Amara walked rigidly beside her mother while Lady Keyworth maneuvered their way through the ballroom in a brisk manner laudable of any colonel. She stopped occasionally, speaking to people she deemed worthy of her brief civility. Amara cast a bitter glance at Miss Novell, who seemed beyond the strife in the Claeg household. They had barely entered the room when a flirtatious gentleman had begged the viscountess for her cousin’s participation in a set. Watching her competently execute the lively steps of a reel, Amara was grateful she would be spared Miss Novell’s presence for what she had already deemed a miserable evening.
“Are you of the same opinion, Miss Claeg?”
“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Sheers,” Amara replied, feeling the air around them warm with each passing second. “My thoughts were directed—” She mentally castigated herself when she noticed her mother’s lips had thinned to a disapproving line. “Elsewhere,” she lamely finished.
Not offended, the woman gave her an indulgent smile. “It was always thus for me at the start of a new season. Each year brings the spring of new love yet to be discovered, and the autumn of despair. Three seasons passed before my shy ambassador unearthed the courage to propose. Since then we have enjoyed seven-and-twenty years together.”
“It is a worthy aspiration, madam.”
The sapphire and diamonds that adorned the older woman’s hair, neck, and wrists winked with her every gesture. “Your mother has confided to me that your time for rejoicing spring is at hand, my dear.”
“I confess I do not share my mother’s confidence. Spring may bring a more temperate clime, but it also harbors whirlwinds, chilling rain, not to mention thunder and lightning.”
Mrs. Sheers’s eyes glimmered with delight. “Glenda, I believe your Italian count will need to sharpen his wits if he intends to possess your daughter’s regard.”
There was a soft amused smile on Lady Keyworth’s face, but the look she fixed on her only daughter was pure cold determination. “No man changes at the whim of a woman. Why else would womankind be so amendable?”
There was a stilted silence between the two women. Amara sensed Mrs. Sheers was poised to disagree. There was a telling flash of temper in the woman’s eyes, but she did not respond. Perhaps being married to an ambassador had taught her diplomacy. Such marvelous restraint was probably why their friendship had lasted twelve years.
Amara’s gaze shifted, seeking some sort of distraction before she proved how gauche she had become in her two-and-twenty years. Her aimless search of the room halted on the two men who had entered. One was focused on the face of a matron she could not identify from her position. The other gentleman appeared to be as restless as she felt. He searched the crowd, his handsome mouth drawn tight into a saturnine pout. Physically and in temperament they were opposites. Yet she was involuntarily drawn to both of them on some level. Attempting to keep her breathing calm, she acknowledged that it was one of the reasons she feared them both.
“Miss Claeg, you have drifted elsewhere again,” Mrs. Sheers teased. “What lures your thoughts from us?”
“Conte Prola,” Lady Keyworth said, her satisfaction interwoven in her observation.
Amara knew the moment the conte noticed her. His sullen expression eased into an unappealingly smug grin and he started to make his way to them. There would be no avoiding him this evening. He and her mother had seen to it. Not wanting to encourage him further by gaping at him as if she were moonstruck, she shifted her gaze to the right, locking onto Brock Bedegrayne’s.
She suspected he was not particularly shocked by this encounter. The woman beside him seemed oblivious to their silent exchange. Her gestures suggested that she was happily carrying on the conversation for them both. Brock smiled and said something to the woman. Perhaps it was vain, but Amara felt the intimate smile was directed at her instead of his companion. The wink confirmed it.
“Lady Keyworth and Miss Claeg, it is a pleasure,” Conte Prola said, executing a formal bow. “Your presence alone has transformed a rather dull evening into something extraordinary.”
“Conte Prola, may I present a good friend of mine, Mrs. Sheers.”
“Madam,” he said, acknowledging her with another bow. His attention turned to Amara. “Miss Claeg, you have led me on a merry chase. The hunt can be as stimulating as the surrender. What do you think, ladies? Should I demand a forfeit from the charming Miss Claeg for stealing my heart?”
The older women immediately concurred. He sounded sincere enough that Amara was almost convinced that what he claimed was true.
“I claim a dance. It is a small price, no, for a strong, beating heart?”
Neatly boxed between her mother and a reprisal if she disagreed, Amara lowered her gaze to the floor. “Yes, my lord.”
“Eccellente.” He offered his right hand. She rested her left on top of his. “If you will excuse us, ladies. Lady Keyworth, your daughter will be safe in my care.”
“I do not doubt it, Conte Prola,” her mother assured him.
Pivoting away from the older women, Amara risked a subtle glance at Brock. He stood alone. And he was not smiling.
Across the ballroom, Amara and Conte Prola joined three other couples to form a square for the cotillion. It was certainly an eclectic group of individuals. Fifty-year-old gout-ridden Lord Rodon was partnered with their host’s youngest daughter, Lady Blythe.
Across from them, Lord Middlefell stood beside his current mistress, Lady Gribbin. Observing the blatant flirtation between them, Amara assumed Lord Gribbin had not attended the ball. She doubted a man of Lord Middlefell’s notorious stamp would be deterred by the threat of a dawn appointment. She had always disliked the gambler, and if she had been alone would have given him a direct cut. Since doing so now would only force her into revealing confidences, she ignored the pair.
Turning her attention to the couple across from her, she noticed timid Miss Palmer had been paired with a gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Maguire. Their stances were awkward while everyone waited for the music to commence.
Amara greeted her companions and made the appropriate introductions. Miss Palmer, when introduced to the conte, turned a very unflattering red and fumbled her fan. Amara could sympathize with the poor woman. The handsome Italian managed to turn almost any woman into a stuttering, clumsy goose.
“Dancing is required for a proper courtship, no?” Conte Prola murmured, his low, accented voice slipping under her skin. She resisted the urge to shudder.
“It can be, my lord. However, we are not engaged in a courtship.”
The master of ceremonies called out a warning and the music began.
“You challenge me, Miss Claeg,” he said over the music.
“No, I am discouraging you, Conte Prola.”
He laughed and shook his head, clearly not dissuaded by her comment. The conversation ended as they concentrated on the figures of the dance. With regard to skill, they were fairly matched as partners. Her mother had employed a French dance master when she was eleven, and the years of instruction had not been wasted. Although Amara would not have employed the word graceful when describing a gentleman, there was a careless elegance in the conte’s movements. They did not speak, but his expression was eloquent. It was brimming with joy and he was daring her to join him.
He was difficult to resist.
The conte coaxed a reluctant smile from her. When the dance ended, instead of bowing, he boldly tugged her into an embrace and spun her in a circle. The other couples applauded. By the time her slippers had touched the floor, she feared her face was as ruddy as Miss Palmer’s had been.
“You are as agile as a bird taking flight, Miss Claeg. I am loath to return you to your mama. It is my secret wish to carry you off into the night and keep you for myself.”
“You are too presumptuous, my lord.”
“Your beauty makes a man feel reckless,” he confessed.
The combination of his intense gaze and his flattery was overwhelming for Amara. He was not the
first man to court her. She had been betrothed once. Still, Amara was aware that even though most considered her fair in appearance, she was not the type of woman who inspired the devotion that gleamed in the conte’s eyes. She had encountered his ilk in the past. Only last season, the Marquess of Lothbury had eloquently praised her beauty and intelligence. She had learned later the man had courted her because of her friendship with Wynne Milroy. Her heart had been slightly bruised from his cruel manipulation, but she was the wiser for it.
“I am too old for recklessness, my lord.”
“What is this nonsense?” he demanded, the bitterness in her admission confusing him.
“Something I seem destined to repeat,” she replied, wishing she could glimpse beyond her companion’s expression. “Thank you for the dance. It was invigorating. I believe I shall retire upstairs for a few minutes. Would you be kind enough to tell my mother when you see her?”
Propriety demanded that he accept her dismissal without protest. As he bowed, his posture acquired a rigidity that reflected his displeaure. Meeting her gaze again, his expression softened. “I am your servant, Miss Claeg. I wish to be the man who grants all of your desires.”
The manner in which he stressed desire had its own effect on her system. “Y-yes, that is an enterprising notion. Please tell my mother I will return to her soon.” She stepped away from him and then paused. “I did thank you for the dance, did I not?”
He took her gloved hand and kissed above the knuckles. “Perhaps we shall dance again? Soon, I think.”
She hastily nodded, backing away before she agreed to anything else. It would have been more prudent to allow the conte to escort her back to her mother. However, Amara needed a few minutes to herself. She headed out of the ballroom and up the stairs. She kept a leisurely pace. There was no reason to call unwarranted attention to her actions. So intent was she on deciding which room she should use, she did not notice that someone was following her until a firm hand closed over her mouth.
With thundering conversation and music vying for supremacy in the background, no one heard her muffled scream. She bit down on her captor’s hand, but the white kid gloves buffered any damage her teeth could have inflicted. Dragging her backward, her assailant deftly opened a door with one hand while keeping her subdued with the other. He pulled her into the room. The bedchamber’s oil lamps were lit and the smell of coal drifted from the grate.
A helpless sound vibrated in her throat when she heard the key turn in its lock. Warm lips brushed her ear, causing her to cringe.
“This is the second time I have carried you off from one of the Dodds’ balls. It could become an interesting habit.”
“Brock Bedegrayne, how dare you!” Amara demanded the moment he had removed his hand from her mouth.
Brock leaned against the door, letting her know that she would not escape him until he was prepared to free her. “How could I resist?”
She shook her fist at him. “Next time, try.” She whirled away from him, purposely distancing herself from the bed.
Amara had always been a tempting morsel when she was incensed. Two years had erased the girlish softness in her cheeks while rounding her delightfully in her hips and bosom. Her hair was longer, he noted with relief. She had it swept up into a sophisticated style. Plumed aigrettes of citrine and brilliants secured the fetching curls from her face. A matching necklace, earrings, and armlets completed the set. The jewelry complemented the pale topaz gossamer silk dress draping her curvaceous frame. The bodice of the dress was revealingly low and not exactly what he considered Amara’s taste, but he was not foolish enough to object to such a generous view of her charms.
“Ah, little dove, with or without the fancy plumage, your beauty dims the image that burns in my memories.” She was skittish from his touch and he wanted to reassure her that she was safe from harm. Standing close to the fireplace, he saw that his admission surprised her.
“Very poetic, Mr. Bedegrayne. If I did not know you so well, I might believe you had spoken with sincerity.”
Stubborn, he thought. He expected nothing less from her. “Since you know me so well, then you can use my given name. You have uttered it before and have not been damned for it.”
She gave him a sulky glare. “That is not a wager I would accept frivolously.”
“I do not mind waiting here until you do. How long will it be before Lady Keyworth searches for you?”
“About as long as it would take my father to demand satisfaction for your nefarious actions,” was her smug retort. She smoothed the front of her dress and fussed with the long pale blue silk scarf that cascaded like a waterfall down her left shoulder and was pinned at her right hip. “I do not understand this mischief, sir. I have not conspired with any of your sisters for at least a fortnight. Your family is safe from my machinations, I can assure you.”
“I have always regretted that business, dove,” he said, purposely using the childhood nickname he had given her, forcing her to remember the perdurable bond between them. “Will you ever forgive me?”
“I do not know if it is about forgiveness, Brock.”
It heartened him that she had uttered his name without fear. Perhaps, in time, he could do something to ease the sadness.
“Why the elaborate ruse?” She waved her hands in the air about her. “You could have approached me downstairs. If you had asked me to dance—”
“And have your mother refuse me,” he countered. “I think not. Suffering the pangs of rejection would not suit me.”
He approached her slowly, promising himself that he would halt if she backed away from him. Remaining near the warmth of the grate, Amara narrowed her almond-shaped eyes, clearly suspicious of his intentions. He could not blame the lady. No one had ever claimed that she lacked intelligence. Foolishly charmed by her ringlets, Brock reached out, testing their suppleness.
“How ever did you coax your straight mane into these clever coils?”
The wonder in his voice seemed to amuse her. The wariness and anger that had clouded her turbulent dark blue eyes faded. She fought back a smile.
“Paper and curling fluid.”
He shook his head in amazement. “Bless me, you have never owned a dram of guile. Has no one ever told you that a lady should never divulge her beauty secrets to a gentleman?”
Perplexed, she frowned at his gentle teasing. “Whyever not?”
His gloved finger lightly trailed down her face, from her temple to her chin. “For the curious gentleman, seeking the answers is more fascinating than being given them.” He leaned forward. Pressing his nose into her ringlets, he inhaled. “Mmm,” he sighed with pleasure. “Jessamine. That sweet flower and you have always been tangled in my mind. How do you get the scent in your hair?”
His closeness made her tremble. Perhaps it was male conceit, but he was pleased her reaction had little to do with alarm.
“Well, I—” She hesitated. A sly womanly smile softened her lips. “I will leave you to discover that particular secret.”
Her challenge cut through him like a broadsword. His lower body constricted with lust. With her sweet fragrance teasing his senses, he discovered that impulse overruled all his careful planning. “Never have I been offered a more enticing challenge.”
Before she could fathom what he meant, he dragged her into his arms and covered her mouth with his. She emitted a muted sound, but he selfishly blocked out her reaction. The press of her lips to his staggered him. Clutching at her shoulders, he held her closer, to keep, he told himself, from falling on his arse. Amara’s hands were at her sides, but she was not pulling away from him. A part of him wondered what he would have done if she tried. He was not feeling precisely honorable at the moment.
He pulled back long enough for them to take a breath. “Open your mouth,” he ordered.
“I cannot think. I cannot breathe,” she said, gasping for breath.
Brock hushed her with another kiss. Experimenting, he sucked ardently on her lower lip. She made
an agreeable sound, which was almost his undoing. For her sake, and partly for his, he had ruthlessly buried his attraction to her. It had only taken one kiss to unleash the hungry beast within him.
The dark animal inside him demanded that he carry her to the bed. He imagined her fragile dress would tear easily, exposing a body he had long dreamed about. He groaned against her mouth. His cock pulsed with need despite the snug fit of his breeches. Instinctively, he rubbed himself against her. There would be other times for exploration, the sinister whisper in his head rationalized. All he wanted was to open his breeches and push himself deep inside her sultry sheath. Sweat beaded at his temples. He could make her want him. Her cries—He ruthlessly extinguished the lusty fantasy. Damn it, her cries would have been of pain, not pleasure.
Shaken, he tore his mouth from hers. Her lips were rosy and swollen from his kisses. Too full of his own guilty feelings, he could not interpret what he saw on her face.
Stepping away from her, he rubbed his hand over his face. “This was not what I wanted. Can you forgive me, Amara?”
Incensed, she said, “Mr. Bedegrayne, if you think apologizing for a kiss you instigated will elevate you in my regard, then you might as well drop into the nearest cargo hold with the other rats and sail back to India.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her gloved hand.
That was the final insult. His eyes narrowed. “Heed my words, you cheeky malcontent. Nothing will rid you of the taste and feel of me. I will not have you confuse me with that bastard Cornley!”
Brock knew he had gone too far. No one spoke of the man Lord Keyworth had betrothed Amara to in her sixteenth year, especially not him. So focused was he on the pain in her dark haunted eyes, he never anticipated he could provoke her to violence. The prickling pain from her slap was the least he deserved for his behavior.
“I will not speak of Lord Cornley, not even to you.” She marched over to the white lacquered dressing mirror and scrutinized her reflection. “Well, you have done a thorough job of it. There is no doubt everyone in the ballroom will know I have been kissed.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 4