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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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“Will I be joining you when you call on Mr. Claeg?”
She started at the question, forgetting her cousin had remained at her side. “I can think of no reason to insist.”
“Good,” Miss Novell said, sounding pleased. “While I enjoy viewing the achievements of an artist, I find the implements of the craft too odorous.” Breaking off a spray of red campion, her cousin trailed down the path after Lord Keyworth.
Leaving the pair to continue their discussion on the minutiae of falconry, Amara returned to the house. A carriage would have to be readied. She grimaced, critically assessing the dress she wore. It was simply inappropriate for her purposes. Rushing up the stairs, she contemplated whether or not she should send a note ahead warning her brother of her subterfuge. In the end, she decided an unannounced visit was best. Dodging family obligations was a trait the surviving siblings shared.
Brock regarded his uninvited call to the Keyworth residence as an impulsive act, but in reality he was feeling apprehensive. Several days had passed since his visit with Wynne and Milroy. Their advice had not been helpful, and he had a slight suspicion that had been their intention. Oh, they had been friendly and sympathetic to the plight he had presented. However, they must have guessed he had not disclosed all the reasons for his interest. Even in his frustration he could not regret his silence. The truth was not his to tell.
Brock had knocked on the door and was told by the butler that the family was not at home. He had handed the man his card, but if the servant recognized the name, he showed no reaction. Resigned, Brock had been about to depart when one of the Keyworths’ liveried grooms had halted an empty gig in front of the residence. One of the ladies of the house was preparing to leave. He could only hope it was the lady he sought.
Not wanting his presence to worry the servant, he approached and introduced himself as one of Miss Claeg’s
lovesick suitors. The young man was appreciative of Brock’s predicament. He was explaining his woes relating to the courting of one of Lord Lumley’s housemaids when Amara emerged from the house.
This afternoon she wore a cream round dress of thick refined India muslin with a flowing jonquil mantle. A straw bonnet was secured with a tidy bow along the right of her chin. Harried and muttering under her breath, she was almost to the street before she noticed him.
“Mr. Bedegrayne!” She glanced back at the house, probably concerned she would be caught speaking to him. Her caution always brought out the recklessness in him. If she could have read his thoughts, she would have run back into the refuge of her house.
He walked around the gig, joining her. Executing a stiff bow, he held out his hand. “I fear it is too late for discretion, Miss Claeg. I left my card with your butler.” It was a declaration of sorts to the Keyworth household. He would not apologize for it.
“Then you must also be aware no one is at home this afternoon.” Her movements were skittish, as she accepted his hand, allowing him to help her step up into the gig.
“We must talk.”
She slid over, making room for the servant. “I agree. Regrettably, I have another appointment.”
“Then we will not tarry.” Climbing into the gig, he settled in the seat beside her.
“You—you cannot do this!”
Deliberately misinterpreting her protest, Brock grinned. “Jimmy will not mind sitting aft, will you, man?”
“No, sir!” Moving to the back, the servant climbed up on the small perch.
Brock and Amara both seized the reins. A childish tug-of-war ensued. “You cannot drive me. Think of the gossip!” Amara asserted.
He had underestimated her strength, but there was no doubt in his mind who would be the victor. “How can I, when all I think about is you?”
Her grip slackened at his confession. Taking up the ribbons, he paused. Their struggle had ruined her perfect coiffure. Wispy mahogany strands framed her flushed face. She looked pleasantly rumpled, although he guessed she would not appreciate the compliment.
“Where is your appointment?” There was a wealth of suspicion injected into the question. He believed she had made up the ruse so she had another excuse to avoid him.
Comprehending that nothing but force would remove him, Amara surrendered. “My brother’s residence. It is on Bury Street.”
His right brow lifted. “Bury Street it is.” He gave an expert flick of the ribbons, and the horse commenced their short journey. “I thought Doran was the favored brother?”
Shoulders set, she seemed more interested in the horse’s backside than him. Usurping her gig, he mused, had not placed him in a flattering light. Mentioning her beloved Doran had most likely doomed him to her silence.
“Doran is gone,” she said simply. “His death has taught me an appreciation for the only brother I have left.”
“No offense, Amara, but you and Mallory have nothing in common.” Two years older than Brock, the eldest Claeg sibling had always been arrogant and wild, rejecting his father’s guidance. His elopement six years ago with Lord De Lanoy’s mistress had sealed his fate among the notorious.
“Mallory is painting my portrait. It will be a gift for Mama.”
“You can not always be the peacemaker, little dove.”
She finally looked at him. Those stormy dark blue depths ensnared him, touched his soul. “No, not always.”
He could not recall when he had first given her the sobriquet. It had just seemed apt. It had probably started with her father’s odd collection of predatory birds. Brock had thought the family had more in common with the birds, and Amara with the quarry. He had watched over the years as her family easily trounced her gentle nature. Nonetheless, it never deterred her from stepping between her brawling brothers, a fact he was certain neither brother had appreciated.
“Did you …” She let the question trail off.
“Ask. I might even tell you the truth,” he lightly mocked.
Trusting him to take her to her destination, Amara focused on his profile instead of the street. “Did you send me the note and the gifts?”
He frowned, not liking his fears confirmed. “Note? Gifts? Do I have rivals for your affection, fair lady?”
“You will cease this nonsense, Mr. Bedegrayne,” she warned, forgetting they were in public. “You are not courting me!”
It was then she noticed the open landau approaching them in the opposite direction. Two of the ladies were unfamiliar. But Brock recognized Mr. Wirland and the woman seated beside him as the Marquess of Holbeck’s daughter, Lady Fayth. He acknowledged them with a slight bow of the head when they passed. The astonishment on the women’s faces would have made him laugh aloud, but he bit his tongue at Amara’s mortified groan.
“Of all the inhabitants of London, the Vining sisters
would have to be the first we encounter,” she lamented. “They are dreadful prattle-boxes. Word of us together should reach everyone’s ear by nightfall.”
Any other day, the notion would have cheered him. It was the inconsolable expression on Amara’s beautiful countenance that soured his mood. By God, forming a connection with him should not seem so appalling! “’Tis true, you might lose a suitor or two, sullying yourself with a Bedegrayne.”
“Baiting me will not improve the situation, Brock Bedegrayne,” she snapped. Like an imperial princess, she serenely gestured to a location just ahead of them. “There is no need to further trouble yourself. I will disembark here and walk the remaining distance.”
Her supercilious manner failed to astonish him. Despite her protests, he believed he understood the woman beneath the polished surface. “Your brother would never forgive me if I abandoned you on the street.”
Nothing she could have said would counter such logic. Lips compressed, Amara visibly struggled, thinking she could punish him with her silence. She lost the battle. “Did you send me the flowers?”
A sound of disbelief vibrated in his throat. “Too ordinary. I credit myself with a bit more inspiration than conservatory posies when I set out to enchant a lady.”
“Really?” He mistrusted her genial tone. “The bouquet was created from marzipan. I thought it very clever.”
Had she? was his dour reflection. The ardent gentleman would regret encroaching on the lady Brock viewed as his. “Does your clever gent have a name?” He tried keeping the rush of resentment under control.
Sensing she had the advantage, Amara felt her disposition brighten. “Well, I know he is not
you
.” She touched
his arm, and felt the muscles jolt under her hand. “This is my brother’s residence.”
Disappointed their time together was ending, Brock maneuvered the horse to the right side of the street and signaled the horse to halt. The groom jumped down from his perch. Sensing Brock preferred to see to his lady, the servant moved past them and saw to the horse.
Setting the ribbons aside, he climbed down from the gig and offered Amara his hand. “I shall await your return.”
His high-handedness disconcerted her; on many levels, she was unskilled in dealing with him. Exasperated, she asked, “How often do you play a groom in your leisure?”
“I cannot think of another endeavor more gratifying than seeing to your pleasure,” he admitted, the double entendre sending a cascade of desire into the pit of his stomach.
He could feel her hand trembling within his own. She broke the contact once her feet met the ground. “My pleasures, withal, are not your concern. I have a servant who will see me home.” Recalling her manners, she added, “Although I suspect your purpose was not so gallant, I do thank you for the escort.”
“Were the box and fan favorably received?” he asked, when she turned away from him.
She halted her retreat, and paused. Returning, she stood in front of him. He watched a flurry of sentiment animate her delicate face, something he had never dared hope she would convey in words.
“I cannot recall owning anything as exquisite.” She leaned forward, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “You are too generous. More than I deserve,” she whispered in his ear. Before Brock could react, she pulled back and hurried toward the building.
Mallory was an obsessive tyrant. At least he was so about his art. If she could have anticipated the trials she would have to endure under his guidance, Amara would never have sought him out the previous afternoon and reminded him of his inspiration to have her sit for him. Surprisingly, he needed little persuading. The day she had encountered him in the museum, he had been serious when he had expressed an interest in painting her.
As she sat there, resisting the urge to rub her cramping muscles, it had become clear that she and the rest of the family understood little about the demons tormenting Mallory. His craft was both mistress and taskmaster. To their parents, his art was a rebellious stand, and occasionally, a source of embarrassment. He possessed talent. It would have been simpler if he had not. Until she had placed herself into his artist’s hands, she had not appreciated the preparation and deliberation Mallory poured into his creations.
He demanded perfection. He fussed about the costume she wore, continually manipulating the position of her body, hands, and face. If she moved once he was satisfied with her pose, she was sharply reprimanded. He sketched. He cursed and sketched some more. Hundreds, it seemed, and none pleased him. The setting seemed sparse. There was a place for her to sit, lush draperies, greenery, and an exotic brass incense burner. Still, there was something in his light blue gaze that seemed fey. Whatever he saw when he stared at her could not be viewed by mere mortals until he painted it.
“Lines are marring your forehead,” Mallory said, adding broad strokes to his sketch. “Relax.”
Amara wrinkled her face in retaliation, earning a laugh from him. Aspiring for a tranquil expression, she switched her focus to her surroundings. The building was both a showroom for his work and his home. She had been given little time to explore the house, but the studio itself smelled of turpentine, oils, and other mysterious chemicals that were appropriate for an artist’s alchemy. Paintings of varying sizes covered the wall, whereas others were carefully stacked upright.
Her scrutiny returned to her brother. The studio was in better condition than her unkempt brother. Mallory’s unruly shoulder-length hair hung in front of his face like the bars of an iron cage. His clothes could not have been in worse condition if he had slept in them.
She dwelled on the observation.
When she had entered the studio earlier, he had not been alone. There had been a woman. Her brother had escorted her out of the room before formal introductions could be made. His actions would have seemed odd if she had not already recognized the lady as Mrs. Carissa LeMaye. The eight-year difference in their ages had not shielded Amara from knowing the more salacious details about the woman’s life. While Amara had been in the schoolroom studying Latin with her governess, the exotic raven-haired beauty had been a much sought after Cyprian. She had married well, twice, and each man had made her a widow, leaving her sizable jointures from each estate. Whatever her circumstances, her name was still discreetly linked with numerous gentlemen of the
ton,
her brother being her latest conquest. Men were corruptible twits, she bleakly brooded. In fact, there had even been rumors years ago that the young widow had once been under the protection of Brock Bedegrayne.
“Enough!” Mallory dropped the charcoal, and lifted his hands in surrender. “You will be scaring future generations if I immortalize that glower. What is wrong?”
A denial was forming on her lips, when she relented. He was watching her too closely and would recognize the lie. She stuck with the truth. “My toes are numb. I am hungry, and missed tea again. That alone will put me in ill favor with Mama.” Privately enjoying his pained expression, she added, “I also have need of the convenience.”
“Consider yourself unfettered.” He waved her off. “Go see to your needs and I will summon the housekeeper for some tea.”
Uncoiling from her position, she rubbed her lower back in a very undignified manner. “And perhaps she has a few of those little spice cakes left over from the other day. You know, the ones with the currants?”

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