Tempting the Heiress (12 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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“Here, Bedegrayne, I will take this for you,” Mr. Lyndall offered, stepping between them.
Brock transferred the crate into the man’s arms. Lyndall winked at Amara. “A pretty lady always turns a gent’s brain into suet.” Whistling a bawdy tune, he sauntered into the kitchen.
They stood awkwardly silent, listening to the noises from the street and the distant laughter of the children.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” she said, glancing back at the door behind her. He could not decide if she was worried that their conversation would be overheard or was simply keeping her escape route in view.
“I assumed you were here to wring those same words out of me.” He removed a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat and wiped the sweat and grime from his face.
She appeared puzzled for a moment. “For? Oh,” she said, her movements becoming more agitated. “You are referring to the other day.”
He blew out a pent-up breath. Whatever her reasons for
approaching him, they had nothing to do with the Italian fop. He tried not to dwell on the hope that she needed to see him. “I owe you an apology for my outburst. After your departure, your brother explained Prola’s appearance.”
“You discussed this with my brother?” she asked weakly.
“In my defense, I will admit Prola’s proprietary stance took me by surprise.” Given further provocation, Brock could have gleefully strangled the gentleman for assuming she belonged to him.
“The blame is mine alone. I should have warned you that my parents have grown tired of my unmarried state and have taken steps to rectify the situation.” She twisted the reticule in her hands. “I lacked the courage to speak of it. Especially, since …” She hesitated, unable to finish her explanation.
It was not difficult to figure out the direction of her thoughts. “Especially since I despised the last man they wanted you to marry,” he said, grateful she was finally willing to speak of it. “Or the fact that he died before you were bound eternally to such a ruthless miscreant.”
“Brock, I beg of you—”
“Nay, do not,” he said, treading over her elegant plea. He was filthy from his earlier labors and was unfit for the presence of a lady. Even so, he followed his instincts and moved closer. Tenderly, he took up her hand and pressed a kiss just above her gloved knuckles. Her bewildered expression kindled a fleeting grin. “You have never understood.”
She tried matching his light delivery. “You, sir, have a very disconcerting manner.”
“It heartens me that you have reflected on my character in your leisure.”
A very telling flush negated any exasperated protest she could muster. “Fie, Brock Bedegrayne, I made no such confession!”
“I disagree.”
Damning the consequences, he seized her by the waist and spun her. Having her in his arms even for a brief moment filled his heart to overflowing. She made a high squeaking noise when he lifted her off her feet, but she was laughing when he set her on her feet again.
“You are an incorrigible gallant. Do the ladies still swoon when you glance in their direction?”
With his hand still resting lightly on her hip, he met her teasing gaze with a brooding intensity that had the pulse at her throat fluttering. “I have never noticed. There is only one lady who ensnares my interest.”
She nibbled at her lower lip, fighting not to smile. Obviously, she was pleased by his comment. “I have tarried too long. Remaining would only encourage you.”
“So you sought me out to discourage me?”
“Yes. No.” She huffed, trying valiantly to suppress a giggle. “Oh, cease tormenting me. I am a lady of reasonable intelligence. How do I, within minutes of your proximity, turn into a babbling scatterbrain?”
“I have that unfortunate effect on most women,” he lamented, earning him an annoyed grumble. He was enjoying how little effort it took to fluster her. The notion that he could had remarkably improved his disposition. For the first time since his return, he believed he had a chance at breaching the defensive walls Amara had erected around her.
Lyndall poked his head out the door and glared at them both. “Bedegrayne, while you are courting Miss Claeg, I am enduring Miss Wyman’s never-ending list of
grievances under the pointed direction of a rather large knife. I am on the verge of begging for mercy. Spare us both and just kiss her!” He disappeared, uninterested in their denials.
Brock silently cursed when he saw Amara’s guarded expression. The man’s unexpected appearance had ruined any excuse to delay their inevitable parting.
“I am expected elsewhere.”
He bleakly wondered if he would spend the rest of his life watching her walk away from him. Brock stayed her by grasping her wrist. “Amara, you never told me why you sought me out.”
She shook her head. “It was nonsense.”
“I doubt it. Tell me.”
Amara tugged, attempting to break their link. He pulled her a step closer. Conceding to his strength, she said, “It would take too long to explain.”
“Later, then,” he persisted, sensing she had no intention of telling him the true reason for her impromptu visit.
“Fine.” She glanced at his gloved hand on her wrist as her thoughts turned inward. “I shall be attending the theater this evening.”
His grip reflexively tightened on her wrist. “Will Prola be escorting you?”
“I will be sitting with Lady Haslake and her daughters,” Amara replied, her dark blue gaze gauging his reaction. “I cannot, however, overlook my family’s tenacity or Conte Prola’s eagerness toward securing my consent for the anticipated marriage. I expect the conte will be presented to me sometime during the evening.”
She was being maneuvered into accepting this foreigner. Brock wanted to shake her for sounding resigned to her fate. “I will come for you.”
She merely blinked at the vehemence in his vow. “For what purpose?” she asked, staring at him as if he were promising the impossible. “I will be well chaperoned and displayed for all of London. If you think embarrassing me will—”
Brock was not a man who fought fate. He was a healthy male in the proximity of an attractive female. When her full lips formed an inviting mulish pout, he reacted. Ignoring her gasp, he backed her up against the wall and silenced her tirade with a decisive, firm kiss.
With an involuntary shudder, he cupped her face and reveled in her taste. What a revelation! Her barbed tongue protected a wellspring of sweetness he had feared experience had made rancid.
Drawing back, he felt rather smug he had found a pleasurable means in which to silence her. “We will be doing that again, and often.” He pressed a softer kiss on her slack mouth. “Leave the details to me.”
“You!” She pointed at him, shaking and rigid as if she were denouncing an archfiend. “You do not have permission. Promise me—” She swallowed, blurting out, “No more kisses!”
“Amara, my delightful dove, I will not have lies standing between us. If stolen tokens warm my heart, I impatiently await the moment when I gain your
consent
.”
“There is no reasoning with you.” She lifted her hands in supplication. “I do not know why I bothered seeing you.” Disgusted with both of them, she headed for the door.
“You pose an intriguing question, and I find myself fascinated by your answer. Why have you sought me out?”
Why now after countless years of chillingly polite aloofness?
Amara glanced back when she reached the threshold. Somberly, she admitted, “I had a nightmare.”
She was gone before he could respond.
Bracing his back against the wall, Brock sat down on his haunches. He scrubbed his face with his hands and then pressed his fingers to buffer the increasing pressure behind his eyes. She had come to him because of a nightmare. There was no need for further explanation. They both had their own lurid memories of that wretched night. The irony was not lost on him that what had driven her away from him was forcing her to face him now.
A nightmare.
“Damn.”
Even rotting in his grave, Cornley was still hurting her. It was bitter hellbroth he swallowed knowing he was not blameless in the matter.
“Brock?”
He raised his head from his hands. Wynne stood several feet away from him. Maddy was behind her, still half-hidden by the doorway. Concern was etched on both their faces.
Unfolding from his crouched position, he stomped some of the stiffness from his legs. “I have work to do.”
“Brock,” Wynne said, approaching him. “I love you both. If I can help …”
“I know.” He hugged her close, and accepted the comfort she offered. Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he said, “We need to muddle through this ourselves.”
She squeaked when he playfully tugged her ear, promptly forgetting whatever argument she had thought to present. “You are a rotten brother!”
“I will wager Milroy snarled at any interference from the family while he was courting you.”
“The situation was different.”
More than she would ever understand, he mused. “Are you interested in attending the theater this evening?” Seeing Maddy, he rejected the idea. “Pardon me, I forgot you ladies have plans. Hmm, mayhap Devona?”
Too shrewd to be swayed by his change of topic, Wynne put her hands on her hips. “What are you planning?”
He had promised Amara that he would find a way to her side this evening. Dragging her off held a certain appeal, but the direct tactic would mire him in impending obstacles. His impulsiveness had caused him trouble in the past. He was learning that he savored the victories gained by his wits and not his fists.
“I am taking your advice.”
“What advice?”
“That I might benefit from a little family meddling after all.”
“I propose we hold a ball heralding Brock’s return. What do you think, Aunt Moll?” Irene queried, her sapphire gaze surveying the various tiers of theater boxes. At four and thirty and Lord Sutton’s viscountess, she was the eldest of the Bedegrayne siblings and did not expect anyone to oppose her suggestion.
Aunt Moll perked up at the prospect. An unfortunate accident more than a year ago had limited the outings of his elderly aunt and confined her movements with a cane. Arthritis had gradually settled into the damaged limb and it appeared she would require her cane and a steady arm for the rest of her life. The news had not sent her into seclusion as it might have a passive creature. She and her Mr. Keel were too busy planning their wedding.
“It is a lovely thought, my dear,” Aunt Moll said, adjusting her position in the chair slightly to keep her hip from stiffening. “Gathering the entire family together has become a challenge if not a rarity.”
The coltish look Devona sent Brock said, “Did I not warn you?”
Brock was grateful his family had agreed to join him at the theater. His motives were entirely self-seeking but he was not above appreciating the twofold benefits. He had missed his family.
Regardless, he was uncomfortable with his eldest sister making such a fuss. He had never been forthright with his family about his relationship with Amara. Devona, and to a lesser extent, Tipton, knew of his interest in her. He had confided that much in securing their assistance this evening. Wynne and Devona had always been close. Whatever Wynne had deduced from his encounter with Amara this afternoon, it was certain she had shared her speculation with her youngest sibling. He dreaded the moment when the pair cornered him with their questions and suspicions.
Hoping his expression conveyed at best a vague interest, he watched on as Irene doggedly persuaded the family’s agreement for holding a ball. As for Irene, he could not vividly recall a time when she had not stood apart from the other two girls. Perhaps from them all, since she was the eldest.
Almost nineteen years had passed since their mother’s death, and the Bedegraynes were still feeling the loss. He had been nine when his inconsolable father had shown up at school to collect his sons. Devona had barely been freed from her back-strings, and yet no one had ever been able to dissuade her from the ridiculous notion that she had been responsible for their mother’s death.
No one was really to blame for the tragic accident. While chasing after her youngest daughter, Anna Bedegrayne had been struck in the temple with a wooden board a startled workman had been holding. She had never regained consciousness.
All of them had dealt with their grief in their own fashion. No one spoke of it, but Anna’s death had splintered her family. Sir Thomas had buried himself in his work and his clubs. Nyle had abandoned them long before he had ever departed England. If Irene could be accused of embracing a rigid code of rules, their younger brother had done the opposite by casting them aside along with his honor. Brock was in no position to judge. After Amara had turned away from him, he had succumbed to all kinds of vices. And while Devona tried rescuing lost friends, Wynne had aspired a rung higher by trying to save them all.
“Are we in agreement then?” Irene asked, her interruption scattering his thoughts. The white plumes sprouting from the back of her reddish-blond coiled and pinned tresses bobbed with each movement.
“Have your ball, Irene, but choose someone else to honor. I have already reacquainted myself with the individuals who were truly interested in my return. The rest can be damned.”
Her lips thinned mutinously. “You are just being difficult.” Anyone observing them from another box would have never guessed how close the serene Lady Sutton was to lunging and strangling her brother. “I had heard your travels had tempered your ennui. Minutes in your presence, I can see that you are as imprudent and negligent as ever.”
“And you, my dear sister, are still a waspish, judgmental prig,” he evenly replied, while he privately marveled at her uncanny ability to nettle him.
“Ho!” Sir Thomas said, coming up behind them. “Sutton, I daresay our arrival was well timed. Brock, my lad, you were not intent on using a fist on your sweet sister?”
By damn, tangling with Irene would ruin all he had
hoped to achieve this evening. He had never laid a hand on any of his sisters, but the temptation grated sorely against his restraint. Relaxing his hand, he negligently shrugged. “I cannot deny the flat of my hand across her backside has appeal when she persists in goading me.” Meeting her husband, Garrard Vinall, Viscount Sutton’s steady gaze, he added, “Naturally, Sutton, I yield to your wealth of experience.”
Lord Sutton braced his hands on the back of Irene’s chair. “I warrant any hand on her backside will be my own.” The protective stance made his wife seem small and fragile in comparison to his intimidating muscular build. Brock scoffed at the notion. Irene fragile? She was a merciless Valkyrie when riled.
Forgetting herself, Irene rose from her seat. She turned away from the stage and glared at both of them. “You both will cease holding this discussion as if I am not right in front of you. The first man who tries putting a hand on my—backside,” she said, lowering her voice in deference to delicacy, “will lose the offensive hand.”
“Steady, my gel,” Sir Thomas crooned, coming around and circling an arm around his daughter. Diffusing the confrontation had little to do with gossip. His eldest daughter had always taken the brunt of the ribbing in the family. He had spent countless years stepping between the two combatants in hopes of salvaging the spirit he greatly admired.
“Irene, sit down before our little drama outdoes the one below,” Devona said, noticing that several people in the next box were already angling their heads for a better view and whispering.
Sir Thomas settled in the seat behind Irene. She was still fuming, her lips parted, preparing to further argue her
side, but a warning glance from Sutton subdued her. Offering Brock her back, she sat down.
“There, there, Irene, tell your papa what you are so blue-deviled about,” their father entreated. He scowled at Brock. “What have you done?”
Brock touched his hand to his heart, portraying mock ignorance. He was in no mood to defend himself on behalf of something he considered inconsequential.
Using her cane and hand on the armrest of the chair to adjust her position, Aunt Moll expelled her breath as a painful hiss with each movement. “Thomas, let them be. You and Sutton are always cosseting the girl. It is hardly surprising she is in high dudgeon when someone opposes her.”
“Aunt Moll!” Irene exclaimed, embarrassed by the candid observation. “What is selfish about wanting to hold a ball in my brother’s honor?”
“When your brother does not want to be honored,” Brock retorted, his attention fixed on one of the boxes across the auditorium. A rush of elation coursed through him. Amara and her companions had arrived.
Sutton, taking the seat beside Sir Thomas, overrode Irene’s scathing reply by simply caressing her shoulder. “Might I interject a suggestion before blood is shed?”
“Please do,” Devona begged, seeing no end to the disagreement if Brock continued baiting Irene.
“Have your ball.” The viscount lifted his hand, warding off Brock’s oath. “Allow Aunt Moll and Mr. Keel to be the honored guests.”
“A ball in honor of our nuptials,” Aunt Moll mused, her wizened face crinkled with delight. “Oh, how I wish Mr. Keel were present so we could share the good news.”
Unable to deny her aunt, Irene put aside her pride and
said, “We will tell him together if you like. I could use your assistance in the planning.”
Devona beamed. “An excellent suggestion, Sutton.”
“Well done,” Sir Thomas praised gruffly. “My thought exactly.”
Brock ignored them all. His concentration was focused on Amara. Her beauty shone across the multicolored sea of silk, beckoning him. She had yet to notice him. Whenever she started a nonchalant perusal of the crowd, one of the women at her side said something to distract her. Then the appearance of a certain swarthy gentleman had him mumbling an expletive. Brock shot up from his chair and blindly stalked to the front of the box as if he had every intention of leaping from the tier.
“Brock?” Devona queried, clearly troubled by his expression.
Raising her lorgnette to her eyes, Aunt Moll peered and said, “My dear Brock. Hasten to our Miss Claeg’s side. She is in the coils of a most persistent suitor. You must bring her back so she can share the fascinating details.”
He formally bowed, prepared to take his leave. Irene offered her hand, which he accepted without thought. She surprised him by digging her gloved fingers into his open palm. “Mark your temper,” she counseled, “and no issuing challenges. When you are about, you represent not only yourself but the Bedegrayne family.”
Instead of bristling at the remark, Brock bent closer and kissed her cheek. “Yes, mother.” Being an expert at baiting, he acknowledged he deserved a little sisterly retaliation. After all, “Measure for measure” should have been the family motto.
The collective heat of so many bodies packed into the theater made the air stifling. The numerous chandeliers overhead contained hundreds of smoky candles, which only added to the problem. Almost feeling guilty, Amara opened the fan Brock had given her. She gently stirred the warm air around her, silently chastising herself for feeling uneasy about flaunting his beautiful gift. Her mother, when she had noticed it, had commented on its beauty. She had also believed the fan had been a gift from the conte. Amara had not corrected her assumption.
“What a bonny fan, Miss Claeg,” Lady Haslake said. “So many young ladies do not appreciate the importance of choosing the proper accessory.”
Hours earlier, she had faced the predicament of finding a suitable gown that complemented the fan. Fortunately, her maid, Corry, was resourceful and had a patient hand for sewing. She had rounded the bottom of a white satin slip with silver-embroidered trimming removed from another gown. Over the slip, Amara wore a short-sleeved pale pink net dress. Corry had replaced the gold buttons ornamenting the lace joining down the front with silver ones. A twisted fillet of pale pink satin and silver ribbon interwoven into her elegant coiffure completed her maid’s inspiring results.
Lady Haslake’s youngest daughter, Lady Marea, was three years younger than her sister, Lady Laurette, and Amara. She was also fiercely competitive. “May I?” the young woman asked, taking the fan from Amara for a closer examination. Tiny reflective lights from the silver sequins dotted her narrow face. “Who is the maker?”
Amara accepted the fan. “I have not a clue. It was a gift.”
“A gift,” Lady Laurette echoed, looking splendid in buff-colored crêpe. “Why do I sense there is more to this tale than you are admitting?”
She should have expected her friend would note the subtle evasion. Lady Laurette Omant’s intelligence was remarked upon as often as her unique beauty. Lord Keyworth firmly believed in garnering advantageous friendships and the Earl of Haslake’s daughters possessed the suitable pedigree. What had been conceived from duty had quickly sprung into friendship between the two eleven-year-old girls. Together they had endured dance instruction under the truculent demands of Monsieur Vipond.
“You know me so well, Rett,” Amara said, affectionately using the family’s nickname for her friend. “I fear my exploits of late might shock you both and I loathe jeopardizing our long friendship.”
Fascinated, Lady Marea leaned closer. “Do tell us everything!”
Comfortable with her companions, Amara leaned closer, enjoying the rapt attention. Using the fan to shield her face, she wanted to ensure that her confession never went beyond her audience. “Well, since our last parting, it seems a gift from Aphrodite has been bestowed upon me.”
“Remarkable,” Lady Laurette said, violet eyes widened when her gaze shifted to her gullible younger sibling. “How long have you been making blood sacrifices to goddesses?”
A loud snort of disbelief from Lady Marea gained an unspoken reprimand from Lady Haslake. Appearing repentant, the younger girl whispered, “Do you have a
secret place where you practice your arcane rites? What beast is worthy of sacrifice, kids or lambs?” She seized Amara’s arm. “Oh, surely not human!”
Lady Laurette could not contain her merriment, and laughed. “Dolt. Amara was speaking metaphorically.”
“So it is not true?” Sitting back, Lady Marea pouted, disappointment radiating from her.
Amara’s lips twitched but she held her composure. “I confess, Marea, your version is more appealing than any I can invent. However, if I hear my name linked with secret cults, I promise that you will be my first blood sacrifice.”
The younger sister sneered. “I am immune to threats.” Having enough of their sport, she stood. “I was inoculated years ago by my haggish sister.” With a swish of fabric and outrage, the youngest Omant stomped over to her mother’s side.
“Are we horrid creatures to tease her so?”
“Marea deserves most of it,” her friend casually admitted, unperturbed. “That head of hers is stuffed with too many fanciful stories and not enough sense. Really, Amara, you do surprise me at times.” Lady Laurette tossed her dark tresses back flirtatiously, leaving Amara to wonder if the disingenuous movement was simply natural or if it was meant for an appreciative male spectator. “Evoking that Aphrodite nonsense was a calculated dissuading ploy. It is not like you to be evasive, particularly with regard to something most vapid.” Her delicately arched brows lifted inquisitively. “Or is it?”

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