Tempting the Heiress Read online

  “I will not apologize again for the kiss, Amara. I do, nonetheless, regret the manner. I was not gentle,” he admitted, still unsettled by how close he had come to acting on his carnal thoughts.

  She stopped poking at her hair and turned to face him. The flare of emotion had burned itself into ash. Her demeanor was calm, too much so for Brock’s liking. “And I am fragile,” she mused, “not the kind of woman with whom a man can express his passionate nature.”

  Brock scowled. “It is just like a woman to twist a man’s words until he cannot make sense of his own thoughts. You have passion, woman. Our kissing proved that well enough. I just do not want you running from me. Never from me, Amara!”

  “I did not have to run. You distanced yourself from me long before you departed England.” She gave her reflection a final glance and then moved to the door.

  “First, Lothbury … and now this Italian. Neither man is worthy of you,” he said. The truth of her words stung more than her slap.

  Amara twisted the key, springing the lock. “Lothbury?” There was a hint of surprise in the question. “I heartily concur.”

  “I know of his interest, that your heart might have been engaged. Is it true?” He despised asking, but he needed to know whom he was fighting.

  “How did you—” She dismissed the question with a shake of her head. “Wait. It was Wynne. She must have written you.”

  “Aye, she thought I might be interested.” He had been in an inconsolable rage when he had read Wynne’s letter, which hinted of Lothbury’s attentions last season. He spent most of the homebound journey fearing he might be too late, that Amara had married during his absence. “So what happened? I thought your ambitious mother would have rejoiced over a bloody marquess,” he sneered.

  His attitude had put the temper back into her eyes. “She did. I did not. That is all I intend to say about the matter.”

  “And the Italian?”

  With her chin tilted up, she said, “Not your concern.” Amara opened the door. It took only several brisk strides to reach her and slam the door shut with the palm of his hand.

  “I am not running anymore. It is time you dealt with it.” His statement sounded like a threat. Perhaps it was.

  She leaned against the door. Her regal bearing, the dignity with which she tilted her chin, gave him the impression she was looking down on him even though he was taller by more than eight inches.

  “Your pugnacity may appeal to some, but I am not as malleable as I once was. Your threat does not frighten me.”

  He was damned to live in perpetual discomfort if her uppishness alone made him hard. Since he longed to haul her back into his arms and kiss her senseless, Brock locked his hands behind his back.

  “I am not your enemy, little dove.”

  Agitated by his informality, she retorted, “Nor my friend!”

  “No, I am more.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The evening air chilled Amara as she and her cousin sat in the coach awaiting Lady Keyworth. Her father had departed the Dodds’ ball hours earlier, preferring the risk of hazard to the silken intrigue of the ballroom. Her interest in the evening’s revelry had ceased after she had left Brock, his parting words still ringing in her ears.

  “No, I am more.”

  She sagged back into the seat with a heavy sigh. The man had inherited a noteworthy theatrical flair. It was bred in the Bedegraynes, like their good looks and intellect. Brock Bedegrayne had taken his natural gifts and honed them into a lethal combination of danger and charisma. While she spent the remaining hours of the night worrying that he might attempt a public confrontation which would alert her mother of his interest, a part of her kept reliving those minutes in his embrace. Amara bit her lower lip in contemplation. Whatever her feelings, the most dominant was not a maidenly terror.

  The coach door opened, and a footman assisted her mother as she stepped into the compartment. She settled into the empty bench across from them. The footman shut the door and called out to the coachman.

  “Cease chewing your lip, Amara. I thought we cured you of that nervous habit when you were ten.”

  “Yes, Mama.” One brazen kiss, she lamented silently, and all her girlish eccentricities had reappeared. Next, she would be chewing on the fingertips of her kid gloves!

  “Hold fast!” the coachman called out and the ladies dutifully braced themselves. The horses bounded forward, their harnesses jangling like music in the night. The sudden motion jostled the occupants within the compartment. Lady Keyworth placed a hand up to her turban, keeping it from sliding off. Appearances were everything, even if no one was watching.

  “Piper,” her mother said, “I expect you will write your mother and father about this event. Your beauty and graciousness have served you well.”

  Even in the dim lamp-lit interior her cousin’s face glowed at the praise. “Everyone was so kind. It seemed there was an eternal fountainhead of partners. Why, my slippers are surely ruined.”

  “A worthy reason for a shopping jaunt. Amara will show you which shops we favor with our patronage. As I vowed to your dear father, you will have the proper polish when you leave us.”

  Much of the enthusiasm on her cousin’s face withered. Either her mother’s not-so-subtle reminder that Piper had arrived on their doorstep too countrified for the ton had induced the sudden mood, or it was her suggestion that the two ladies spend another afternoon together. Any commiserating that might have developed vanished at the venomous stare Piper delivered in Amara’s direction. Perhaps it was rather unkind of her, but she returned the glare in spades. They would never be confidantes. What veil of civility they possessed had been wholly rended with her mother’s callous words. It was a loss she did not regret. She preferred forthright hostility to false amity.

  Any hope the rest of their journey would be made in blessed silence was quashed by Lady Keyworth’s next words.

  “Daughter, I pray you did not embarrass yourself with the conte.”

  Quickly reviewing their encounter in her head, she sounded guarded when she replied, “I presume, no worse than any other occasion.”

  Piper brought her handkerchief up to her lips, and delicately coughed. She was staring out the window at the passing street activity, but Amara would have wagered her new amethyst sarcenet mantle that the woman was relishing every minute of her discomfort.

  “You really should not have run off after the set,” her mother chided. “The poor man thought you had taken offense to something he said.”

  “I shall apologize at the next opportunity, Mama,” she promised, certain the gentleman and her family would provide one.

  “Really, Amara, such an insipid tone is rather off-putting. It is not surprising gentlemen find your conduct baffling.”

  She thought of Brock Bedegrayne. He seemed more amused and challenged by her abrasiveness than offended. “There is equality in that, since I find men and their ways most mysterious.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Keyworth contradicted. “Gentlemen are simple creatures. They prefer order in their household, dutifulness in their women and offspring. Heed me, daughter, all our efforts will be for naught if you persist in resisting my good counsel.”

  “Speaking of mysteries,” Piper said, interrupting the silent testing of wills. “You were missing for some time, cousin. Where did you wander off? I recall that several others commented on your hasty departure from the conte.”

  “That is an intriguing question. Where did you go, Amara?”

  Whether or not her cousin was exaggerating was inconsequential. It was clear from her mother’s expression that she believed the worst. The word scandal vibrated in the air as if spoken. Any inclination for honesty died under the keen scrutiny of her mother. Her lie would have to be convincing, for speaking the truth would without doubt induce an apoplexy.

  Instead of wasting hours searching the various balls, gaming hells, and exclusive clubs for his father, Brock decided an impromptu stop at the Bedegrayne town house was neces
sary to ascertain Sir Thomas’s whereabouts. His quest took him to an unsavory lane off Upper Thames Street. Crammed between a steel yard and a brothel was the Red Crummy coffeehouse.

  Armed only with a walking stick, Brock ignored the ribald invitation by two ambitious doxies from their open window and entered the shabby establishment. Searching the room, he could not imagine what had lured his father to such a place. It took him only seconds to find his father. Neither distance nor a smoke-filled room could diminish Sir Thomas Bedegrayne’s presence.

  At sixty, the Bedegrayne patriarch was a robust fellow, with a build that had once rivaled his son’s. The passing years had widened his girth and face, but his large frame bore the weight better than most of his contemporaries. Even though his hair and side-whiskers had silvered, his intelligent blue-green eyes were as razor sharp as they had been in his youth.

  Brock pushed his way to the side of the room where his father sat engaged in conversation with two gentlemen. At his approach, his father’s fierce scowl for the unwary interloper gave way to pleasure.

  “Brock, my boy! Join us,” he said, waving him over. “Let me introduce my associates, Mr. Marsh and Mr. Smiles.”

  The two men stood, offering their salutations. Their worn attire and rough cadence disclosed their humble origins. Nevertheless, the men were not unnerved by his sudden appearance and directly met his curious gaze. Whatever their business with his father, the men stood as equals.

  “Gentlemen.” Brock politely returned their greeting. The coffeehouse was crowded and no vacant chair or bench was visible.

  Sensing his dilemma, Mr. Marsh rose from the bench he shared with Mr. Smiles. “’Ere now, young Bedegrayne, squat yer bones an’ sip some gin-punch wit’ yer sire. We’ve done our business. An’t that so, yer lordship?” He squinted at Sir Thomas, despite the dim lighting.

  “Indeed, gentlemen. I will expect a weekly accounting of your efforts,” Sir Thomas reminded them.

  “We’ll do it up right for ye, sir,” Mr. Smiles promised, sidestepping his partner. “Leave it to us.” Tugging on their hats, the pair departed.

  Brock settled down on the vacated bench. Picking up the abandoned pint-pot, he sniffed the contents. “Well, Father, if your choice of establishment was not enough to arouse my interest, your new business partners have succeeded. What are you about?”

  Sir Thomas chuckled and signaled a barmaid. “Marsh spoke the truth. It was just business.”

  Checking in all directions to make certain they were not being overheard, Brock leaned closer before he said, “Your standards have lowered in my absence.”

  Sir Thomas quirked his brow. “Bilge. I am at heart a merchant. What better place to do business than an establishment that lures sailors, poets, laborers, statesmen, and noblemen?”

  “Spare me the Jacobinic rhetoric. Do you want to incite a mob before I can get you out of this hovel?”

  The barmaid slammed down two pint-pots in front of them, ending their conversation. He sent the barmaid an easy smile, but her dour features did not thaw. “That’ll be two shillings an’ eightpence, gentlemen,” she said, stressing the last word as if she had her doubts.

  Brock slipped the coins into her open palm. Clasping the coins, she gave them a dismissive sniff and flounced off.

  “A man has spent too much time abroad when he cannot win over a simple English gel,” Sir Thomas chided. He sampled his gin-punch.

  Three drunken men in the corner started chanting her name. The harried barmaid changed directions. Confident the woman could handle the unruly summons, Brock returned his attention to his father.

  “My ambition was somewhat higher than what lies betwixt her plump thighs.” He picked up his pint-pot. “She would have had my enthusiastic gratitude for swill void of spittle and piss.” Sir Thomas barked with laughter. Brock took a sip and grimaced. Setting down the punch he said, “So why are the Bedegraynes undertaking business with the criminal class?”

  The older man cringed. “Have care, my boy. The wrong word spoken here brings unforeseen consequences.”

  “That is exactly my point.”

  Understanding lit his father’s cutting stare. “Bugger me. You came charging in to rescue your dotty old sire. Is that it? I wasn’t too senile for you when you ran off like your coldhearted brother and left the care of the business and family to me.”

  Brock closed his eyes, feeling the stirrings of a headache. Anger and scandal had impelled his brother Nyle to cut his ties with his family more than seven years ago. As far as anyone knew, the younger Bedegrayne had left England, leaving a wound within Sir Thomas that had never healed. Brock felt he had spent most of the time afterward paying for his brother’s sins. “Christ, there is no reasoning with you when you throw Nyle’s name down like a damned gauntlet. Come along, I will see you home.”

  His father pounded a fist on the table, knocking over several of the pint-pots. “I am not some old woman who needs a strong arm to walk a straight line. I can find my own way home, if it is all the same to you.”

  Temper matched temper. He stood, bracing his hands on the table. “It isn’t. The punch has rotted your common sense if you think I will abandon you to a room of brigands. Get up.” He reached out, intending to haul him to his feet. His fingers barely grazed his father’s sleeve. Someone grabbed him from behind.

  “Jus’ a gang of cutthroats and whores, are we?” his captor jeered in his right ear. The crowd around them had become unfriendly yet rapt spectators.

  Resigned, he muttered, “Brigands.”

  “Come again, mate?” another man demanded, moving so that Brock could recognize the men at least by profession. They were crimps, or press-gangers.

  Brock glanced down at his father. Their gazes locked and a silent discourse was exchanged. Whatever their differences, blood defended blood.

  He cleared his throat. “I believe the word I used was brigands,” he said, adding enough disdain in his inflection to incite the mob that had concerned him earlier. The noise in the room rose to an annoying buzz of outrage and insults.

  Brock did not hesitate. He drove his elbow into his captor’s side, gaining his freedom. Pivoting, he punched the man in the jaw and sent him careening on top of the table behind him. Before he could advance, the second man rushed him and managed to catch him by the waist. They landed hard on the wooden floor, literally knocking the breath out of Brock. He clasped his ribs, and rolled away from his attacker, sending patrons scurrying out of his path.

  Sir Thomas clouted the angry sailor with a chair. He lifted the chair high above his head and bellowed a challenge to the onlookers. No one seemed eager to accept. The surge of pride Brock felt was brief. Taking advantage of the distraction, the other sailor landed a ruthless kick in Brock’s lower back. Hissing out the pain, he staggered onto his feet and leapt for his opponent.

  Pandemonium ensued, reminding him of his wilder years. Brock could not think of a grander homecoming.

  “Brawling?” Devona gave her brother an icy stare while she blotted the drying blood from a small cut near Sir Thomas’s left eye. She had repeated the word numerous times in as many minutes. Brock attributed her slowness to shock and the late hour.

  Trying to keep his breathing shallow, Brock mumbled, “Hell, Devona, you act as if we started it.” Summoning his brother-in-law for his indispensable medical skills had seemed like a stroke of brilliance at one in the morning. An hour later, his sister’s pithy scolding and murderous glares had him regretting the decision. Tipton should have left Devona sleeping in her bed, he ungraciously thought. Women possessed no humor about these situations.

  “What a fine evening,” Sir Thomas confessed, still animated by all the excitement. He was relatively unscathed considering he had been in the thick of the mayhem. “Tipton, you missed a rousing scuffle. We could have used Milroy’s fists a time or two.”

  “Our skills were more than adequate to handle a few drunken crimps,” Brock countered, his pride pricking at him. “Were we not the
ones who walked out of the Red Crummy before someone had the sense to alert the watch?”

  The cloth-wrapped ice he pressed to his swollen cheek felt rapturous. He would have whimpered if his sister’s presence had not demanded that he remain stoic. Tipton was contemplative as he examined the nasty bruise on Brock’s back. “Have I broken the rib?”

  The surgeon did not answer immediately. His touch was competent, but each poke sent branches of pain directly into Brock’s stomach. He shifted away, worrying that he might be ill.

  “How grievous are his injuries, Tipton?” Devona pressed, her concern overriding her anger at him for placing their father in danger.

  “He will not require bleeding,” he said, the muscle along his jaw tensing in sympathy to the pain his examination was causing his patient. His expression softened when he glanced up and noted her distress. “Come, love, no tears. The Bedegraynes can take a knock or two without permanent damage. I did not pack even one bone saw.”

  He and his father watched as the viscount drew his wife into a one-armed embrace and kissed her. The irony of the compassionate action made Brock grin. He could recall an occasion or two when the bruises mottling his flesh had been administered by Tipton’s skillful hands. Although he would never admit it, he conceded that his brother-in-law had been justified. It was odd how age had a way of changing one’s perspective.

  “You can tup your wife later,” Brock complained. Their kiss had reminded him what it felt like to have Amara in his arms. The fight and the pain had almost pushed her from his thoughts. In his present condition, he was not particularly grateful for the reminder. “How ’bout easing your patient’s fears?”

  Devona pushed away from her husband. Her pretty blush was almost as dark as her fiery tresses. Sneaking a peek at her chuckling father, she took his bruised hand and pushed it into a bowl of solution Tipton had prepared. She smiled a little too sweetly when Sir Thomas yelped because of the sting.