“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 unfetter
ed.” 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?”
The look he gave her was filled with brotherly stoicism. “I think we can accommodate you, dearest.”
After taking care of her personal needs, Amara returned to the studio. Finding it empty, she strode to the open window. She stared down at the activity below, wondering if Brock was awaiting her return.
“Looking for anyone I know?” Mallory asked, his appearance greatly improved by her brief absence. His dark hair was combed and confined with a leather strap. He had replaced his wrinkled attire with a freshly pressed coat the color of claret and a gray waistcoat. The knot in his cravat was uninspired. Nevertheless, she acknowledged his attempt with a slight nod.
“I doubt you would believe me. I barely believe it myself.”
“Oh, I have the capacity to believe the extraordinary,” he retorted, apparently intrigued. “Confess all.”
Amara’s eyes crinkled in amusement at his protracting demand. She thought she could trust him. Besides, refusing him added more importance than it warranted.
“Mr. Brock Bedegrayne.”
He was not particularly stunned by her confession. Casually dropping onto the nearest sofa, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. I had heard he had returned from abroad.” Mallory gave her a considering stare. “Shall I demand grass before breakfast for your honor?”
Horrified by the possibility, she exclaimed, “Heavens, no!”
Satisfied by her answer, he settled back into his slouch. “I thought as much. In our youth, I caught Bedegrayne watching you with a less than brotherly interest. You were too young then. I might have interfered if he had acted, but he kept his distance, choosing to pursue other …” He made a vague gesture with his hand.
Mistresses. That was the word her brother had tactfully omitted. Old memories brought forgotten pain and anger. Once, the six years between their ages had seemed an insurmountable abyss. Now it was the least of her concerns.
“Has he made a formal declaration to our sire?”
She moved from the window. “The connection between our family and his has become strained since Doran’s death. Moreover, Papa has found me an Italian conte.”
His expressive face conveyed better than words what he thought of Lord Keyworth’s lofty opinion. “What about Bedegrayne?”
Had she not asked herself the same question a thousand times? Since her feelings were simmering too close to the surface, she changed the subject. “You are a comely rogue, Mr. Claeg. Why have you not convinced some young lady to accept the responsibility of pestering you daily into a clean coat?”
Tipping the satinwood Pembroke table of its clutter, Mallory righted it and secured the butterfly flaps. “Probably for the same reason you resist the noble studs our father trots under your nose. I dislike being hobbled.”
Amara was spared from responding to his outrageous comment. A footman entered, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, plates, and a silver cake basket filled with her anticipated spice cake. After the servant departed, she joined him on the sofa.
Pouring the tea, she said, “That is a horrid thing to say.”
“But apt,” he countered, accepting the teacup she offered. “My marriage to Mirabella was a mistake. Not that I would ever make such an admission to our sire. Something tells me that if your Lord Homely had lived long enough to mutter his way through his wedding vows, you and I would be sharing the same point of view.”
She giggled, sensing he had purposely blundered the man’s name just to hear her laugh. “Lord Cornley. The horrid man’s name was Cornley.”
Nudging the cake basket closer, Mallory said, “Well, well, how telling. Does Bedegrayne know you have ceased grieving for your dead betrothed?”
The tea she choked on scalded her tongue. Setting her teacup down, she kept her hands busy by heeding her brother’s not-so-subtle hint and served him the spice cake.
Finally, she said, “Mr. Bedegrayne, above all, understood my feelings about Lord Cornley.”
Brock had never met a more nettlesome and perplexing lady than Amara Claeg. Fate had kicked him in the arse, and the lovely Miss Claeg had chalked the bloody target on his posterior. Considering his volatile mood, if she had remained, he would have throttled her and by damn, he would have enjoyed it!
“Bedegrayne, if you keep muttering and glaring at the pedestrians, someone will assume you have escaped the private asylum near the park and summon a constable.”
Brock glanced up. Mallory Claeg was perched on the edge of his windowsill. From his lofty position, he must have observed the entire incident that had taken place moments earlier. Now his humiliation was complete.
“Come up,” the man invited. “My neighbors will praise me for the good deed. I think it is time we renew our old friendship.”
Brock almost stalked off. It was tempting, but he was not a coward. Moreover, he had a word or two for a brother who would permit his sister to drive off with a nameless Italian fop!
Claeg’s aloof housekeeper led him upstairs into the drawing room. The room was designed more for pleasing the bon ton’s discriminating taste than for comfort. Brock assumed Claeg used the room for entertaining his highwater patrons.
“Welcome, Bedegrayne. I seem to be offering everyone tea this afternoon. I assume you prefer yours cold.” Claeg held up a crystal decanter of brandy. At Brock’s nod, he removed the stopper and poured two glasses. Offering one of the glasses to him, Claeg said, “What shall we toast?”
“The jade.”
“Ah, right to the heart of things.” He lifted his glass and imbibed. “I gather you are speaking of my sister.”
For an elder brother, his host was not particularly outraged by the insult. Instead of feeling relieved that he was not apologizing his way out of a duel with Amara’s only surviving brother, Brock shifted his ire onto the Claeg within his grasp.
“I would have never trusted her in your care if I had known you were so apathetic about her welfare. Has there been a moment or two in your life when you have placed someone else’s concerns above your own?”
“Have a care, Bedegrayne,” Mallory said, temper making his gaze flat and deadly. “I might take offense.”
Brock’s grip tightened on the glass in his hand. The sharp edges of the crystal pattern scored into his palm. It was astounding the glass had not shattered under the pressure. Fighting Claeg would not benefit him. After what he had witnessed this afternoon, forcing Amara to choose between him and her brother would only confirm that he was the worst villain.
Perhaps seeing more than Brock would have liked, Claeg settled into an odd-looking X-frame chair made out of serpentlike birds. He idly tapped his glass on a beak that comprised part of the arm. His expression was contemplative instead of confrontational.
“You may be correct, Bedegrayne. My family prefers bestowing love best at a distance. Even so, your interference will not be appreciated, no matter how honorable.”
Since Claeg was willing to give him the information Brock craved, he could be reasonable. He chose the opposing chair. The brandy was easing the ache in his ribs. “Who was the gentleman?”
“When his servant knocked, he was introduced as Matteo Taldo, Conte Prola.” He lifted a finger, silencing him. “Amara was not expecting him. If you must blame someone, blame my father. He tires of having a spinster for a daughter.”
Brock took a sip of his drink, recalling the shock in Amara’s turbulent blue eyes when she had noticed him. Her hand had rested on the Italian’s sleeve. The guilt paling her features had him reeling with understanding. Whoever this man was, he was the reason she had been rebuffing Brock for the last two days. He had not been thinking clearly when he had advanced on the couple.
“Mr. Bedegrayne, no!
” She stepped in front of her escort. “I beg of you. Please.”
The Italian sniffed and drew himself up to his full height. “Miss Claeg, you are acquainted with this … selvaggio, no? Have no fear, you are under my protection.”
Brock seized her roughly by the arm and hauled her closer. She did not fight him, but the gentleman took a courageous step toward him. Not caring about the consequences, he shoved the man back with his free hand, compelling him to take several quick steps back to keep his balance.
Despite his anger, he gentled his touch as he caressed Amara’s cheek. “Sweet lady of perfidy. What honeyed lies will drip from your tongue?”
“No lies, Mr. Bedegrayne. Nor will I attempt convincing you with the truth.” Her lips trembled, and he realized belatedly that his brutality had been a grave misstep.
“I must insist you release Miss Claeg, at once!” the incensed man demanded.
Holding her in place, he stared down at her, unprepared to release her to anyone, especially the fop. His intuition hummed, warning him that she was safe only in his care.
“Come with me,” he pleaded, burying his pride. “Now!” Her trembling lips parted. For few seconds, Brock held his breath, feeling as if his heart balanced on the tip of a dagger.
“Miss Claeg!” the stranger said, pompously expecting her obedience.
Tears pooled in her eyes, damning him. He released her. She backed away from him, this time with determination rather than fear. “I must go.”
Pulling back from the memory, Brock set down his brandy. She had refused him because of duty, not because she had given her heart to the Italian. He found little comfort in the thought.
“I am not in the habit of interfering in the day-by-day minutiae of my family,” Claeg said, recapturing his attention. “However, when word reached me that my father had found a replacement for the tedious Lord Cornley, I grew curious.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 8