother would blame her for the paragon’s ruination. “You are too young for her, brother. And she is too poor for you.” She did not acknowledge her cousin’s unintelligible protest. “Her papa has high hopes of matching her with a respectable gentleman.”
“You wound me, sister. I turned thirty last month and Miss Novell—”
“Is far too old for you even at the tender age of twenty. Come, Miss Novell, allow me to rescue you from this bounder’s clutches before he begs you to pose as his Helen.”
Unrepentant, Mallory followed after them and said to Amara, “I am more inspired to paint you as Eris, my fractious goddess of discord.” He hooked his arm through hers, thwarting her retreat. “You have the look of our mother when you set your face like that.” He laughed at her horrified expression. “Come now, puss, permit me to make amends. Meandering through all of this dust has parched my throat. With your permission, I shall escort you and Miss Novell to Mivart’s for refreshments.”
Her cynical thoughts directed inward, Amara pondered his persistence. Mallory had kept his distance since their brother Doran’s “death.” His disinterest in her life had not concerned her. They had never been close. Years earlier, his callous opinions about Doran—which were devastatingly aligned with their father’s cruelty—had driven a wedge between them. This made his sudden attention all the more suspicious.
“Miss Claeg?” her cousin queried, puzzled by her hesitation.
“I see no harm in it,” Amara admitted.
“A chary declaration indeed.” He guided both ladies down the hall to the doors. “Deservedly so, I confess. I have been a neglectful brother, Miss Novell.”
“
Neglectful
implies loss. How can I lose something I have never had?” Amara wondered, feeling provoked.
Mallory moaned, acting as if her unsympathetic words had pierced his chest. She was unmoved by the drama.
“You were always an unyielding puss.”
They both knew he was referring to Doran. She refused to be baited and remained silent. He sighed as if he were disappointed in her.
“The past is steeped in pain and recriminations so we shall look forward. Of late, the prattle-boxes have bantered your name about. Rumors have reached me that some Italian beau has tossed the handkerchief.”
“Cousin, Conte Prola has declared himself?”
If her brother’s announcement had not been so disconcerting, she might have found her cousin’s disbelief downright insulting.
“Prola?” her brother snorted in derision. “His name sounds like a freckle cream. Confess, dear sister. Are the rumors true?”
Amara wordlessly walked through the door an attendant had opened for them. All her careful planning had been for naught. She had been avoiding the conte for days. Brock Bedegrayne’s reappearance in London had only added to her misery. What did she care of lectures on entomology and rusty medieval armor? She had chosen amusements that would prevent either man from waylaying her
and thereby fueling the
ton
’s interest. If word had reached even Mallory’s apathetic ears, then she was truly in trouble. She glanced at her brother, seeing nothing but sympathy. She tried to swallow, but something was stuck in her throat.
“I believe you need a drink more than I, puss.”
“Ladies, you missed tea,” Lady Keyworth chastised, taking note of Amara’s heightened coloring. “Again. Gentlemen find tardiness unappealing, daughter. It makes a lady look flighty.” The viscountess returned her attention to the ledger the butler held out for her viewing. “Buckle, incompetence has cost me three pieces of creamware in two days. I assume the culprit has been sacked.”
The butler closed the book with a crisp snap. “The scullery maid was discharged immediately.”
The older woman sniffed. “Obviously, not soon enough. You are dismissed.” She fixed her unforgiving gaze on Amara and Miss Novell.
The pair of them had lined up side by side like repentant children. Amara took several steps forward, severing any illusion that she and her cousin were collaborating in mischief.
“My apologies, madam. We encountered Mallory at one of the museums. He has fixed on the odd notion that I should model for him. Nothing I said dissuaded him.” She refused to mention her brother’s curiosity about the conte. If her mother learned of the gossip, it might provoke her into action.
“Miss Novell, there appears to be a lapse in my daughter’s recollection. Did we or did we not agree on Miss Pettifoot’s literary circle for this afternoon’s amusements?
It was understood the acclaimed critic Mr. Dela Court would be in attendance.”
Amara despised it when her mother spoke of her as if she were not present in the room. “
We
agreed at breakfast that Mr. Dela Court’s honored presence at Miss Pettifoot’s would not spare it from being an utter bore.”
“Amara Claeg!”
Her mother’s appalled exclamation always managed to ripple down her spine. She ruthlessly suppressed any outward reaction. This was the way between them. Madam was shocked. Amara was at fault. The tragic scene had played for years.
“It was regrettable that we did not attend the literary circle,” her cousin said, clearly uncomfortable with Lady Keyworth’s disapproval. “We did attend a fascinating lecture by …” She visibly struggled for the name.
Gracious, Miss Novell was pitiful at deceit. Observing the woman falter with half-truths was just too painful. “The Reverend Kendall,” Amara supplied.
“Yes, his name had escaped me. The reverend presented a most interesting lecture on—on …” Her cousin glanced helplessly at her.
“Entomology. The subjects were rather taken with Miss Novell’s bonnet.”
The comment would have earned her a terse rebuttal from her cousin if her mother had not silenced them with a look.
“Your defiance shames not only you, Amara, but your family. Conte Prola was disappointed when you failed to make an appearance at Miss Pettifoot’s. He has expressed concern that you are avoiding him. Naturally, I made the appropriate excuses.”
“Naturally,” she softly echoed.
Lady Keyworth abruptly stood. Instinctively, Amara knew the mockery in her tone had tested the boundaries of her mother’s tolerance. She was at fault. Again. Within her imagination, her mother was always a tower of fury, but in truth, she was only three inches taller than Amara. What beauty she possessed was pinched by frustration and anger. With strength that always managed to surprise Amara, Lady Keyworth seized her by the nape. The bite of her mother’s nails was enough to make her eyes water. Lady Keyworth pushed and dragged her daughter to the door.
“Miss Novell, open the door.” She might have managed it herself if Amara had not begun struggling for her release.
“I tire of these lectures, daughter.”
The servants they passed were not shocked by the commotion. Lady Keyworth’s temper was legendary. With selfpreservation foremost in their minds, they cleared the path for Amara’s humiliating journey to her bedchamber.
“Release me!” Amara demanded, her teeth clenched from the pain. She twisted and turned to no avail. She could hear her cousin’s footfalls behind them. Having Miss Novell as a witness to her punishment, once again, made Amara despise the woman all the more.
With one hand steadying her ascent, and the other easing the manacle at her nape, she cursed her mother. The last time she had dared to be so vocal, her mother had cut her waist-length hair to her chin. She would have cut her to the scalp if her father and a servant had not interfered. That had happened two years earlier.
The side of her face connected with wood as her mother fumbled with the door latch. It sprang open. Lady Keyworth shoved her into the room. Amara staggered,
catching herself before she fell into an ignoble heap on the floor. Her neck was tender from the abuse. Reflexively, she curled her hand around her wounded flesh.
Panting from her exertion, her mother declared, “You shall remain here until I send for you. In my absence, it would be wise to contemplate the humble apologies you will bestow on Conte Prola and me this evening. He intends to claim the first dance. We will not disappoint him.” She closed the door, effectively cutting off any heated vow of denial.
Hugging herself, Amara went to her window and stared blindly at the scene below. Absently, she slipped her hand into her bodice and withdrew a pendant. Blinking away the stinging grit in her eyes, she traced the plain oval bezel with her fingertip. The patina of the gold revealed its age. Against her palm, the agate intaglio felt hot. The scene depicted in the stone was of a Grecian maiden walking fearlessly alongside a lion. Her gown streamed about her as she embraced her fate. It was an image of strength and passion. The pendant had become her talisman, something tangible to draw upon when she found her own life so lacking. Amara longed for such courage as the maiden and her beast possessed. With her heart brimming with sadness, she curled her fingers into a fist. Her talisman brought her no comfort this day. She felt so alone, she thought she might die of it.

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