Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

Tempting the Heiress (6 page)

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress

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“Our skills were more than adequate to handle a few drunken crimps,” Brock countered, his pride pricking at him. “Were we not the ones who walked out of the Red Crummy before someone had the sense to alert the watch?”

The cloth-wrapped ice he pressed to his swollen cheek felt rapturous. He would have whimpered if his sister’s presence had not demanded that he remain stoic. Tipton was contemplative as he examined the nasty bruise on Brock’s back. “Have I broken the rib?”

The surgeon did not answer immediately. His touch was competent, but each poke sent branches of pain directly into Brock’s stomach. He shifted away, worrying that he might be ill.

“How grievous are his injuries, Tipton?” Devona pressed, her concern overriding her anger at him for placing their father in danger.

“He will not require bleeding,” he said, the muscle along his jaw tensing in sympathy to the pain his examination was causing his patient. His expression softened when he glanced up and noted her distress. “Come, love, no tears. The Bedegraynes can take a knock or two without permanent damage. I did not pack even one bone saw.”

He and his father watched as the viscount drew his wife into a one-armed embrace and kissed her. The irony of the compassionate action made Brock grin. He could recall an occasion or two when the bruises mottling his flesh had been administered by Tipton’s skillful hands. Although he would never admit it, he conceded that his brother-in-law had been justified. It was odd how age had a way of changing one’s perspective.

“You can tup your wife later,” Brock complained. Their kiss had reminded him what it felt like to have Amara in his arms. The fight and the pain had almost pushed her from his thoughts. In his present condition, he was not particularly grateful for the reminder. “How ’bout easing your patient’s fears?”

Devona pushed away from her husband. Her pretty blush was almost as dark as her fiery tresses. Sneaking a peek at her chuckling father, she took his bruised hand and pushed it into a bowl of solution Tipton had prepared. She smiled a little too sweetly when Sir Thomas yelped because of the sting.

There was a gleam in the surgeon’s light blue eyes as well, but he was too intelligent to let his wife see it. “To ease your fears, Bedegrayne, it is my professional opinion that you are suffering from severe bruising. The one on your back is painful, but I doubt the rib is cracked. You are in better condition than you deserve for taking on two men.”

“Three,” Brock corrected. “Including the barmaid. Of the three, I think she was the most vicious.”

“And most likely would’ve cut your throat if I hadn’t taken that broken bottle out of her hand,” Sir Thomas added. “Your charm failed you this night, my boy.”

Brock sucked in his breath while Tipton bound his sore ribs. The growing ache was spreading to all his limbs. He would pay dearly on the morrow for this evening’s entertainment. The unbidden image of Amara Claeg rose in his mind. “I am endeavoring to improve myself, sir.”

Amara’s thoughts of Brock were less charitable. Tugging the jeweled aigrettes from her hair, she placed them in the velvet-lined box her maid, Elsie Corry, held out.

“It must have been some night,” the enthusiastic servant said. With her carrot-colored curls and rusty freckles highlighting her cheeks and nose, she looked younger than seventeen and more suited to country life than life in London.

She added her armlets to the box, and reached behind to remove the necklace. “Oh? Gossiping with your footman again, Corry?”

“Here now, let me see to that clasp, else we’ll be spending the rest of the night on our feet.” Setting the box on the dressing table, she moved behind Amara and began working on the clasp. “I gave up on Brian last week. Handsome he is, but dense as dirt about a lady’s interest.” There was regret in her sigh. She placed the necklace in the box. Without permission, she set about removing Amara’s earrings. “One of the grooms has offered to
escort me to a play in Covent Garden. He’s not as fine looking as Brian, mind you, but a lady could do worse.”

“Perhaps seeing you with a new admirer is just the thing to jolt your Brian into action,” Amara suggested, adjusting her position so the maid could free her from her gown.

“It might,” Corry agreed, obviously cheered by the notion. “Aw, Miss Claeg, you are too kind letting me go on about my troubles when I’d rather hear about the dashing rake you kissed.”

Good heavens, had he left marks on her? It took all her will to strap down her curiosity and not check her reflection in the dressing mirror. “Me? Kissed? You jest.” She tried to sound shocked by the charge, but the nervous giggle ruined it all.

“I’ve been looking after you nigh eight months, and you aren’t the sort to turn over to my care torn lace on your sleeves. Not like my last employer.” She sniffed. “I repaired more than one torn bodice in that household.”

Flabbergasted, Amara meekly stood still while Corry gathered the gown up and pulled it over her head. Shaking the fabric out, the maid expertly flipped the topaz gown over her arm and presented the sleeve. “Your gent must have had a fierce passion for you. His fingers caught in the lace and tore it here and here. A shame, that. It will have to be replaced.”

Shame, indeed! She had wandered about after her encounter with Brock and had chatted with at least a dozen people. Had anyone noticed? More importantly, had her mother? Glancing down at her arms, she noticed it was not only the gown that bore the marks of Brock Bedegrayne’s zeal. Several small, fingerlike bruises were
already darkening on her arms. Shivering, she closed her eyes.

Misinterpreting her distress, Corry said, “There now, what’s a bit of lace to a lady like yourself? I’ll fix the sleeves and the gown will be like new again.” Laying the gown aside, she put her nimble fingers to work on the strings of the corset. “So, madam, confess all to Corry. Who was the ardent gent? Considering my sad circumstances with men, I wouldn’t mind feathering my dreams with a few saucy tales.”

If it had been any other gentleman, Amara might have been tempted to regale the incorrigible Corry with the truth. Cursing Brock Bedegrayne and herself, she called upon the talent she had honed these past years. She lied.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Brock fought back a groan as he followed the Milroys’ butler, Wigget, through the town garden to the stables. He wondered if his sister Wynne had already learned of last evening’s activities and was exacting a bit of feminine revenge by forcing him to hunt for her. Despite the servant’s casual pace, the exertion had Brock sweating. The design of the garden consisted of alternating keyhole and diamond patterns. Glancing longingly at a stone bench, he wondered if Maddie had created this tranquil sanctuary.

“Bedegrayne,” a male voice called out, pulling him from his contemplation and pain. “I see two years has changed little about you.”

His grimace curved into a grin at the droll observation. “Nevin!” Shaking his head at his blunder, he closed the remaining distance between them and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“Spare me the formality,” Drake Fawks, the sixth Duke of Reckester drawled, the dimple in his left cheek becoming prominent as he smiled. “You always did sound too
insolent when you tried. The number of dawn appointments for which I acted as your second attested to that.”

Dropping all pretense of formality, the men embraced. Extraordinarily tall, Brock felt inferior standing so close to someone who had a physique that even gentlemen venerated. Pulling back, he pressed his hand to his side in a futile attempt to ease the pain. “I heard about your father, Drake. You have my condolences.”

His friend sobered, his aquamarine-colored eyes narrowed with concern. Only a year older than Brock, he had always seemed even older, more willing to accept the yoke of responsibility. “What the deuce have you done to yourself?”

The rebuke was not improving his disposition. “You speak as if I thrive on dissension,” Brock grumbled.

The complaint was just the right thing to ease the sadness shadowing his friend’s gaze. The young duke smirked. “And what of the colorful bruising on your cheek and crushed ribs? Were they delivered under the guise of friendship?”

Brock muttered an oath. “I do not start all the brawls, you know.”

“Just enough,” replied the man behind them. Even though he was dressed for the stable, his costly boots, if not his bearing, indicated to Brock that this man was no one’s servant.

“Mr. Keanan Milroy?” He left the question in his inflection. Regardless, he had no doubts that the dark blond muscled giant was Drake’s half brother and Wynne’s husband.

“Aye,” he admitted, mulling over the scene he had interrupted. “You must be one of the brothers. The eldest,
would be my guess. You’ve got the look of my Wynne about the eyes.”

Brock had imagined many exchanges with the retired pugilist, but the sentimental assessment was not one of them. Disarmed, he laughed. Drake, in the position of knowing both men’s histories, visibly relaxed and sent a querying look in his direction. It would take too much breath to explain, so he just shook his head. He braced both hands against his side to buffer the punishment his laughter caused. “I would beg you to keep your voice down when you are making such comparisons.”

“And why is that?” Milroy asked, a hint of a smile twitching his lips.

“What woman cares to be compared to her brother? She almost tore an ear from my head the last time someone mentioned it!”

As the man crossed his arms against his chest, his smile was not reassuring. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Bedegrayne.”

Descending the stairs an hour and a half later than her usual time, Amara stifled a yawn. The late hours of town were never agreeable with her constitution. With her maid’s assistance, she had donned a long-sleeved white muslin gown decorated with sprigs of blue forget-me-nots and heelless white kid shoes with blue bows. Corry had braided her shoulder-length tresses, neatly tucking them in to a fanciful lace cap adorned with blue flowers and beading.

She headed for the morning room, expecting she would be enjoying her tea and toast in solitude. It was rare for
the family to break fast together. The late hours of town only encouraged individual schedules. If her mother or father required her attention, they would simply summon her. Recalling her mother’s lecture last evening, Amara had every intention of spending the afternoon out of the house.

“A moment, Miss Claeg.” Buckle, the butler, approached. He had traded his dark coat for a full-length apron. The dusty smudge on his left shoulder and the red leather notebook in his hand hinted that he had spent that past hour down in the cellar.

“Good morning, Buckle. Has Lady Keyworth arisen?”

“No, Miss Claeg.” He opened his notebook and retrieved a sealed letter. “A boy delivered it early this morning. Two other deliveries were made in the past two hours.”

Accepting the letter, she puzzled over the nondescript seal. “Really? From whom?”

“Can’t say, miss. Shall I bring them to the morning room?”

“Yes, that will be fine,” she said, distracted by the letter. Brock Bedegrayne’s daring was boundless. He was breaking all their unspoken rules. Unable to resist, she broke the seal. The note was terse as well as enigmatic.

“Forget not the past.”

It was unsigned. “So typical of a Bedegrayne,” she muttered, folding and tucking the note into her bodice. She preferred to avoid explanations to her family until she had gained a few of them for herself.

Amara had barely settled down with her tea when Buckle entered, carrying two packages.

“Lord Keyworth has requested your presence when you have finished your repast, Miss Claeg.”

“Thank you, Buckle.” Excitement blossomed within her as she picked up a knife and sawed through the cord. Another two weeks would pass before it was her twenty-second birthday. It was too early for someone to be sending her gifts.

Removing the cerecloth covering, she peered inside. In wonderment, she removed an opaque glass bowl containing a bouquet of marzipan flowers. She delicately touched an unfurling petal of a red camellia. “It almost looks real. The confectioner is a master artist.”

The butler discreetly cleared his throat. “Miss Claeg, shall I summon a footman for your reply?”

The question brought her head up. “What? Oh, no, I will send for one later. You can tell my father I will attend him shortly.”

She waited until the servant had departed before she reached for the card. “‘For my incomparable bloom,’” she read aloud. The writing was different from that of the other note. There was no signature. “Well, my mysterious benefactor, I cannot fault your taste.”

Amara set the bowl on to the table. Taking a sip of her cooling tea, she slid her fingers across the surface of coarse green baize used to wrap the other box. It was a large rectangular box with a depth no more than four inches. Putting her tea down, she seized the knife and efficiently cut through the cord.

Underneath the yards of baize, she uncovered a teak box. Carved into the yellowish-brown wood was an unusual circular pattern of lotus flowers, peacocks, and palm leaves. The box itself was a costly gift. Lifting the lid, she bit the tip of her finger as she studied the prize within. Laid out on red velvet was an opened fan. The sticks were made of pierced ivory. Near the head, replicas
of a nude woman reached skyward toward panels of varying crisscrossing designs, each more intricate than the last. The leaf was silk and the color matched the ivory sticks. Scattered across the fabric were silver sequins, and thin silver ribbons scalloped the edge. Overcome, she pressed at the lump forming in her throat. It was the most beautiful fan she had ever beheld.

She allowed the lid to drop at the sound of the door opening. Relieved at the sight of the footman, she retrieved the discarded green baize and went about wrapping the box.

“Miss Claeg, pardon my intrusion, but your father is most insistent that you see him at once.”

Her father. She had forgotten all about him. Returning the marzipan bouquet to its box, she stacked the two boxes. “Mundy, please take these packages to my room. Tell my maid to leave them to my care.”

“Yes, miss.”

Amara made a quick search of her surroundings, even lifting the tablecloth high so she could peek under the table. Like the sender of the note, whoever sent the gifts had chosen to remain anonymous. She released the tablecloth, allowing it to fall back in place. Perhaps one person had sent all three. She straightened, thinking over the possibilities. Donning her gloves, she abandoned her barely touched breakfast. The revelation of her mysterious benefactor would also have to wait. She quit the morning room in search of her father.

Instead of inviting Brock into the house, which would have added a certain formality to his visit, his new brother-in-law headed back into the stables. The building was new. The clean smell of new timber was still evident despite the
more prominent odors of horse and hay. They walked down a narrow corridor past the stable office and tack room.

“Your patience is admirable, Mr. Bedegrayne,” Milroy said, “and it will be taxed a few minutes more if you can bear it. A bee stung one of the bays three days ago and its right hock is swollen. I’d like to see if the poultice has helped.”

Brock’s mouth quirked. “I think I can find something here to amuse myself.”

“I thought as much. I figure a man who has baked under India’s sun for more than two years can handle some manure on his fine boots.”

With that, they stepped out of the corridor. The connecting room was larger in height and breadth, accommodating wooden stalls and bales of hay. The head coachman raised a hand in greeting, and begged a moment to discuss the horse that had concerned Milroy. Excusing himself, Brock took advantage of the distraction. Moving from stall to stall, he admired the occupants. Whatever the man’s faults, Milroy possessed an appreciation for excellent horseflesh.

His brother-in-law joined him at the fourth stall. “Impressive,” Brock said, running his hand down the neck of the black roan stallion that had caught his attention. “Have you considered selling him?”

Genuine amusement crept into the indigo depths of the man’s eyes. “No more than I would Wynne or my daughters.”

“Do you race him?”

“For what? Money? Status? No, Mr. Bedegrayne, Fardoragh and I already know his worth.”

The stallion blew out an answering breath, and swung his head toward his master’s outstretched hand. Milroy at
some time during their walk from the outdoors to the stables had lost his gloves. A glimpse of a thin white-silver scar across the finger pads of his left hand reminded Brock how greatly the fighter’s rough life contrasted with his own.

“How is the bay?”

Giving the stallion a hearty pat on the shoulder, Milroy lifted his brows, perhaps surprised by the question. “It is too early to tell if the poultice Drake suggested will ease the animal’s swelling.”

The casual reference to the duke produced a strained silence between them. Keanan Milroy and the Duke of Reckester were half brothers. For years, it had been a public secret, although the Reckester family had denied the connection. Brock did not know the particulars, but he assumed the men had reconciled their differences when their father had perished by the hand of a footpad.

Milroy murmured a farewell to his stallion, and headed for the open side door. Brock easily matched his stride.

“There is little resemblance between you.”

To his credit, the man did not profess confusion about the change of topic. “Aye. Each day before the shaving mirror, I imagine we both say a prayer or two for that small boon.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “How long have you known?”

“From the start.” Brock had first encountered the nineyear-old Drake, then bearing the title Lord Nevin, at Eton. A friendship had sprung up which continued even after university. There was a time when he had hoped the heir to a dukedom would marry one of his sisters. “I thought Drake would marry Wynne.” He had not realized he had spoken the words aloud until Milroy suddenly halted.

“Her heart took another direction.” Something akin to guilt shadowed his visage. “How long will you punish her for loving the wrong brother?”

“I am not—” Brock was taken aback by the cutting truth of the accusation. Rallying his thoughts, he acknowledged, “It has not been my intention to hurt her. I love Wynne. True, I feel Drake would have been a sensible choice for a husband. However, my bias is measured by years of friendship with one man and frightful rumors of another. Can you say you would have chosen a different course?”

“Perhaps not,” Milroy conceded. He stared past Brock, surveying the changes the renovation over the past year had wrought. “I doubt any man fits a brother’s expectation. I was told you and Tipton milled once or twice before he married his lady.”

An undignified snort erupted from Brock. He had despised Tipton from the outset. His youngest sister had been too naïve and gentle to believe that the gossip about the notorious surgeon was quite factual. Quarrelsome and full of conceit, he had challenged the viscount on several occasions, but the cunning man had always managed to gain the upper hand. It had been humiliating at the time.

“Tipton can be persuasive.”

A past encounter with the viscount had the blond bruiser nodding. “And he wields a rather nasty walking stick.”

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress

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