Read Tempting the Heiress Online
Authors: Barbara Pierce
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance
Tempting the Heiress (9 page)
The look he gave her was filled with brotherly stoicism. “I think we can accommodate you, dearest.”
After taking care of her personal needs, Amara returned to the studio. Finding it empty, she strode to the open window. She stared down at the activity below, wondering if Brock was awaiting her return.
“Looking for anyone I know?” Mallory asked, his appearance greatly improved by her brief absence. His dark hair was combed and confined with a leather strap. He had replaced his wrinkled attire with a freshly pressed coat the color of claret and a gray waistcoat. The knot in his cravat was uninspired. Nevertheless, she acknowledged his attempt with a slight nod.
“I doubt you would believe me. I barely believe it myself.”
“Oh, I have the capacity to believe the extraordinary,” he retorted, apparently intrigued. “Confess all.”
Amara’s eyes crinkled in amusement at his protracting demand. She thought she could trust him. Besides, refusing him added more importance than it warranted.
“Mr. Brock Bedegrayne.”
He was not particularly stunned by her confession. Casually dropping onto the nearest sofa, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. I had heard he had returned from abroad.” Mallory gave her a considering stare. “Shall I demand grass before breakfast for your honor?”
Horrified by the possibility, she exclaimed, “Heavens, no!”
Satisfied by her answer, he settled back into his slouch. “I thought as much. In our youth, I caught Bedegrayne watching you with a less than brotherly interest. You were too young then. I might have interfered if he had acted, but he kept his distance, choosing to pursue other …” He made a vague gesture with his hand.
Mistresses
. That was the word her brother had tactfully omitted. Old memories brought forgotten pain and anger. Once, the six years between their ages had seemed an insurmountable abyss. Now it was the least of her concerns.
. That was the word her brother had tactfully omitted. Old memories brought forgotten pain and anger. Once, the six years between their ages had seemed an insurmountable abyss. Now it was the least of her concerns.
“Has he made a formal declaration to our sire?”
She moved from the window. “The connection between our family and his has become strained since Doran’s death. Moreover, Papa has found me an Italian conte.”
His expressive face conveyed better than words what he thought of Lord Keyworth’s lofty opinion. “What about Bedegrayne?”
Had she not asked herself the same question a thousand times? Since her feelings were simmering too close to the surface, she changed the subject. “You are a comely rogue, Mr. Claeg. Why have you not convinced
some young lady to accept the responsibility of pestering you daily into a clean coat?”
some young lady to accept the responsibility of pestering you daily into a clean coat?”
Tipping the satinwood Pembroke table of its clutter, Mallory righted it and secured the butterfly flaps. “Probably for the same reason you resist the noble studs our father trots under your nose. I dislike being hobbled.”
Amara was spared from responding to his outrageous comment. A footman entered, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, plates, and a silver cake basket filled with her anticipated spice cake. After the servant departed, she joined him on the sofa.
Pouring the tea, she said, “That is a horrid thing to say.”
“But apt,” he countered, accepting the teacup she offered. “My marriage to Mirabella was a mistake. Not that I would ever make such an admission to our sire. Something tells me that if your Lord Homely had lived long enough to mutter his way through his wedding vows, you and I would be sharing the same point of view.”
She giggled, sensing he had purposely blundered the man’s name just to hear her laugh. “Lord Cornley. The horrid man’s name was Cornley.”
Nudging the cake basket closer, Mallory said, “Well, well, how telling. Does Bedegrayne know you have ceased grieving for your dead betrothed?”
The tea she choked on scalded her tongue. Setting her teacup down, she kept her hands busy by heeding her brother’s not-so-subtle hint and served him the spice cake.
Finally, she said, “Mr. Bedegrayne, above all, understood my feelings about Lord Cornley.”
Brock had never met a more nettlesome and perplexing lady than Amara Claeg. Fate had kicked him in the arse,
and the lovely Miss Claeg had chalked the bloody target on his posterior. Considering his volatile mood, if she had remained, he would have throttled her and by damn, he would have enjoyed it!
and the lovely Miss Claeg had chalked the bloody target on his posterior. Considering his volatile mood, if she had remained, he would have throttled her and by damn, he would have enjoyed it!
“Bedegrayne, if you keep muttering and glaring at the pedestrians, someone will assume you have escaped the private asylum near the park and summon a constable.”
Brock glanced up. Mallory Claeg was perched on the edge of his windowsill. From his lofty position, he must have observed the entire incident that had taken place moments earlier. Now his humiliation was complete.
“Come up,” the man invited. “My neighbors will praise me for the good deed. I think it is time we renew our old friendship.”
Brock almost stalked off. It was tempting, but he was not a coward. Moreover, he had a word or two for a brother who would permit his sister to drive off with a nameless Italian fop!
Claeg’s aloof housekeeper led him upstairs into the drawing room. The room was designed more for pleasing the
bon ton
’s discriminating taste than for comfort. Brock assumed Claeg used the room for entertaining his highwater patrons.
bon ton
’s discriminating taste than for comfort. Brock assumed Claeg used the room for entertaining his highwater patrons.
“Welcome, Bedegrayne. I seem to be offering everyone tea this afternoon. I assume you prefer yours cold.” Claeg held up a crystal decanter of brandy. At Brock’s nod, he removed the stopper and poured two glasses. Offering one of the glasses to him, Claeg said, “What shall we toast?”
“The jade.”
“Ah, right to the heart of things.” He lifted his glass and imbibed. “I gather you are speaking of my sister.”
For an elder brother, his host was not particularly outraged by the insult. Instead of feeling relieved that he
was not apologizing his way out of a duel with Amara’s only surviving brother, Brock shifted his ire onto the Claeg within his grasp.
was not apologizing his way out of a duel with Amara’s only surviving brother, Brock shifted his ire onto the Claeg within his grasp.
“I would have never trusted her in your care if I had known you were so apathetic about her welfare. Has there been a moment or two in your life when you have placed someone else’s concerns above your own?”
“Have a care, Bedegrayne,” Mallory said, temper making his gaze flat and deadly. “I might take offense.”
Brock’s grip tightened on the glass in his hand. The sharp edges of the crystal pattern scored into his palm. It was astounding the glass had not shattered under the pressure. Fighting Claeg would not benefit him. After what he had witnessed this afternoon, forcing Amara to choose between him and her brother would only confirm that he was the worst villain.
Perhaps seeing more than Brock would have liked, Claeg settled into an odd-looking X-frame chair made out of serpentlike birds. He idly tapped his glass on a beak that comprised part of the arm. His expression was contemplative instead of confrontational.
“You may be correct, Bedegrayne. My family prefers bestowing love best at a distance. Even so, your interference will not be appreciated, no matter how honorable.”
Since Claeg was willing to give him the information Brock craved, he could be reasonable. He chose the opposing chair. The brandy was easing the ache in his ribs. “Who was the gentleman?”
“When his servant knocked, he was introduced as Matteo Taldo, Conte Prola.” He lifted a finger, silencing him. “Amara was not expecting him. If you must blame someone, blame my father. He tires of having a spinster for a daughter.”
Brock took a sip of his drink, recalling the shock in Amara’s turbulent blue eyes when she had noticed him. Her hand had rested on the Italian’s sleeve. The guilt paling her features had him reeling with understanding. Whoever this man was, he was the reason she had been rebuffing Brock for the last two days. He had not been thinking clearly when he had advanced on the couple.
“Mr. Bedegrayne, no!” She stepped in front of her escort. “I beg of you. Please.”
The Italian sniffed and drew himself up to his full height. “Miss Claeg, you are acquainted with this …
selvaggio,
no? Have no fear, you are under my protection.”
selvaggio,
no? Have no fear, you are under my protection.”
Brock seized her roughly by the arm and hauled her closer. She did not fight him, but the gentleman took a courageous step toward him. Not caring about the consequences, he shoved the man back with his free hand, compelling him to take several quick steps back to keep his balance.
Despite his anger, he gentled his touch as he caressed Amara’s cheek. “Sweet lady of perfidy. What honeyed lies will drip from your tongue?”
“No lies, Mr. Bedegrayne. Nor will I attempt convincing you with the truth.” Her lips trembled, and he realized belatedly that his brutality had been a grave misstep.
“I must insist you release Miss Claeg, at once!” the incensed man demanded.
Holding her in place, he stared down at her, unprepared to release her to anyone, especially the fop. His intuition hummed, warning him that she was safe only in his care.
“Come with me,” he pleaded, burying his pride. “Now!” Her trembling lips parted. For few seconds, Brock held his breath, feeling as if his heart balanced on the tip of a dagger.
“Miss Claeg!” the stranger said, pompously expecting her obedience.
Tears pooled in her eyes, damning him. He released her. She backed away from him, this time with determination rather than fear. “I must go.”
Pulling back from the memory, Brock set down his brandy. She had refused him because of duty, not because she had given her heart to the Italian. He found little comfort in the thought.
“I am not in the habit of interfering in the day-by-day minutiae of my family,” Claeg said, recapturing his attention. “However, when word reached me that my father had found a replacement for the tedious Lord Cornley, I grew curious.”
“How curious?”
“Enough to make a few inquiries about the gent.”
“And?”
Claeg shrugged. “He seems everything he claims to be and more.” Meditative, he took a sip of his brandy. “Oh, I can see you are disappointed in my answer. Then again, you never did like Cornley. What will you do, Bedegrayne? You cannot challenge every man who shows interest in my sister.”
“Cornley was a Machiavellian bounder who took entirely too much pleasure in hurting others. Putting a ball in him would have been too merciful.” The other man thought jealousy ruled Brock’s actions, but it was only a symptom.
“Luckily, Cornley spared you the awkwardness of having to leave the country by perishing in a fire. I recall Amara was despondent for months.”
Either by tactful omission or ignorance, Claeg had left out several incriminating details. Six years ago, Brock
had tracked down Cornley at his favorite gaming hell, the Manticore, and had challenged the drunken man to a duel. The confrontation turned deadly when knives were drawn and a brawl erupted. An oil lamp had been kicked over in the confusion, shattering against the wall. Hot oil and flame had devoured the dry wood, and soon the entire establishment had been ablaze. Brock had escaped unscathed. Three patrons had perished in the fire. One of them had been Lord Cornley. If there was justice, the man was burning eternally in hell.
had tracked down Cornley at his favorite gaming hell, the Manticore, and had challenged the drunken man to a duel. The confrontation turned deadly when knives were drawn and a brawl erupted. An oil lamp had been kicked over in the confusion, shattering against the wall. Hot oil and flame had devoured the dry wood, and soon the entire establishment had been ablaze. Brock had escaped unscathed. Three patrons had perished in the fire. One of them had been Lord Cornley. If there was justice, the man was burning eternally in hell.
“Awkward or not, Cornley would have died by my hand.”
Claeg left his chair and retrieved the decanter of brandy. Returning, he refilled Brock’s glass and then his own. “The man has been dead, what, five or six years and still he arouses your bitter hatred. What do you know about Cornley that my family does not?”
Brock remained silent. No one had listened to him six years ago when the match had been announced. There was nothing to be gained from discussing it now. He picked up his brandy. “Perhaps you should have your sources prod deeper into Prola’s background.”
“Why?”
“A posteriori. Cornley was also handpicked by your father.”
Amara drifted somewhere between the twilight of consciousness and the cozy depths of dreams. With her eyes closed, vivid images of her day flickered in her mind like the pages of a book caught by a sudden breeze. There were glimpses of her father, the marzipan bouquet, Miss Novell, and a falcon plummeting down from the heavens for the kill.
Brushing her hair from her face, she twisted the bedding around her when she turned onto her left side. Her head was a whirlwind. She saw herself posing and teasing Mallory, spice cake, and her mother standing by the door, clearly disapproving of something she had done. She frowned, uncertain of her sins. When she approached her mother, the image blurred and changed to Brock. He was angry, so very angry. He kept pointing at her gown. Was something wrong with her gown? Glancing down, she realized she was holding the beautiful fan he had given her. Flipping it open, she gaped in horror as all the silver sequins fell like a cascade of dried petals to the floor.
Somewhere within the tangle of images, she had
slipped into dreams and from there into nightmares. Nightmares of the past.
slipped into dreams and from there into nightmares. Nightmares of the past.
Amara stood at the window watching the rain freeze into snow. The storm had been unexpected, but it would not ruin the festivities within Arras Green. Earlier there had been a hunt, and her mother had outdone herself with a feast worthy of a royal guest. She had heard her father boast to her mother that the Prince of Wales might attend their gathering. The house, servants, and the Claeg children had been prepared for such a contingency. Switching her attention from the scene outdoors to her faint reflection in the glass, she turned from side to side admiring her new gown. For a sixteen-year-old young lady, the cut of the bodice was the most daring she had ever worn. Judging from the various reactions she had received earlier from the male guests, her youthful figure was ripening into enticing womanly curves. Cheered by her minor and imaginary conquests, Amara leaned forward and in a feigned kiss, blew her breath against the window, making the glass fog. She wrote her initials, A. C., and drew a scrolling circle around the letters.
She gasped when strong hands covered her eyes and pulled her backward into an embrace. “Guess?” her male captor whispered against her ear.
Amara smiled, forgetting her brief fright. The warmth of his breath tickled her ear, making her shiver. Although he had tried to disguise his voice, the heart always recognized with affection. Feeling playful, she asked, “Are you one of the footmen? No, that cannot be so, for I have broken all their hearts. You must be …” She trailed off, drawing out the suspense. “Mr. Adler, is it you?”
There was a charged pause. “Who the devil is Mr. Adler?” The feigned outrage was almost believable.
Spinning around, she laughed and gave her captor a teasing poke on the shoulder. “Did you think you could fool me, Brock Bedegrayne? There could be a hundred men in this room and I would still recognize you, even blindfolded.”
As he returned her smile, his expression told her that he did not believe her claim. “How?” he challenged, his gaze so intense, it seemed to be committing her face to memory.
She had recognized him by his scent. He had a tantalizing fragrance, which brought to mind a feeling of protection and tenderness. Since it was unseemly to admit that she sniffed every gentleman she encountered, family friend or not, she was not about to confess the truth. “It was the manner of your walk. I heard your brash swagger.”
He pinched her nose in mock punishment. “Silly goose. Have you missed me?”
“Nary a moment,” she lied. Once a childhood playmate, Brock Bedegrayne was now a grown man. His pursuits were no longer dictated by the whims of his family. She had once fancied herself in love with him, and the rarity of their meetings broke her woman’s heart. “Have you come with your family?”
“Aye. Sir Thomas has brought my sisters, so it should please you to have other women about closer to your age.”
“It does. Older brothers are so tiresome.”
Not offended, he shared her amusement. “Brothers make a similar accounting for younger sisters.”
She felt so comfortable around Brock Bedegrayne, regardless of the fact he had been more her brothers’ friend than hers. He had always treated her like one of his sisters. He yelled when he was angry, pulled her hair when feeling provoked, and was fiercely protective. The love
she felt for him was forged on a young girl’s boundless fantasy, even if it was imprudent and futile. He had never sought more than friendship, nor had he offered anything overstepping the bounds of brotherly affection.
she felt for him was forged on a young girl’s boundless fantasy, even if it was imprudent and futile. He had never sought more than friendship, nor had he offered anything overstepping the bounds of brotherly affection.
“Your home is overflowing with guests, and yet here I find you alone. Why is that?”
She had been prudently avoiding the attentions of one particular gentleman, but it seemed too cowardly to make such a confession. She wanted him to see her as a young lady old enough to be courted, not as a frightened child.
He smiled, his brows lifted with curiosity. “Do not tell me you actually believe the Prince of Wales will attend?”
His skepticism triggered a natural surge of family loyalty. “His Royal Highness has my father’s support and friendship. Bestowing favor on such unwavering allegiance is not uncommon.”
Unimpressed, he dismissed her defense with a grimace. Disconcerting her further, he lightly fingered one of the petite braids near her right ear. “The prince’s allegiance can be as fickle as a young maid’s heart.”
She rushed forward, covering his mouth with her hand. “Hush! You utter the most traitorous remarks! What if someone hears you?”
Through her gloved hand, Amara could feel his grin. He replied, but it was muffled. Chagrined, she removed her hand. “I do beg your pardon.”
“Nay, you wish me to the devil, Miss Claeg,” he countered, unrepentant about his teasing. “The truth is in your eyes. They are as clear as a hot spring on a winter’s morning. Such inviting depths tempt a gentleman to cast aside caution.” Unsmiling, he moved closer, causing the tiny hairs on her arms to prickle. “Aye, they might be worth a bad scalding.”
Her mouth went dry. “More like a good scolding, if you dare.” He intended to kiss her. She was certain of it. Awareness rippled just beneath her flesh, making their proximity almost painful. He stared down at her, his hungry gaze fixed on her mouth. Unable to tolerate the tension a minute further, she rolled up on her tiptoes and pressed her soft mouth to his. Brock angled his head to one side, and reverently their lips touched. She closed her eyes, marveling at the perfection of the moment. Never had a kiss moved her so that she felt the ardent tingles all the way down to her knees.
Laughter coming from outside the room broke the fragile enchantment. With a mumbled apology, she jerked back and turned her head toward the door. Amara barely heard Brock’s soft imprecation. She was so petrified, wondering if her mother might be with the group, that she had not released her grip on his arms. Only Brock had the presence of mind to untangle himself and put a respectable amount of distance between them.
Her brother Doran appeared at the threshold, catching sight of them. Since he had spent the last few hours liberally drinking with the other gentlemen, his youthful features took on a puckish air.
“What have we here?” He wagged a finger at them. “Naughty, naughty, dear sister. Especially since I have gone to the trouble of—” He leaned back and gave a shout to someone. The unintelligible reply had her brother doubling over with a fit of laughter. He beckoned his unseen companions to join him. “Amara, my girl, come show your betrothed a proper welcoming. We shall drink a toast in honor of your upcoming nuptials.”
Amused by some prank they had played, three boisterous gentlemen came up behind her brother, who was still
bracing himself up at the entryway. Ducking under her brother’s arm, Lord Cornley put a companionable arm around Doran. He was a fine-looking man with gray eyes and straight blond hair that was cut to frame his face. The young earl was also quite foxed. He squinted at Brock and Amara, who seemed rooted in place. Oblivious that he was doing anything untoward, he leered at her, his expression becoming embarrassingly intimate. “Gentlemen, a’n’t she a pretty one?”
bracing himself up at the entryway. Ducking under her brother’s arm, Lord Cornley put a companionable arm around Doran. He was a fine-looking man with gray eyes and straight blond hair that was cut to frame his face. The young earl was also quite foxed. He squinted at Brock and Amara, who seemed rooted in place. Oblivious that he was doing anything untoward, he leered at her, his expression becoming embarrassingly intimate. “Gentlemen, a’n’t she a pretty one?”
Thumping Doran on the back, Lord Cornley walked toward her. He wobbled on the last step, and then seized her hand. An abrupt shriek slipped out when he dragged her into a clumsy embrace. His cohorts laughed, enjoying his audacity. She tried pulling her wrists free, but she might as well have been fettered with irons instead of muscle, tendon, and bone.
“You have been miserly in your attentions, Miss Claeg.”
“It has not deterred you from finding your own amusements, my lord.” Papa wanted this man to be her husband. The thought left her cold.
“As my countess, you will learn that my needs come before all. I demand a kiss from my lady.”
Anticipation lit Lord Cornley’s gray eyes as he dipped his face closer. The smell of spirits had her wrinkling her nose, while she turned her face away and arched her body, attempting to escape his questing lips. What feelings Brock’s gentle kiss had coaxed from her congealed at the notion of Lord Cornley’s touch. His friends, including her brother, thought her resistance all a jest and were clearly entertained by her efforts to thwart her betrothed’s sloppy affection.
“My lord, please.”
Feeling wholly inept at handling the situation, she sent a beseeching look to her only ally in the room.
Brock was gone. The room became a variegated pattern of color when Lord Cornley tired of her game, whirled them once and then jerked her closer. She closed her eyes, prepared to endure his kiss. In her mind, she envisioned years of such moments and her heart withered.
“Release her.”
Amara opened her eyes at the quiet demand. Her relief was almost blinding as she met Brock’s wintry stare. He had not deserted her. Sometime during her struggles, Brock had moved, positioning himself behind Lord Cornley. The merriment palled as the tension stretched between the two men. She did not take her gaze from Brock’s face, but she could hear the gentlemen in the distance whispering, perhaps even wagering on the outcome.
The young earl glanced over his shoulder, summarily dismissing the threat Brock posed. “Stealing a kiss from my betrothed does not warrant your concern.” The comment was nonchalant in delivery, but his fingers digging into her arms revealed his anger.
“I must insist. Miss Claeg deserves better than a clumsy pawing from a pot valiant.”
“Kiss mine, you meddlesome cur.” Defiant, he smashed his mouth down over hers.
Amara felt the sharp edges of his teeth when he pressed a punishing kiss to her mouth. She tasted her own blood. Cornley was proving to them all that he could do anything he desired with her and no one would oppose his actions. The kiss for all its ferocity was brief. Cursing, the earl tipped his head back at an angle that looked painful.
With no other choice than being pulled along, she realized their twosome had become a strange triumvirate. Brock had a ruthless grip on the hair at the back of Cornley’s head. The unnatural angle and the impotent pain in the earl’s eyes revealed that Brock finally had gained the man’s attention.
“For Amara’s sake, I strived for civility but I have lost interest. Let us try my forthright approach.” Brock twisted his grip. “Release her and apologize.”
Cornley’s already pale face whitened at the increased tension Brock was applying. Growling an oath, he freed her. Amara rubbed at the stinging in her arms. She placed herself out of range of the two men.
As he watched her with a troubled gaze, Brock’s light green eyes narrowed. “You have put marks on her. Apologize, and make me believe your sincerity,” he threatened.
Sobering in the face of violence, her brother Doran rallied. Brock had subtly altered the balance of power in the room even though he was outnumbered. Not wanting to be the focus of an enraged friend’s wrath, he hid behind excuses. “Cornley was just dallying. There was no harm intended.” Shamed that he had stood by and allowed his sister to be hurt, he offered her a mute apology.
Amara was not feeling generous. Doran would have to offer more than feeble excuses for his callous behavior. He could spend his time courting her good favor instead of trying to impress her future husband. Scowling at Brock, Doran murmured something to his companions and they departed, leaving Cornley’s fate in Brock’s hands.
Wrenching his prize, Brock said, “Your friends have deserted you, Cornley. I can just imagine the witty tale with which they will regale the others about your sad predicament.”
“You will pay dearly for this,” Cornley vowed, his inflexible pose only allowing him to focus his ire on Amara.
Clutching her hand to her heart, she feared for Brock. Lord Cornley would not permit this insult to go unchallenged. They would face each other across a frost-covered field, or worse, the earl might ambush him. She could not bear for him to be hurt because she had solicited his protection. “Mr. Bedegrayne, I beg you. Release him. For your sake if not for mine.”
“At once, Miss Claeg, when you have gained your apology. Cornley,” he said, drawing the man up onto his toes, “you are stalling. I have heard rumors about your perversions. Do you possess a queer proclivity for pain?”
“M-Miss Claeg. I tender my ap-pologies for any embarrassment and discomfort you have endured.”
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