Tempting the Heiress Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “You are a liar, Amara, and a bad one at that …

  Copyright Page

  I dedicate this book in memory of

  my grandparents, Annabell and Homer Whitmore.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1810

  It was a cunning ambush. Amara Claeg had certainly underestimated the gentleman’s daring. As the tolling bell signaled the imminent commencement of Vauxhall Garden’s eleven o’clock fireworks, Matteo Taldo, Conte Prola, took advantage of the situation. Anticipating their party’s distracted eagerness to depart the dark avenue in search of a splendid viewing location, the Italian gallant culled her from the crowd and pushed her deeper into the shadowed elm grove. Her objections were promptly silenced by a ravishing kiss. Such intensity provided little opportunity for her to savor his impromptu display of clandestine passion. Amara’s muffled protest only seemed to encourage her new suitor. Placing her palms on his chest, she tried shoving him away, but he shackled her wrists and pressed them to his heart.

  Desperate for breath, Amara ended the kiss by turning her face away. “My lord, cease. The others will wonder about our absence.” She did not mention that of late, her parents, the newly promoted Lord and Lady Keyworth, had had aspirations to marry her off to this specific Italian aristocrat. Being discovered in a passionate entanglement would only encourage the outcome.

  His grip on her wrists allowed Conte Prola to effortlessly pull her back into his embrace. The shadows concealing them could not mask the subtle arcing of his mouth and glimpse of white teeth, nor the rebellious glitter blazing in his dark gaze. “Signorina Claeg, forgive me. Am I to forever admire and never stroke? Your beauty inspires boldness.”

  Sensing his mood was more teasing than predatory, she warily returned his smile. It was difficult to remain angry with the gentleman when he was trying to be so charming. Conte Prola was a dashing fellow. With his tall, lean build, his dark curling locks, expressive black eyes, and accented English he had entranced more than one lady since his arrival in London five months ago at the invitation of her father. She had assumed that once his business was concluded he would return to Genova. Since he never spoke of returning to his homeland, her suspicious nature forced her to conclude she had become part of his intriguing business venture.

  “My lord, your flummery is wasted on the likes of me,” Amara said, exasperated by his tenacity. “Confound it! Release my hands at once!” Relinquishing all thought of a graceful retreat, she struggled against his unrelenting grip. Twisting her wrists to and fro, she jerked one hand free and then the other.

  “Such passion, my fire,” he marveled. Gallantly, he ignored her inelegant snort of disbelief. “Think of the making of love between us.”

  She would entertain no such idiocy. Scowling, she rubbed her abused wrists. “I have no intention of encouraging you.” Disgusted at being expertly maneuvered, she marched down the dark avenue not bothering to glance back.

  “Signorina Claeg, this endeavor is futile,” he gently entreated, his long legs easily overtaking her. “These fireworks, they have begun. You will not find your friends and family—”

  Several brilliant, sonorous explosions overhead caused them both to flinch. As they approached the bottom of the avenue, Amara realized the hopelessness of her search. The fireworks had lured thousands of spectators. With everyone’s attention focused on the sky, it was impossible for her to thread her way through the crowd.

  “This is your fault!” she charged over the thunderous explosions, the cheering and applause.

  Woefully apologetic, he gestured at the heavens. “The blame is mine. Come now, we will be friends again and admire the sky together.”

  She pressed her lips together to cease their embarrassing tremor. “And how do you propose explaining our absence from the party?”

  The conte’s grin was full of masculine arrogance. “Carina, it is the way of new lovers. Your papa understands. He approves.”

  Amara closed her eyes at his admission. It was as she had feared. Conte Prola’s presence in London was serving her family’s interests in addition to his own. “You do not appear to be a man who openly seeks another man’s approval.”

  He frowned. “I need no man’s sanction.” He drew himself up, a proud, alluring male specimen. “I speak only to ease your maidenly fears.”

  Amara laughed. Maidenly fears indeed. She blinked, holding a gloved hand as a shield over her eyes. The flashes of light blinded her vision, reminding her of lightning. It also reminded her of another night, another man. Without warning she felt the invisible hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It was an unpleasant sensation, a symptom of a greater humiliation she had thought she had overcome. “I have to leave this p-place.” Dread washed over her, leaving her cold despite the temperate evening. Not certain of her destination, she turned, intending to return to the avenue.

  Feeling more than capable of subduing a fractious female, Conte Prola circled his arms around her, effectively caging her within his embrace. His touch was her undoing. As she fought him in earnest, the top of her head collided with his chin. Surprised by the painful impact, he released her.

  Wasting no time, Amara turned and pushed her way through the crowd, heedless of how her actions might be construed. She had to get away. It was too dark. There were too many people. Each explosion ricocheted in her head. Gasping for air, she felt her chest tighten so that it was difficult to draw a deep breath.

  “Signorina!”

  She could hear the conte shouting in the distance. Ignoring his plea to wait, she pushed her way beyond the crowd and reached for the nearest tree for support.

  “Amara.” A distant voice softly evoked her name.

  Her eyes stinging from the drifting smoke, she shook her head. She tried closing her mind off to everything and concentrated on slowing her breathing. “There is nothing to fear,” she whispered, although her frantic heartbeat contradicted the statement.

  “Which one of us are you reassuring, Miss Claeg?”

  His voice filtered through the buzzing noise in her ears and sank into the heart of her. She snapped open her eyes and only the tree she clutched kept her on her feet. The blond gentleman who stood several yards from her seemed as elusive as the smoke that drifted between them. Brock Bedegrayne. The merciless bolt of pain slicing through her chest surprised her. As she drew in a swift breath, all she could think was that he was such a beautiful man. As if sensing her desire, Brock removed his hat, which allowed her to study his face unhindered. Greedily, she accepted his unspoken offer. He still wore his blond hair unfashionably long, she noted, but kept its length secured at his nape. While the sun had lightened his hair, it had darkened his skin. The contrast enhanced the intensity of his pale green eyes. He seemed leaner, harsher, like a wild predator who had spent too much time surviving off the land. The differences did not diminish him. Nay, in truth, he appeared taller, stronger, and overwhelmingly virile. The look in his green gaze was mocking and disturbingly hungry. D
igging her gloved fingers into the rough bark of the tree, she questioned whether the man before her was real or a mirage induced by her hysteria.

  “Oh, I am real, little dove,” he said, accurately reading her thoughts. Older and more handsome than the images from her meager memories, he opened his arms as if he meant to embrace her. “The man from your nightmares has returned.” As he stepped closer, the light from the overhanging oil lamp bathed his face with wavering shadows. The slightly mocking smile he wore faded when he noticed that her pale skin glistened with sweat and her trembling lips were bloodless. “I see our years apart have not diminished your impression that my name and the devil are synonymous. I pray we are both ready for me to prove otherwise.”

  Instinctively, Amara took a step backward, keeping out of his reach.

  “Signorina Claeg!”

  She glanced back, realizing she had not escaped Conte Prola after all, and that he was not alone. Trailing behind him were her irritated mother and her cousin Miss Novell. The ramifications of her mother encountering Brock Bedegrayne cleared any lingering bewilderment from her mind.

  “Sir, I think it best that you leave—” Amara’s voice faded when she turned and noticed she was alone. She looked about but there was no sign that he had ever been there.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The warm stroke of a playful tongue over his lips pulled him from his slumber. Amara. Too cynical to believe his erotic fantasies had come to life, Brock warily opened his eyes. Black eyes gazed lovingly down at him.

  “No offense, love,” he said, “but the last bitch I took to bed cost me a gold bracelet and more skin than I could afford.”

  The white Maltese did not seem to take offense. Pleased to have his complete attention, she lavished his unshaven cheeks with friendly licks. “Enough!” Choking on laughter, he sat up and tried grasping her before her tiny, sharp claws carved furrows in his bare chest. He tucked her under his arm and grabbed a discarded blue silk dressing gown at the end of his bed. Grappling with the squirming dog, he worked his arms into the sleeves, giving him a more respectable appearance than his trousers alone provided. He would not have bothered if he were alone, but this was his brother-in-law’s residence. If Rayne Wyman, Viscount Tipton, had taught him anything during their acquaintance, it was a grudging respect.

  Tucking a flap of fluttering fabric into his left side, Brock stalked out of his chamber in search of Tipton’s fey sibling and owner of the affectionate canine digging its tiny sharp nails into his ribs. “Madeleina!” The door to her room was open, but the girl was not within. He was tempted to shove the dog into the room, close the door, and be done with it.

  “Brock, anything amiss? I vow, you almost sound as thunderous as Papa in a rage,” his youngest sister, Devona, teased as she came down the hall. She was small in size, although age and the bearing of his nephew had ripened her slender figure. As she tilted her heart-shaped face upward, her blue eyes were already brimming with laughter at his predicament. The apple-green morning dress she wore complemented the copper tresses curling around her freshly scrubbed face. He tried reconciling this polished viscountess with the mischievous hoyden of his memories. So much had changed in his absence.

  “I found this in my bed,” he explained, holding up the Maltese. The dog wriggled, attempting to move closer. Brock’s long hair tickled the animal’s inquisitive nose, prompting a hearty wet sneeze. Appalled, he shoved the small dog into his laughing sister’s hands. “Who would want such a creature? Nothing but a hank of hair and bones.”

  “Maddy does. And if you want to spare us all a scathing lecture, you will refrain from insulting her cater-cousin.”

  With his hands free, he secured the buttons on his dressing gown and removed several strands of long white dog hair. “Fine. As long as she can keep it from my bed.”

  “Come along, Mr. Crosspatch.” She hooked her free hand through his arm and led him down the passageway. “Food will improve your disposition.”

  “I need to dress,” he protested.

  Her unladylike snort irritated him, as she had intended. “Such modesty. Dear brother, if your virtue is in jeopardy, I am certain Flora will protect you.” The dog, reacting to her name, barked several times.

  Brock seized Devona’s neck. Instead of throttling her, he pulled her close and kissed her on the temple. “Mouthy imp.”

  Rayne Wyman, Viscount Tipton, was informally dressed and seated at the table when Devona and Brock entered the morning room. Even seated, the man was imposing. He was a gentleman of respectable proportions, but his strange eyes were what first captured an observer’s attention. Of the lightest blue Brock had ever seen in a human, the odd eye color seemed to shift to pewter with heightened emotions. His hair, a mix of chestnut and honey, bore a shocking streak of white springing from his right temple. It had been shoulder-length once, but Tipton had cut it sometime during Brock’s absence. As Tipton touched his manservant, Speck, on the sleeve, Brock noticed and briefly wondered about the long scar branching from the viscount’s thumb to his wrist. It reminded Brock that there were some unsavory factors in the man’s past. Although Tipton was warily accepted by the ton and a respectable surgeon by profession, his life before he married Devona had always troubled Brock. Nevertheless, he could see that his youngest sister was happy in her marriage.

  Speck replied to something the viscount said, pulling Brock from his musings. As he stood poised at his lord’s side, the servant had his attention fixed on the two-year-old boy chewing on the scrolled wood of a chair arm.

  “Tipton, this diet of wax and wood cannot be good for our son.” Handing the dog to a scowling Speck, she scooped up the giggling Lucien and examined the chair. “Every chair we own bears the scars of his teeth. Flora did not give us such trouble when she was a puppy.”

  “At least he has stopped biting people.” Putting aside his morning paper, Tipton settled his son on his knee and accepted a kiss from his wife. “Speck, we are finished here.” The manservant quietly slipped out of the room with the exuberant Flora.

  Acknowledging Brock with a nod, his brother-in-law narrowed his shrewd light blue eyes. “Bedegrayne, traveling to India has suited you. Forgive me for missing your arrival yesterday. I had consults at the hospital and an evening lecture. I see you have attended to your comfort on your own.”

  The casual observation regarding his state of undress brought a slight sting of embarrassment to his unshaven face. Tipton had a manner about him that always made Brock feel like an arse. He shot a brotherly glare at his sister for dismissing his protests.

  Unaffected, she watched the footman pour coffee into her cup. “Oh, Tipton, do not let him chew on that spoon—” She broke off her scolding at the sight of her housekeeper, Pearl Brown. “You are our salvation, Pearl. Lucien is eating the house down around us. Has he had his breakfast?”

  “Yes, madam. Nurse fed him several hours ago. Shall I see if Cook has something in the kitchen that is less grinding on the young master’s teeth?” Already knowing the answer, Pearl moved to collect her charge from Tipton.

  Devona sent the woman a grateful smile. “You are an asset to this household, Pearl. How did I steal you away from Papa?”

  Savoring the smell of his coffee, Brock murmured, “He probably thought Tipton needed help keeping you from casting yourself into the briars.”

  From the moment she took her first unaided steps, the family had been rescuing the youngest headstrong Bedegrayne from her wild mischief. Glancing at his howling nephew, he saw the boy had inherited his mother’s temperament. There was justice, after all.

  “Really, brother, you make me sound like a fidge,” Devona protested, while blowing kisses to her departing son.

  “A saucy fidge,” her husband corrected.

  More amused than outraged, Devona replied, “I must have been having a spell when I wished seeing you and Tipton together in the same room again. Still, it is good to have you home, Brock.”

  The affection in her voice warmed a part o
f him that had grown cold in his absence. He had missed his family. Discreetly, he studied his sister. If Devona suspected the reasons for his leaving England and his decision to return, she had not voiced them aloud. Not above doing his own needling, Brock said, “Marriage seems to have mellowed you both.”

  Shrugging, Devona poked at the food on her plate. “I would not presume to speak for Tipton—”

  “Nothing has prevented you from doing so in the past,” countered Tipton, earning himself a playful kick under the table.

  “I, however, have been too busy with Lucien for any hubble-bubble. So, beloved brother, if you have returned believing I need another jackanapes at my side, you will simply be disappointed.”

  Brock could not be more pleased, although he was prudent not to mention it. The months before he had departed England, danger and scandal clung to his youngest sister like a shadow. No one could have predicted that Devona’s guilty devotion in saving a childhood friend from the gallows would have pulled her into a convoluted plot to murder the viscount. Brock absently rubbed the ridged scar on his left temple, recalling that it was Tipton’s medical skills that saved his sister. In some ways he owed his liberation to the man as well.

  “Thanks to my sire, I am inlaid with sisters. So who should I vex, Wynne or Irene? While I possess a knack for annoying Irene with my presence alone, I must confess there is not a more wondrous sight than our halcyon Wynne in a fury.” Only half-serious about pestering his sisters, he observed the silent exchange between husband and wife with concern. “Has something happened?”

  Devona cleared her throat and took her time fussing with the napery. “Not exactly. There was that business with Digaud and his ilk last season, but Keanan Milroy settled the matter for us all.”

  “Milroy?” Brock repeated, trying to place the name. “Reckless Milroy, the pugilist? What does he have to do with—” He stopped, pouncing on the subject his sister seemed intent on evading. “What matter?”