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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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Cradling two-month-old Aideen Rose in her arms, Amara moved about the drawing room using the infant’s fussiness to conceal her own restlessness, while Wynne Milroy put her other daughter, Anna Faith, to her breast.
“Offer her your finger,” Wynne suggested, needing to ease her child’s distress. She leaned back into the chair and closed her eyes. “Keanan has a certain knack for calming the girls.”
“So that was the reason he escaped from the house the moment I arrived,” Amara teased, and was rewarded with a tired chuckle from Wynne. She tickled Aideen’s quivering lower lip with her finger. It surprised her when the child latched on and fiercely suckled. In wonderment she glanced curiously at her friend. Despite their years of friendship, she did not have the courage to ask Wynne how she endured such enthusiasm at her breast. Such shameless queries were best left burning on her tongue.
At four and twenty, even exhaustion could not dim Wynne’s beauty. She had dressed simply for her unexpected visitor and treated her with the negligence she
would extend to any of her sisters. Her waist-length blond tresses had been coiled into an unsophisticated bun at the back of her head. Nevertheless, the results were striking. Hers was a face that needed no adornment. Animated with intelligence and kindness, her classical features would have inspired any army.
“I have missed you these months,” Wynne said, her pale green eyes misty with joy.
The simple admission brought the sting of unexpected tears to Amara’s eyes. “I, as well, my friend. Did you enjoy your confinement at Holinshead? Was the house in disrepair, as you had feared?”
In honor of their marriage, Keanan Milroy’s half brother, Drake Fawks, the Duke of Reckester, had presented the couple with one of his northern estates. News of the generous gift and speculation swirled around London for months. This was hardly surprising since Milroy was the natural child of the old duke and an Irish actress, even though his claim to the Reckester clan had been refuted for years.
Milroy had equally despised his family. He had never forgiven his father for Aideen Milroy’s ruination and her eventual death at the hands of a drunken patron. The old duke’s assassination last summer and Keanan’s capricious truce with his half brother, the former Lord Nevin, only increased the
ton
’s interest.
Wynne sighed. “The main house was astonishingly solid for its years of neglect. A few of the outer buildings were in need of repair. All in all, my time at Holinshead was restful. I sulked for a time when you were unable to accept my invitation.”
Ashamed, Amara stared down at the infant in her arms. Little Aideen had fallen asleep, her tiny mouth still
latched tightly onto her finger. “My mother—” she began. Her persistence in maintaining a friendship with the Bedegrayne women had created an acrimonious rift between her and her mother. The viscountess was quite vocal about her dislike and blamed Devona for her son’s death in Newgate Prison. Amara was the only one in her family who knew Doran’s true fate. With Tipton’s assistance, Devona had saved Amara’s brother from the hangman’s noose. Unfortunately, Amara had promised to keep silent on the matter and the Bedegraynes were forced to deal with her mother’s unfounded wrath.
“Stop scowling at my sweet Aideen. She will think you do not like her.” The pale green depths of Wynne’s eyes sparkled with affection and shrewdness. “I have always understood, Amara. I would never forgive myself if our friendship caused you pain.”
It had, but she never voiced her complaints aloud. Disobedience in the Claeg household was always punished. She preferred not burdening Wynne with the humiliating details. “Nothing I cannot tolerate,” she lied. Swaying to a faint piece of music in her head, Amara moved closer to her friend now that she had covered her breast and had adjusted the squirming baby onto her shoulder.
Rubbing Anna’s back, Wynne appeared to hesitate over her next words. “I have received word my brother’s ship has returned.”
Feeling the weight of her friend’s scrutiny, she tried not to show any reaction to the announcement. “Has the Bedegrayne changeling finally returned?” she asked, hoping her query sounded innocent. Wynne’s father, Sir Thomas, had had two sons, though no one uttered the name of Nyle Bedegrayne. Father and son had had a
falling-out years ago and then Nyle had vanished. It seemed he had ceased to be a member of the family. The fact she dared mention him bespoke her desperation to avoid the unsettling elder brother.
Grief flashed across Wynne’s beautiful face. Whatever Nyle Bedegrayne’s misdeeds, his sister had not forgotten him. “Nyle is lost to us. I doubt anyone has knowledge of his whereabouts. I speak of Brock.”
Something in Amara’s expression must have alerted her friend. Cocking her head slightly to the left, Wynne stared deliberatingly at Amara. “Then again, perhaps Brock’s return is old news for you. What has happened?”
She blinked rapidly. “Nothing worthy of an inquisition.” Wynne was not convinced. Amara tried again. “Truly, this visit was impulsive.”
Wigget, the Milroys’ butler, discreetly cleared his throat. Somewhere in his late forties, he was an imposing figure with his silvered hair and patched right eye. “Madam, there is a gentleman requesting an audience.”
Wynne’s brow lifted and she glanced askance in Amara’s direction. “Unless he is family, please send him away, Wigget.”
“I believe I qualify, Mrs. Milroy,” Brock said, deftly avoiding the butler’s attempt to block his entry. He spoke the words to his sister, but his inscrutable gaze was arrested on a startled Amara.
Her lips parted as if to speak, yet no words formed. When he had approached her last evening, he seemed an illusion. The boldness of daylight allowed her no such denials.
“Brock! The devil take you for not giving me any warning.” The joy in her expression dispelled any chastisement.
Brother and sister slipped gracefully into a welcoming embrace with the child between them. “I must look horrid.”
“Father always complained you were too pretty,” he teased, grinning when she stepped on his toes. His hand almost hesitant, he lightly caressed the invisible blond hair on the baby’s head. He looked thoughtful; his expression sobered. “You have led quite the adventurous life in my absence. And here I thought Devona was the one who would give the family trouble.”
Separation had not dimmed Wynne’s understanding of her brother. “I am in no mood to be scolded for secondhand innuendos, Brock. Keanan—”
“Should have been more of a gentleman and less the scoundrel he is purported to be,” Brock said, ruthlessly slicing through his sister’s defense.
Aghast, Wynne stepped back from him. “You do not know of what you speak.”
His hand made a sweeping gesture from child to child. “A twinning duplicity on my sister’s honor.”
“That is quite enough!” Amara commanded. She had made a private vow not to involve herself in an argument that was strictly a family matter, but Wynne was her friend. She would not abandon her. “Neither your sister nor Mr. Milroy deserve your censure, Mr. Bedegrayne.” She felt herself faltering, now that she had gained their attention.
“Amazing,” he muttered, shaking his head. “She speaks. I should have anticipated that the first words from your succulent lips would be to take me to task over family business.”
Amara felt the familiar weakness that stole into her limbs whenever Brock Bedegrayne was around, but she
did not back down as he probably expected. His sisters were not the only women he knew who had changed. “This has nothing to do with your family. Or what Mr. Milroy should or should not have done.” She met Wynne’s reassuring gaze and felt her approval.
Denied a target for his anger, he focused on Amara. “And pray tell, Miss Claeg. In your most excellent experience of love and family, where do I place the blame?”
That cut, and the villain knew it. Brock had always found her family lacking, or at least possessing nothing comparable to his own. Fear and respect was what held the Claeg clan together. As for love, well, it was as stingy as warm weather in January.
A tiny mewling sound drew Amara’s attention down to the baby in her arms. “I fear her patience has ended.” She waited for Wynne to place Anna into the cradle before she handed over Aideen. Not trusting her trembling hands, she was grateful to give up her precious burden. Sensing Brock would not permit her to leave without a suitable reply, she met his candid perusal. “Direct your mockery inward, Mr. Bedegrayne. You are angry that Wynne muddled through her difficulties without your esteemed wisdom to guide her. Assuage your guilt elsewhere.”
“Oh, I shall, Miss Claeg,” he softly growled. “On my oath.”
A cool wind of unease washed over her body. His promise sounded more like a threat and it was directed at her! A part of her knew she was being unfair when she accused him of feeling guilty about abandoning his sister. She had done her best not to react to the flash of anger her comment evoked.
What guilt Brock Bedegrayne felt was not all directed at his sister. His and Amara’s past would always be a living
entity between them. Some of her despair must have showed because his shoulder jerked as he began to unfold his arms from their stubborn stance. She held up her palm when he took a step in her direction. “I have remained longer than I should. I must leave.”
Feeling the tension between her brother and her dear friend, Wynne tried easing the finality of Amara’s departure. “You will come again?”
“Of course,” she replied, not certain at the moment if she meant the words. With a fleeting glance at Brock, she left the room.
“Cabbage-head,” Wynne said, her green eyes gleaming challengingly in the candlelight. Straightening her lithe form from a reclining position on the gold-and-hyacinth-striped chaise longue, she implored to the ceiling of her sitting room. “Widgeon!”
Keanan Milroy leaned back against the towel-padded wooden bath enjoying his wife’s outburst. It was not too difficult since the lady was a tempting vision. Her waist-length blond hair was undone and flowed seductively over her shoulders. The rest of her captivating body was clad only in a sheet. “I am certain you made your feelings quite clear on the subject, Mrs. Milroy,” he drawled, reaching for the glass of excellent Sauternes he had abandoned on a small fanciful stool shaped like a toadstool.
“Indeed,” she replied, swishing the end of her sheet like a tail. “And pulled his ear for good measure.” She did not bother keeping the satisfaction out of her tone.
Keanan regretted missing what must have been quite an interesting reconciliation. He had already arranged a meeting with his half brother, the Duke of Reckester, at
Tattersall’s and later they had gone on to Fives Court to watch a sparring match between two lightweights. He might have retired from prizefighting, but the atmosphere still beckoned him from time to time.
“If your brother even remotely resembles your sire in temperament, my damson, I doubt demanding that he blindly accept our marriage without prejudice will hasten him to offer his blessing.”
“I do not require his wretched blessing!” she vehemently declared.
Most of Keanan’s twenty-nine years of life had been devoid of the kind of family Wynne had the privilege of claiming as her own. His mother, Aideen Milroy, had called herself an actress. In truth, she had been little more than a drunken whore when she had been murdered by one of her patrons, leaving her grieving and angry thirteenyear-old son to make his own way in the world. His sire, Wesley Fawks, the late Duke of Reckester, had renounced any connection to his son. Keanan had wasted too many years hating the Reckester family and craving revenge.
Oddly, it was the old duke’s death last July that had allowed him and his half brother, Drake, to make headway in settling their differences. However, it was Wynne and his beautiful little daughters who had taught him the value of family. It was something precious, and even now he feared he might do something to lose them. He personally did not care what Bedegrayne thought of him, but he did not want to be responsible for the discord between brother and sister.
He reached out and caught the sheet to halt her pacing. “Tipton mentioned your brother was something of a firebrand. Give him time to accept me, accept us. If not …” He shrugged. “I will have to convince him.”
“No duels.”
“Why, Wynne, I have yet to fight one. Young Reckester is testament to my restraint.” He grinned, hoping to cajole her out of her ill humor.
She sat on the lip of the tub. Stroking her back, he resisted the urge to lick the wet channels his fingers left on her skin.
Wynne sighed. “I know he will come about in his thinking. My upset goes beyond his outrage that I married a commoner.” She gave him a small reassuring smile that always managed to strike him in the breadbasket. “I thought I understood Brock. His time away from the family has made him a stranger. The way he looked at Amara …” She let her words trail off.
“Is there something between them?”
“Something,” she agreed, leaning into his touch. “I never told her, but Brock insisted I maintain our friendship in his absence.”
Keanan drew a serpentine pattern down her spine, relishing her delicate shudder. “Did you consider his request strange?”

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