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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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Brock detested these functions. The area between his shoulders began itching the moment he sauntered into the ballroom. A certain amount of inquisitiveness was to be expected. His return to England would have garnered interest among the
ton
. The more bloodthirsty were probably anticipating a confrontation between him and Wynne’s Milroy. He intended to disappoint them. Whatever his feelings about his sister’s husband, he intended to keep them private.
No, the quarry he hunted this evening was cunning and elusive as smoke. It would be her choice whether their confrontation was public or private. He was beyond caring. Years of waiting had a way of fraying a man’s patience.
“Young Brock,” the matron approaching him said, her pleasure shining in her twinkling dark blue eyes. “I vow, age has improved upon your handsome visage.”
So much so that most considered him beyond the nursery. However, Brock was stoic as he accepted the compliment. His companion was a friend of the family and
would always see the unruly boy instead of the man. “You are too generous, Lady Dodd.” Accepting her hand, he bowed. His keen gaze discreetly searched the crowded ballroom.
His inattentiveness had not gone unnoticed. Lady Dodd smiled. “She is not here.”
Her declaration jarred him from his quest. “I beg your pardon.”
With admirable grace she unfolded her fan with a flick of her wrist, and gently stirred the air near her face. “Your sister. Lady Tipton. I recall another fine evening before her marriage when you were her most devoted guardian.”
She spoke of a masquerade she had held two years earlier. He was certain he would never forget that evening. It had been an unmitigated debacle. Devona had been missing so he and Tipton bullied and embarrassed Amara into divulging his sister’s whereabouts. His teeth clenched at the memory. “Tipton has relieved me of my guardian duties.”
“And Mr. Milroy has espoused your other sister. So which beauty has earned your chivalrous considerations?” she mused.
Brock hesitated. If he revealed the lady’s name, his interest would be known throughout the ballroom within an hour. His pale green eyes gleamed with unholy mischief. He could not think of another, more public method of breaching the lady’s battlements. “I was seeking Miss Claeg.”
“M-Miss Claeg,” the woman sputtered, not believing him until she met his steady gaze. The two-year-old memory of how he had half-carried Amara out of the Dodds’ ballroom flashed silently between them. The
matron smiled approvingly. “Miss Claeg, indeed. Why, young Brock, you always did enjoy a challenge.”
Amara walked rigidly beside her mother while Lady Keyworth maneuvered their way through the ballroom in a brisk manner laudable of any colonel. She stopped occasionally, speaking to people she deemed worthy of her brief civility. Amara cast a bitter glance at Miss Novell, who seemed beyond the strife in the Claeg household. They had barely entered the room when a flirtatious gentleman had begged the viscountess for her cousin’s participation in a set. Watching her competently execute the lively steps of a reel, Amara was grateful she would be spared Miss Novell’s presence for what she had already deemed a miserable evening.
“Are you of the same opinion, Miss Claeg?”
“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Sheers,” Amara replied, feeling the air around them warm with each passing second. “My thoughts were directed—” She mentally castigated herself when she noticed her mother’s lips had thinned to a disapproving line. “Elsewhere,” she lamely finished.
Not offended, the woman gave her an indulgent smile. “It was always thus for me at the start of a new season. Each year brings the spring of new love yet to be discovered, and the autumn of despair. Three seasons passed before my shy ambassador unearthed the courage to propose. Since then we have enjoyed seven-and-twenty years together.”
“It is a worthy aspiration, madam.”
The sapphire and diamonds that adorned the older woman’s hair, neck, and wrists winked with her every
gesture. “Your mother has confided to me that your time for rejoicing spring is at hand, my dear.”
“I confess I do not share my mother’s confidence. Spring may bring a more temperate clime, but it also harbors whirlwinds, chilling rain, not to mention thunder and lightning.”
Mrs. Sheers’s eyes glimmered with delight. “Glenda, I believe your Italian count will need to sharpen his wits if he intends to possess your daughter’s regard.”
There was a soft amused smile on Lady Keyworth’s face, but the look she fixed on her only daughter was pure cold determination. “No man changes at the whim of a woman. Why else would womankind be so amendable?”
There was a stilted silence between the two women. Amara sensed Mrs. Sheers was poised to disagree. There was a telling flash of temper in the woman’s eyes, but she did not respond. Perhaps being married to an ambassador had taught her diplomacy. Such marvelous restraint was probably why their friendship had lasted twelve years.
Amara’s gaze shifted, seeking some sort of distraction before she proved how gauche she had become in her two-and-twenty years. Her aimless search of the room halted on the two men who had entered. One was focused on the face of a matron she could not identify from her position. The other gentleman appeared to be as restless as she felt. He searched the crowd, his handsome mouth drawn tight into a saturnine pout. Physically and in temperament they were opposites. Yet she was involuntarily drawn to both of them on some level. Attempting to keep her breathing calm, she acknowledged that it was one of the reasons she feared them both.
“Miss Claeg, you have drifted
elsewhere
again,” Mrs. Sheers teased. “What lures your thoughts from us?”
“Conte Prola,” Lady Keyworth said, her satisfaction interwoven in her observation.
Amara knew the moment the conte noticed her. His sullen expression eased into an unappealingly smug grin and he started to make his way to them. There would be no avoiding him this evening. He and her mother had seen to it. Not wanting to encourage him further by gaping at him as if she were moonstruck, she shifted her gaze to the right, locking onto Brock Bedegrayne’s.
She suspected he was not particularly shocked by this encounter. The woman beside him seemed oblivious to their silent exchange. Her gestures suggested that she was happily carrying on the conversation for them both. Brock smiled and said something to the woman. Perhaps it was vain, but Amara felt the intimate smile was directed at her instead of his companion. The wink confirmed it.
“Lady Keyworth and Miss Claeg, it is a pleasure,” Conte Prola said, executing a formal bow. “Your presence alone has transformed a rather dull evening into something extraordinary.”
“Conte Prola, may I present a good friend of mine, Mrs. Sheers.”
“Madam,” he said, acknowledging her with another bow. His attention turned to Amara. “Miss Claeg, you have led me on a merry chase. The hunt can be as stimulating as the surrender. What do you think, ladies? Should I demand a forfeit from the charming Miss Claeg for stealing my heart?”
The older women immediately concurred. He sounded sincere enough that Amara was almost convinced that what he claimed was true.
“I claim a dance. It is a small price, no, for a strong, beating heart?”
Neatly boxed between her mother and a reprisal if she disagreed, Amara lowered her gaze to the floor. “Yes, my lord.”
“Eccellente.”
He offered his right hand. She rested her left on top of his. “If you will excuse us, ladies. Lady Keyworth, your daughter will be safe in my care.”
“I do not doubt it, Conte Prola,” her mother assured him.
Pivoting away from the older women, Amara risked a subtle glance at Brock. He stood alone. And he was not smiling.
Across the ballroom, Amara and Conte Prola joined three other couples to form a square for the cotillion. It was certainly an eclectic group of individuals. Fifty-year-old gout-ridden Lord Rodon was partnered with their host’s youngest daughter, Lady Blythe.
Across from them, Lord Middlefell stood beside his current mistress, Lady Gribbin. Observing the blatant flirtation between them, Amara assumed Lord Gribbin had not attended the ball. She doubted a man of Lord Middlefell’s notorious stamp would be deterred by the threat of a dawn appointment. She had always disliked the gambler, and if she had been alone would have given him a direct cut. Since doing so now would only force her into revealing confidences, she ignored the pair.
Turning her attention to the couple across from her, she noticed timid Miss Palmer had been paired with a gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Maguire. Their stances were awkward while everyone waited for the music to commence.
Amara greeted her companions and made the appropriate introductions. Miss Palmer, when introduced to the
conte, turned a very unflattering red and fumbled her fan. Amara could sympathize with the poor woman. The handsome Italian managed to turn almost any woman into a stuttering, clumsy goose.
“Dancing is required for a proper courtship, no?” Conte Prola murmured, his low, accented voice slipping under her skin. She resisted the urge to shudder.
“It can be, my lord. However, we are not engaged in a courtship.”
The master of ceremonies called out a warning and the music began.
“You challenge me, Miss Claeg,” he said over the music.
“No, I am discouraging you, Conte Prola.”
He laughed and shook his head, clearly not dissuaded by her comment. The conversation ended as they concentrated on the figures of the dance. With regard to skill, they were fairly matched as partners. Her mother had employed a French dance master when she was eleven, and the years of instruction had not been wasted. Although Amara would not have employed the word
graceful
when describing a gentleman, there was a careless elegance in the conte’s movements. They did not speak, but his expression was eloquent. It was brimming with joy and he was daring her to join him.
He was difficult to resist.
The conte coaxed a reluctant smile from her. When the dance ended, instead of bowing, he boldly tugged her into an embrace and spun her in a circle. The other couples applauded. By the time her slippers had touched the floor, she feared her face was as ruddy as Miss Palmer’s had been.
“You are as agile as a bird taking flight, Miss Claeg.
I am loath to return you to your mama. It is my secret wish to carry you off into the night and keep you for myself.”
“You are too presumptuous, my lord.”
“Your beauty makes a man feel reckless,” he confessed.
The combination of his intense gaze and his flattery was overwhelming for Amara. He was not the first man to court her. She had been betrothed once. Still, Amara was aware that even though most considered her fair in appearance, she was not the type of woman who inspired the devotion that gleamed in the conte’s eyes. She had encountered his ilk in the past. Only last season, the Marquess of Lothbury had eloquently praised her beauty and intelligence. She had learned later the man had courted her because of her friendship with Wynne Milroy. Her heart had been slightly bruised from his cruel manipulation, but she was the wiser for it.
“I am too old for recklessness, my lord.”
“What is this nonsense?” he demanded, the bitterness in her admission confusing him.
“Something I seem destined to repeat,” she replied, wishing she could glimpse beyond her companion’s expression. “Thank you for the dance. It was invigorating. I believe I shall retire upstairs for a few minutes. Would you be kind enough to tell my mother when you see her?”
Propriety demanded that he accept her dismissal without protest. As he bowed, his posture acquired a rigidity that reflected his displeaure. Meeting her gaze again, his expression softened. “I am your servant, Miss Claeg. I wish to be the man who grants all of your desires.”
The manner in which he stressed
desire
had its own effect on her system. “Y-yes, that is an enterprising notion. Please tell my mother I will return to her soon.” She
stepped away from him and then paused. “I did thank you for the dance, did I not?”
He took her gloved hand and kissed above the knuckles. “Perhaps we shall dance again? Soon, I think.”
She hastily nodded, backing away before she agreed to anything else. It would have been more prudent to allow the conte to escort her back to her mother. However, Amara needed a few minutes to herself. She headed out of the ballroom and up the stairs. She kept a leisurely pace. There was no reason to call unwarranted attention to her actions. So intent was she on deciding which room she should use, she did not notice that someone was following her until a firm hand closed over her mouth.
With thundering conversation and music vying for supremacy in the background, no one heard her muffled scream. She bit down on her captor’s hand, but the white kid gloves buffered any damage her teeth could have inflicted. Dragging her backward, her assailant deftly opened a door with one hand while keeping her subdued with the other. He pulled her into the room. The bedchamber’s oil lamps were lit and the smell of coal drifted from the grate.

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