An impromptu play had been proposed by one of the guests, and now everyone had been put to work. While the majority of the guests were playing cards, those enlisted for the play were learning their lines. Amara had been sent up to the old nursery to search for suitable costumes.
Unlocking the door, she entered the room. The glow of her candle sliced through the inky interior. The room had been closed off for years. With dust tickling her nose, she lifted the brass candlestick higher and worked her way through a maze of covered discarded furniture and trunks.
She searched the room three times before she found the trunk she needed. It had been shoved against the wall and hidden behind a black lacquered bookcase that was missing two drawers. The leather appeared black in the candlelight. The ornate brass mounts and nailing were tarnished, but the trunk was still a beautiful piece. Setting down the candlestick, she tried pulling on the handle. The trunk would not budge. Annoyed, she bent over and lifted the latch. Using her weight for leverage, she pushed the lid up and secured it. Riffling through the old costumes, she scowled at the sound behind her.
“Naturally, you arrive when I have completed all the difficult tasks. You might as well leave, else I will be tempted to lock you in this trunk when I have finished. I still have not forgiven you, Doran. Nor will I for some time,” she said, her mind more on the costumes than chastising her tractable brother.
“A pity. A sister should find leniency in her brother’s faults.”
Her heart stuttered at the sound of the earl’s voice. “I do,” she said, her throat tightening. She gathered up the clothes, not caring if they were suitable for her mother’s needs. “Lord Cornley, it is unseemly for you to be here. Lady Claeg would be embarrassed to learn you were in such an unkempt room.”
Putting his finger to his lips, he reached back with his other hand and shut the door. “I can keep a secret if you can. Your brother was detained by your father, so I offered my assistance.”
“You have my gratitude, my lord. If you will carry these garments, I will light your way.”
He smiled indulgently. “There is no need for haste, Amara. I am almost your husband, so your reputation will not be ruined if you are found in my care.” He took the bundle of clothing in her arms and dropped it back into the trunk.
“My lord, the others await our return.”
He took her hand, and brushed his thumb in a gesture of comfort. “I think your mother has given up on the play. Most of the players are too fuddled to recall their lines. And just moments ago, while practicing a mock sword fight, one of the fools managed to pierce his opponent through the arm. The blood flowed as boundless as your father’s claret, causing several of the ladies to collapse. Trust me, we will not be missed.”
“Perhaps I am needed.” She picked up the candlestick, uncertain how to get by the earl without insulting him.
“No more than you are here.”
Lord Cornley took the candlestick from her limp grasp and placed it on the bookcase. Bracing one arm on the bookcase, he allowed his gaze to drift lower than her face. Nature had given him a lean build and an interesting face cut in sharp angles. Cast in shadows, the compelling lines segmented and hollowed his visage. With the exception of the polished gleam in his gray eyes, it appeared as if pieces were missing from him.
“I regret the manner in which I approached you earlier. You have yet forgiven your brother. Is there charity in your heart for me?”
She managed a slight smile. “Of course. It is forgotten.”
“You are more generous than I deserve.” He stepped closer, his size blotting the warm candlelight. She made a small, frightened noise when his hands curled around her elbows and pulled her to his chest. “No one is watching, Amara. Let me taste your generosity.”
Amara tilted her chin up and accepted his kiss. His lips were smooth and cool, as he claimed hers. He tasted of spirits. She turned her face away. “The room is cold, my lord. Let us rejoin the others before we are missed.”
“Innocent,” he teased, leaning heavily on her for support. “Tarry a moment longer in my embrace and you shall forget all about the chill.”
“Please, my lord.” She stared down at the trunk. “Mama insisted I bring the costumes—”
“Confound it, forget about those damnable rags!” His weight pushed them backward against the wall. Lord Cornley was sweating despite the coolness in the room. “You were friendly enough with Bedegrayne. Doran mentioned that he caught you kissing him.”
She pushed against him. “Doran lied.” Clenching her teeth, she strained against him.
“I disagree. You see, I have watched Bedegrayne around you. He huffs and stomps about like a stud denied his favorite mare.”
Appalled by his coarseness, she said, “You have had a cup too many if you believe such nonsense. My family has been friends with the Bedegraynes longer than I can recall. Before this evening, months have passed since I was in the company of Brock Bedegrayne. When have we been carrying on this supposed tryst? Lest you should forget, I am your betrothed!”
“Ah, the crux of my argument. Or should I say thrust?” He pressed his pelvis against hers, laughing while she tried to writhe out of his embrace.
“You are a scoundrel! When my father learns of your conduct, he will end this betrothal,” she panted. His abrupt stillness had her regretting her angry words.
“I think not,” he contradicted, his confidence frightening her more than his proximity. Grabbing the front of her bodice, he rended the delicate fabric. Ignoring her cry of outrage and pounding fists, the earl put his mouth on the tender flesh above her corset. He bit her, hard. The pain barely registered through the shock.
“Tell your father,” he dared her, and she could see that her fear was increasing his excitement. “Lord Claeg will understand a man’s impatience for his bride. The fact you may be breeding when we have finished will assure your family’s backing.”
Twisting in his arms, she begged, “Do not do this! I will not tell anyone! You have my word.”
“A woman’s word? It is not worth a farthing.” Putting his arm horizontally against her throat, he added pressure until she was seeing tiny flickering white lights inches from her nose. Using his teeth to remove his glove, he discarded it. The earl reached down, and unfastened the outer buttons securing the falls on his breeches. He gave little consideration to the five inner buttons. With a savage tear, the buttons burst their thread anchors and struck the floor like a hail of pellets.
Wildly, she glanced down at the frightening shadows of linen and flesh between his hips. She repeatedly kicked his shins, but Lord Cornley was too drunk to feel any pain. In retaliation, he increased the pressure against her throat, dulling her attack so her concern was focused on drawing her next breath. Working his free hand down, his fingers caught the hem of her skirt and buried his hand underneath.
Amara screamed when his fingernails scratched her upper thigh. It was a pathetic hoarse cry. If anyone had been about, she doubted they would have heard it outside the room.
Lord Cornley, however, was prudent. Freeing his hand from her skirts, he used his full strength to lift her up and slam her body several times against the wall. Her teeth rattled together as her head ricocheted and her forehead struck his shoulder.
“Not a peep,” he whispered, “unless you want me to share you with the others.”
Others? It was a threat, Amara was certain. She just could not understand its meaning. The room seemed to be spinning and her head ached. “I feel poorly.”
“Lying on the floor should accommodate both our needs.” Catching her under the arms, he slid her between his legs onto the floor. Before she could roll away, he landed on his knees, pinning her.
Slapping his hands away from her ruined bodice, she arched her neck, preparing to scream. The earl smothered her cry with his gloved hand. The taste of wet leather made her gag. Impervious to her flailing arms, the earl reached down with his other hand and worked her skirt higher. She twisted her hea
d.
“You will learn how to pleasure me, Miss Claeg. When your education is complete, your skills will rival those of any doxy.”
Amara moaned against his palm. Tears she had no time to indulge streamed down her temples into her hair. Her struggles weakened with each passing minute. She closed her eyes and despaired when his bare fingers prodded her intimately. For violating her this night, marriage would be his reward.
“Open your eyes, and acknowledge me as your husband.” He slapped her across the face when she did not comply. With her mouth free, she drew in a deep breath and screamed. He struck her again, but she was beyond caring.
“Damn you, settle down!” he commanded. Moving up her body, Lord Cornley locked her wrists together and secured them above her head with one hand. He bit her lower lip, drawing blood. Using his free hand, he tugged on her corset until her breasts spilled out of the top. He lowered his head and pressed his face into the soft flesh. Trembling, he bruised her with every touch.
The earl raised his head, and even in the dim light, she read the intent in his cold gray gaze. Shifting, he shoved the fabric of her skirt higher. Impatient, he pulled out his own shirt and cupped his rigid flesh. Stroking it, he positioned himself between her thighs.
“Scream if you like. It fires my blood,” he said, ramming his flesh into her, forging a burning path into her.
Amara cried out; the pain was a thousand times worse than she had imagined. While she struggled to get away from him, his hand tightened over her joined wrists as he pounded into her.
“So Bedegrayne did not have you, after all,” Lord Cornley gloated, hellfire glittering in his savage eyes.
Amara screamed. The remnants of her nightmare had her body jackknifing on the bed.
“No! No!” she said, confused by the darkness and the past. She batted and kicked at the bedding, which trapped her legs. The frantic movements tumbled her out of the bed. She landed on her side, the impact strong enough to knock the breath out of her. As she gasped for breath, the pain in her hip brought her mind to the present.
“Not real,” she murmured, pressing an unsteady hand to her hammering heart. “Just a dream.” For an assurance, it was ineffective. The residual pain of her nightmare lingered with her current injuries. Curling into herself, she sobbed against her knees. It had been almost a year since she had dreamed of that terrible night. Why tonight? The answer was obvious. Brock. His return had stirred up her feelings for him again. Witnessing the earlier altercation between him and Conte Prola had merely reminded her of Lord Cornley. She pounded her fists on her knees in frustration. The earl was dead. How long would the hateful scoundrel haunt her?
A soft tap at the door had her sitting up. She held her breath, wondering if she should feign sleep.
“Miss Claeg, are you well?” her cousin queried from the other side of the door.
She could not have her cousin spinning tales at breakfast. Wiping her eyes, she sniffed. With a slight limp, she walked to the door. Amara gave her face a final scrub and opened the door, glaring expectantly at her cousin. The lateness of the hour had not diminished Miss Novell’s beauty. Wearing a plain white nightshift, she had wrapped an unremarkable brown blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the late hour. Her waist-length black tresses were tucked neatly within a frilly cap.
Amara, on the other hand, was feeling rather dowdy and waterlogged. “It is rather late for pleasantries, Miss Novell.”
Her cousin, as she had expected, bristled at the remark. “If you do not desire visitors, then you should refrain from carrying on as if someone were murdering you in your bed. What is wrong with you?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “Did you have a nightmare?”
The worst, but she was not about to share her fears with anyone, least of all Miss Novell. If her slightly bored expression was crumbling around the edges, then it was all the more imperative that she end her cousin’s curiosity. “It was the eels, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I get ghastly indigestion from them. The nightmares are only part of the aftermath,” she cheerfully confessed, silently willing her to go.
“What eels?” her cousin asked, clearly confused by the conversation.
Gripping the door, Amara closed the gap. “I never realized the purgative qualities of sharing one’s confidences. I could go on forever.”
“But—”
“However, the hour is late and you are looking pale. Sleep well, cousin,” she bade her, and shut the door.
It was not until she heard the woman’s departing footfalls that she sagged in relief. If Miss Novell tattled, she would be receiving a resounding lecture from her mother concerning her rudeness. Not that she cared, she thought, padding over to the washstand. She did not bother with a candle. Her fingers touched cool porcelain before finding the water abandoned from her evening ablutions. Water trickled through her fingers as she splashed the wetness to her cheeks.
Amara picked up a towel and dried her face. Casually discarding it, she walked past her rumpled bed. She grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her body as she continued on to her favorite chair near the window. Sleep had always eluded her after this particular dream. Drawing the curtains back, she opened the window and shivered at the rush of early morning air. More out of habit than thought, she pulled the pendant out from underneath her bedclothes and held it in her palm. Miss Novell’s nocturnal visit and the cold air had cleared the lingering confusion of what was real and what was best buried in the past.
The young girl Lord Cornley had brutally ravished was gone. It was difficult regretting the loss. She had been too vulnerable. After that night, she had erected an impenetrable barrier around herself. She had needed time to heal. Although she doubted her family had noticed. They had been too concerned about losing Lord Cornley. Brock Bedegrayne had noticed her retreat; then again, he had been part of her nightmare.
Laid out and weakened, there was nothing she could do but endure until the earl had exhausted himself. She had lost her voice. Her screams had disintegrated into soft whimpering. Amara stared at the flickering candle on the bookcase, distancing her mind from the violence.
There was a sudden crush of weight, and then Lord Cornley was pulled off her. Scrambling backward, she pushed down her skirts. With her knees to her chest, she gathered up the flaps of her torn bodice and pressed herself against the trunk. She watched in a daze the two obscured combatants in the dark. The sickening sound of flesh connecting with flesh was too much for Amara. Covering her ears with her hands, she burrowed her face into her skirt. She rocked herself, praying the numbness settling into her bones would consume her.
“Amara.”
She snapped her head up on hearing her name. Her vision blurred as the man on his hands and knees advanced slowly toward her. She was too agitated to recognize the man. A vulnerable sound vibrated in her throat, halting him.
“Dove, you are hurt. Let me help you,” the man said, his own pain evident with each word.
“I—I—” She looked beyond him into the darkness.
“He cannot hurt you. I cracked his damn skull with a steel coal shovel and locked him in the night nursery. I doubt he will awaken any time soon. Regardless, it will not save him after what he has done,” he promised, his anger so palpable that she cringed. He inched closer, wanting her to become comfortable with his proximity. “You know you can trust me, Amara. I just need to see how badly the bastard hurt you.”
Reaching up for the candlestick, he brought the light closer. The glow of the candle warmed his harsh features. As he placed the candle on the floor, she blinked away her tears and focused on the strong, handsome face she knew so well.
“Brock?” her ruined voice rasped.
“Aye, dove.” He blinked back the moisture in his own eyes. “Would you—I need to hold you. Please, Amara, I will not hurt you. I swear—”
When his voice broke, she slowly crawled into his arms. His gratitude for her trust was muffled as he pushe
d his face into her neck and held her too close. She clung to his chest, feeling his strength pour into her.
“I—I am sorry, I was too late.” He pulled back and lightly kissed her bleeding lower lip. “Cornley is a coward. I should have known he would seek you out and use you to gain his revenge against me. When you both were unaccounted for, I feared the worst.”
“Mama sent me up for the costumes.” The excuse was so inane she started laughing. She could not seem to stop. Shivering, she gestured at the trunk while she tried to blank her mind of the terrifying ordeal.
Refusing to release her, Brock leaned them both to the side until he could catch the hem of one of the abandoned garments. Dragging it nearer, he draped the old mantle over her torn bodice.
“Will he die?” She could not bear speaking his name.
He glanced back. “Not yet.” He subtly shifted them so Amara could not see the door barricading Cornley inside. “We have to get you out of here. You are trembling and your skin is ice.” He hesitated, unsure of his next words. “A physician should be summoned. Your injuries, they need to be examined.”
The thought of another man examining her intimately had her clutching Brock, a hold that must have been strangling him. “I could not bear it. No physician. Promise me!” The hysteria she had warded off during the attack surfaced now that she was safe.
His jaw tensed while she sobbed in his arms. He rubbed her back, allowing her to cry out her fears and misery. Finally, he made her look at him. Using the edge of the musky mantle, he wiped her tears from her cheeks. “You are not being sensible, Amara. When your parents learn of Cornley’s treachery, they will call for a phys—”
“They must never know!” The fear of discovery dried up her tears. “You cannot tell anyone what he has done!”
“Amara—” Brock began, the argument already brewing in his eyes.
She grasped his coat and gave it a tug to make certain he was paying attention. “H-he boasted that violating me would only gain my family’s backing on the marriage. My father approves of him. If there is a chance I could be breeding …” She trailed off, horrified by the possibility.
Tempting the Heiress Page 10