Tempting the Heiress Read online

  “How curious?”

  “Enough to make a few inquiries about the gent.”

  “And?”

  Claeg shrugged. “He seems everything he claims to be and more.” Meditative, he took a sip of his brandy. “Oh, I can see you are disappointed in my answer. Then again, you never did like Cornley. What will you do, Bedegrayne? You cannot challenge every man who shows interest in my sister.”

  “Cornley was a Machiavellian bounder who took entirely too much pleasure in hurting others. Putting a ball in him would have been too merciful.” The other man thought jealousy ruled Brock’s actions, but it was only a symptom.

  “Luckily, Cornley spared you the awkwardness of having to leave the country by perishing in a fire. I recall Amara was despondent for months.”

  Either by tactful omission or ignorance, Claeg had left out several incriminating details. Six years ago, Brock had tracked down Cornley at his favorite gaming hell, the Manticore, and had challenged the drunken man to a duel. The confrontation turned deadly when knives were drawn and a brawl erupted. An oil lamp had been kicked over in the confusion, shattering against the wall. Hot oil and flame had devoured the dry wood, and soon the entire establishment had been ablaze. Brock had escaped unscathed. Three patrons had perished in the fire. One of them had been Lord Cornley. If there was justice, the man was burning eternally in hell.

  “Awkward or not, Cornley would have died by my hand.”

  Claeg left his chair and retrieved the decanter of brandy. Returning, he refilled Brock’s glass and then his own. “The man has been dead, what, five or six years and still he arouses your bitter hatred. What do you know about Cornley that my family does not?”

  Brock remained silent. No one had listened to him six years ago when the match had been announced. There was nothing to be gained from discussing it now. He picked up his brandy. “Perhaps you should have your sources prod deeper into Prola’s background.”

  “Why?”

  “A posteriori. Cornley was also handpicked by your father.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Amara drifted somewhere between the twilight of consciousness and the cozy depths of dreams. With her eyes closed, vivid images of her day flickered in her mind like the pages of a book caught by a sudden breeze. There were glimpses of her father, the marzipan bouquet, Miss Novell, and a falcon plummeting down from the heavens for the kill.

  Brushing her hair from her face, she twisted the bedding around her when she turned onto her left side. Her head was a whirlwind. She saw herself posing and teasing Mallory, spice cake, and her mother standing by the door, clearly disapproving of something she had done. She frowned, uncertain of her sins. When she approached her mother, the image blurred and changed to Brock. He was angry, so very angry. He kept pointing at her gown. Was something wrong with her gown? Glancing down, she realized she was holding the beautiful fan he had given her. Flipping it open, she gaped in horror as all the silver sequins fell like a cascade of dried petals to the floor.

  Somewhere within the tangle of images, she had slipped into dreams and from there into nightmares. Nightmares of the past.

  Amara stood at the window watching the rain freeze into snow. The storm had been unexpected, but it would not ruin the festivities within Arras Green. Earlier there had been a hunt, and her mother had outdone herself with a feast worthy of a royal guest. She had heard her father boast to her mother that the Prince of Wales might attend their gathering. The house, servants, and the Claeg children had been prepared for such a contingency. Switching her attention from the scene outdoors to her faint reflection in the glass, she turned from side to side admiring her new gown. For a sixteen-year-old young lady, the cut of the bodice was the most daring she had ever worn. Judging from the various reactions she had received earlier from the male guests, her youthful figure was ripening into enticing womanly curves. Cheered by her minor and imaginary conquests, Amara leaned forward and in a feigned kiss, blew her breath against the window, making the glass fog. She wrote her initials, A. C., and drew a scrolling circle around the letters.

  She gasped when strong hands covered her eyes and pulled her backward into an embrace. “Guess?” her male captor whispered against her ear.

  Amara smiled, forgetting her brief fright. The warmth of his breath tickled her ear, making her shiver. Although he had tried to disguise his voice, the heart always recognized with affection. Feeling playful, she asked, “Are you one of the footmen? No, that cannot be so, for I have broken all their hearts. You must be …” She trailed off, drawing out the suspense. “Mr. Adler, is it you?”

  There was a charged pause. “Who the devil is Mr. Adler?” The feigned outrage was almost believable.

  Spinning around, she laughed and gave her captor a teasing poke on the shoulder. “Did you think you could fool me, Brock Bedegrayne? There could be a hundred men in this room and I would still recognize you, even blindfolded.”

  As he returned her smile, his expression told her that he did not believe her claim. “How?” he challenged, his gaze so intense, it seemed to be committing her face to memory.

  She had recognized him by his scent. He had a tantalizing fragrance, which brought to mind a feeling of protection and tenderness. Since it was unseemly to admit that she sniffed every gentleman she encountered, family friend or not, she was not about to confess the truth. “It was the manner of your walk. I heard your brash swagger.”

  He pinched her nose in mock punishment. “Silly goose. Have you missed me?”

  “Nary a moment,” she lied. Once a childhood playmate, Brock Bedegrayne was now a grown man. His pursuits were no longer dictated by the whims of his family. She had once fancied herself in love with him, and the rarity of their meetings broke her woman’s heart. “Have you come with your family?”

  “Aye. Sir Thomas has brought my sisters, so it should please you to have other women about closer to your age.”

  “It does. Older brothers are so tiresome.”

  Not offended, he shared her amusement. “Brothers make a similar accounting for younger sisters.”

  She felt so comfortable around Brock Bedegrayne, regardless of the fact he had been more her brothers’ friend than hers. He had always treated her like one of his sisters. He yelled when he was angry, pulled her hair when feeling provoked, and was fiercely protective. The love she felt for him was forged on a young girl’s boundless fantasy, even if it was imprudent and futile. He had never sought more than friendship, nor had he offered anything overstepping the bounds of brotherly affection.

  “Your home is overflowing with guests, and yet here I find you alone. Why is that?”

  She had been prudently avoiding the attentions of one particular gentleman, but it seemed too cowardly to make such a confession. She wanted him to see her as a young lady old enough to be courted, not as a frightened child.

  He smiled, his brows lifted with curiosity. “Do not tell me you actually believe the Prince of Wales will attend?”

  His skepticism triggered a natural surge of family loyalty. “His Royal Highness has my father’s support and friendship. Bestowing favor on such unwavering allegiance is not uncommon.”

  Unimpressed, he dismissed her defense with a grimace. Disconcerting her further, he lightly fingered one of the petite braids near her right ear. “The prince’s allegiance can be as fickle as a young maid’s heart.”

  She rushed forward, covering his mouth with her hand. “Hush! You utter the most traitorous remarks! What if someone hears you?”

  Through her gloved hand, Amara could feel his grin. He replied, but it was muffled. Chagrined, she removed her hand. “I do beg your pardon.”

  “Nay, you wish me to the devil, Miss Claeg,” he countered, unrepentant about his teasing. “The truth is in your eyes. They are as clear as a hot spring on a winter’s morning. Such inviting depths tempt a gentleman to cast aside caution.” Unsmiling, he moved closer, causing the tiny hairs on her arms to prickle. “Aye, they might be worth a bad scalding.”


  Her mouth went dry. “More like a good scolding, if you dare.” He intended to kiss her. She was certain of it. Awareness rippled just beneath her flesh, making their proximity almost painful. He stared down at her, his hungry gaze fixed on her mouth. Unable to tolerate the tension a minute further, she rolled up on her tiptoes and pressed her soft mouth to his. Brock angled his head to one side, and reverently their lips touched. She closed her eyes, marveling at the perfection of the moment. Never had a kiss moved her so that she felt the ardent tingles all the way down to her knees.

  Laughter coming from outside the room broke the fragile enchantment. With a mumbled apology, she jerked back and turned her head toward the door. Amara barely heard Brock’s soft imprecation. She was so petrified, wondering if her mother might be with the group, that she had not released her grip on his arms. Only Brock had the presence of mind to untangle himself and put a respectable amount of distance between them.

  Her brother Doran appeared at the threshold, catching sight of them. Since he had spent the last few hours liberally drinking with the other gentlemen, his youthful features took on a puckish air.

  “What have we here?” He wagged a finger at them. “Naughty, naughty, dear sister. Especially since I have gone to the trouble of—” He leaned back and gave a shout to someone. The unintelligible reply had her brother doubling over with a fit of laughter. He beckoned his unseen companions to join him. “Amara, my girl, come show your betrothed a proper welcoming. We shall drink a toast in honor of your upcoming nuptials.”

  Amused by some prank they had played, three boisterous gentlemen came up behind her brother, who was still bracing himself up at the entryway. Ducking under her brother’s arm, Lord Cornley put a companionable arm around Doran. He was a fine-looking man with gray eyes and straight blond hair that was cut to frame his face. The young earl was also quite foxed. He squinted at Brock and Amara, who seemed rooted in place. Oblivious that he was doing anything untoward, he leered at her, his expression becoming embarrassingly intimate. “Gentlemen, a’n’t she a pretty one?”

  Thumping Doran on the back, Lord Cornley walked toward her. He wobbled on the last step, and then seized her hand. An abrupt shriek slipped out when he dragged her into a clumsy embrace. His cohorts laughed, enjoying his audacity. She tried pulling her wrists free, but she might as well have been fettered with irons instead of muscle, tendon, and bone.

  “You have been miserly in your attentions, Miss Claeg.”

  “It has not deterred you from finding your own amusements, my lord.” Papa wanted this man to be her husband. The thought left her cold.

  “As my countess, you will learn that my needs come before all. I demand a kiss from my lady.”

  Anticipation lit Lord Cornley’s gray eyes as he dipped his face closer. The smell of spirits had her wrinkling her nose, while she turned her face away and arched her body, attempting to escape his questing lips. What feelings Brock’s gentle kiss had coaxed from her congealed at the notion of Lord Cornley’s touch. His friends, including her brother, thought her resistance all a jest and were clearly entertained by her efforts to thwart her betrothed’s sloppy affection.

  “My lord, please.”

  Feeling wholly inept at handling the situation, she sent a beseeching look to her only ally in the room.

  Brock was gone. The room became a variegated pattern of color when Lord Cornley tired of her game, whirled them once and then jerked her closer. She closed her eyes, prepared to endure his kiss. In her mind, she envisioned years of such moments and her heart withered.

  “Release her.”

  Amara opened her eyes at the quiet demand. Her relief was almost blinding as she met Brock’s wintry stare. He had not deserted her. Sometime during her struggles, Brock had moved, positioning himself behind Lord Cornley. The merriment palled as the tension stretched between the two men. She did not take her gaze from Brock’s face, but she could hear the gentlemen in the distance whispering, perhaps even wagering on the outcome.

  The young earl glanced over his shoulder, summarily dismissing the threat Brock posed. “Stealing a kiss from my betrothed does not warrant your concern.” The comment was nonchalant in delivery, but his fingers digging into her arms revealed his anger.

  “I must insist. Miss Claeg deserves better than a clumsy pawing from a pot valiant.”

  “Kiss mine, you meddlesome cur.” Defiant, he smashed his mouth down over hers.

  Amara felt the sharp edges of his teeth when he pressed a punishing kiss to her mouth. She tasted her own blood. Cornley was proving to them all that he could do anything he desired with her and no one would oppose his actions. The kiss for all its ferocity was brief. Cursing, the earl tipped his head back at an angle that looked painful.

  With no other choice than being pulled along, she realized their twosome had become a strange triumvirate. Brock had a ruthless grip on the hair at the back of Cornley’s head. The unnatural angle and the impotent pain in the earl’s eyes revealed that Brock finally had gained the man’s attention.

  “For Amara’s sake, I strived for civility but I have lost interest. Let us try my forthright approach.” Brock twisted his grip. “Release her and apologize.”

  Cornley’s already pale face whitened at the increased tension Brock was applying. Growling an oath, he freed her. Amara rubbed at the stinging in her arms. She placed herself out of range of the two men.

  As he watched her with a troubled gaze, Brock’s light green eyes narrowed. “You have put marks on her. Apologize, and make me believe your sincerity,” he threatened.

  Sobering in the face of violence, her brother Doran rallied. Brock had subtly altered the balance of power in the room even though he was outnumbered. Not wanting to be the focus of an enraged friend’s wrath, he hid behind excuses. “Cornley was just dallying. There was no harm intended.” Shamed that he had stood by and allowed his sister to be hurt, he offered her a mute apology.

  Amara was not feeling generous. Doran would have to offer more than feeble excuses for his callous behavior. He could spend his time courting her good favor instead of trying to impress her future husband. Scowling at Brock, Doran murmured something to his companions and they departed, leaving Cornley’s fate in Brock’s hands.

  Wrenching his prize, Brock said, “Your friends have deserted you, Cornley. I can just imagine the witty tale with which they will regale the others about your sad predicament.”

  “You will pay dearly for this,” Cornley vowed, his inflexible pose only allowing him to focus his ire on Amara.

  Clutching her hand to her heart, she feared for Brock. Lord Cornley would not permit this insult to go unchallenged. They would face each other across a frost-covered field, or worse, the earl might ambush him. She could not bear for him to be hurt because she had solicited his protection. “Mr. Bedegrayne, I beg you. Release him. For your sake if not for mine.”

  “At once, Miss Claeg, when you have gained your apology. Cornley,” he said, drawing the man up onto his toes, “you are stalling. I have heard rumors about your perversions. Do you possess a queer proclivity for pain?”

  “M-Miss Claeg. I tender my ap-pologies for any embarrassment and discomfort you have endured.”

  “I accept them, my lord,” she rushed, wanting an end to the conflict. “Please, Mr. Bedegrayne. I am satisfied.”

  With reluctance, Brock released the earl and shoved him toward the door. Amara sensed he hoped Lord Cornley was foolish enough to attack. His body vibrated with the need for a fight and it had more to do with his hatred for the blond gentleman than any insult he perceived toward her.

  Lord Cornley must have discerned this as well. He took a moment to smooth his hair and gave his coat a straightening tug. The earl encompassed them both in his considering stare. “I concede, Mr. Bedegrayne. You wielded your advantage and can claim victory this hour. I hope it brings you pleasure.” His mouth lifted in a sneer. “For within a month, I will claim what you lust for and can never have.” Executing
an exaggerated bow toward Amara, he touched the door for balance as he made his way out of the room.

  Amara felt ill. She stared at Brock. His expression was still murderous, yet he was not running after his adversary. She blamed the earl’s parting words for Brock’s anger. Cornley had spoken in jealousy. He had not understood that their affection had grown from a solid foundation of years of childhood friendship. It encompassed not only Brock, but also his brother and sisters. “You humiliated him in front of his friends. For that alone, he will seek vengeance,” she warned, praying she was wrong.

  Flexing the hand he had used to hold the earl, he gave her an enigmatic look. Walking up to her, he gently touched each bruise on her arms. Amara was still trembling from the altercation, and Brock’s concern was feeding her agitation.

  “Little dove,” he said, his voice roughening with emotion. “The bastard has already had his revenge.”

  Pressing her face deeper into the pillow, Amara murmured Brock’s name. Within the foggy labyrinth of dreams, she separated from her sixteen-year-old dream image. Had she been so young and naïve? The residual fear of the dream was still pumping through her, melding nightmare and reality.

  She recognized the nightmare. It had haunted her off and on for six years. Her fingers dug into the mattress. The fading images diffused into random colors and patterns as she fought her way out of the mist.

  She lost the battle.

  The weight of sleep pulled her down into its murky depths. The image distorted and suddenly she was sixteen again, standing in front of the window watching the rain turn into snow. It was so cold, she thought, shivering.

  Turning, she walked out of the room. Instead of the outer hall, she was in the attic. A soft whisper in her head questioned the contradiction with her memory, but Amara ignored the warning. Her mother had sent her upstairs into the old nursery on an errand. Amara dared not defy her. Papa was sulking about His Royal Highness’s absence and Mama was smiling so much her cheeks must have hurt.