Devona beamed. “An excellent suggestion, Sutton.”
“Well done,” Sir Thomas praised gruffly. “My thought exactly.”
Brock ignored them all. His concentration was focused on Amara. Her beauty shone across the multicolored sea of silk, beckoning him. She had yet to notice him. Whenever she started a nonchalant perusal of the crowd, one of the women at her side said something to distract her. Then the appearance of a certain swarthy gentleman had him mumbling an expletive. Brock shot up from his chair and blindly stalked to the front of the box as if he had every intention of leaping from the tier.
“Brock?” Devona queried, clearly troubled by his expression.
Raising her lorgnette to her eyes, Aunt Moll peered and said, “My dear Brock. Hasten to our Miss Claeg’s side. She is in the coils of a most persistent suitor. You must bring her back so she can share the fascinating details.”
He formally bowed, prepared to take his leave. Irene offered her hand, which he accepted without thought. She surprised him by digging her gloved fingers into his open palm. “Mark your temper,” she counseled, “and no issuing challenges. When you are about, you represent not only yourself but the Bedegrayne family.”
Instead of bristling at the remark, Brock bent closer and kissed her cheek. “Yes, mother.” Being an expert at baiting, he acknowledged he deserved a little sisterly retaliation. After all, “Measure for measure” should have been the family motto.
The collective heat of so many bodies packed into the theater made the air stifling. The numerous chandeliers overhead contained hundreds of smoky candles, which only added to the problem. Almost feeling guilty, Amara opened the fan Brock had given her. She gently stirred the warm air around her, silently chastising herself for feeling uneasy about flaunting his beautiful gift. Her mother, when she had noticed it, had commented on its beauty. She had also believed the fan had been a gift from the conte. Amara had not corrected her assumption.
“What a bonny fan, Miss Claeg,” Lady Haslake said. “So many young ladies do not appreciate the importance of choosing the proper accessory.”
Hours earlier, she had faced the predicament of finding a suitable gown that complemented the fan. Fortunately, her maid, Corry, was resourceful and had a patient hand for sewing. She had rounded the bottom of a white satin slip with silver-embroidered trimming removed from another gown. Over the slip, Amara wore a short-sleeved pale pink net dress. Corry had replaced the gold buttons ornamenting the lace joining down the front with silver ones. A twisted fillet of pale pink satin and silver ribbon interwoven into her elegant coiffure completed her maid’s inspiring results.
Lady Haslake’s youngest daughter, Lady Marea, was three years younger than her sister, Lady Laurette, and Amara. She was also fiercely competitive. “May I?” the young woman asked, taking the fan from Amara for a closer examination. Tiny reflective lights from the silver sequins dotted her narrow face. “Who is the maker?”
Amara accepted the fan. “I have not a clue. It was a gift.”
“A gift,” Lady Laurette echoed, looking splendid in buff-colored crêpe. “Why do I sense there is more to this tale than you are admitting?”
She should have expected her friend would note the subtle evasion. Lady Laurette Omant’s intelligence was remarked upon as often as her unique beauty. Lord Keyworth firmly believed in garnering advantageous friendships and the Earl of Haslake’s daughters possessed the suitable pedigree. What had been conceived from duty had quickly sprung into friendship between the two eleven-year-old girls. Together they had endured dance instruction under the truculent demands of Monsieur Vipond.
“You know me so well, Rett,” Amara said, affectionately using the family’s nickname for her friend. “I fear my exploits of late might shock you both and I loathe jeopardizing our long friendship.”
Fascinated, Lady Marea leaned closer. “Do tell us everything!”
Comfortable with her companions, Amara leaned closer, enjoying the rapt attention. Using the fan to shield her face, she wanted to ensure that her confession never went beyond her audience. “Well, since our last parting, it seems a gift from Aphrodite has been bestowed upon me.”
“Remarkable,” Lady Laurette said, violet eyes widened when her gaze shifted to her gullible younger sibling. “How long have you been making blood sacrifices to goddesses?”
A loud snort of disbelief from Lady Marea gained an unspoken reprimand from Lady Haslake. Appearing repentant, the younger girl whispered, “Do you have a secret place where you practice your arcane rites? What beast is worthy of sacrifice, kids or lambs?” She seized Amara’s arm. “Oh, surely not human!”
Lady Laurette could not contain her merriment, and laughed. “Dolt. Amara was speaking metaphorically.”
“So it is not true?” Sitting back, Lady Marea pouted, disappointment radiating from her.
Amara’s lips twitched but she held her composure. “I confess, Marea, your version is more appealing than any I can invent. However, if I hear my name linked with secret cults, I promise that you will be my first blood sacrifice.”
The younger sister sneered. “I am immune to threats.” Having enough of their sport, she stood. “I was inoculated years ago by my haggish sister.” With a swish of fabric and outrage, the youngest Omant stomped over to her mother’s side.
“Are we horrid creatures to tease her so?”
“Marea deserves most of it,” her friend casually admitted, unperturbed. “That head of hers is stuffed with too many fanciful stories and not enough sense. Really, Amara, you do surprise me at times.” Lady Laurette tossed her dark tresses back flirtatiously, leaving Amara to wonder if the disingenuous movement was simply natural or if it was meant for an appreciative male spectator. “Evoking that Aphrodite nonsense was a calculated dissuading ploy. It is not like you to be evasive, particularly with regard to something most vapid.” Her delicately arched brows lifted inquisitively. “Or is it?”
Before Amara could reply, the entrance of Conte Prola and a male companion plummeted her hopes. A confrontation would be unavoidable, she thought despairingly, forcing a welcoming smile. The Italian sought her out at once. Forgoing etiquette by not greeting his hostess first, the man set several hearts fluttering by striding purposefully toward Amara. With a gleam of appreciation in his exotic eyes, he greeted her with flamboyance only he could have managed without appearing ridiculous. She suppressed a sigh when the conte bowed and pressed a teasing kiss to her hand. If she felt a tiny chill at the contact, she preferred ignoring it.
“Signorina Claeg, your beauty, it enchants me,” he said, reluctant to release her hand. As he noticed everyone’s unabashed curiosity, his swarthy coloring darkened. “It is unforgivable. My manners, atrocious. All is forgotten in pursuit of my lady.”
“How delightful,” Lady Haslake murmured. Taking charge of the situation, she offered the conte her hand. “Miss Claeg, introduce me to your dear friend.”
Amara stood, making the appropriate introductions to the countess. Conte Prola returned the favor by introducing his companion, a gentleman unknown to her, Mr. Burnes. Once formality had been satisfied, Lady Haslake placed a claiming hand on the conte’s coat sleeve and introduced him to everyone in her little group.
“Amara, you have been keeping secrets from us,” Lady Laurette quietly remarked. “I heartily approve of your choice.”
“Not mine,” she said vehemently. “He belongs to my father.”
A little bewildered by all the attention he was receiving from the ladies around him, Conte Prola sent Amara an entreating glance.
“Really, Amara, have you always been so daft when it comes to gentlemen?” her friend said, her tone chiding. “He wants to be yours. A pity, really, since I adore his dark looks.” Without waiting for a response, Lady Laurette joined her mother so she could be properly introduced.
She watched on as Lady Haslake introduced her eldest daughter. The exchange between the conte and Lady Laurette Omant was proper, but Amara could not hel
p but admire her friend’s playful execution. Her lack of modesty might leave a man wondering of the possibilities, but Amara was aware her friend was teeming with integrity. She would never seduce a suitor away from a friend. Perhaps, if she explained—
“Miss Claeg.”
Amara had been so lost in her thoughts, she never noticed Brock’s approach. So lost, she mused, that she had been staring too long at Conte Prola. At least, she must have, since Brock was glaring at her. Again.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
His jaw was so tense, it was a wonder it had not cracked from the pressure. “If you recall, we have some unfinished business.” He glanced in the direction of the conte, and his posture all but roared his displeasure.
“Mr. Bedegrayne,” Lady Haslake said, disengaging herself from the circle of ongoing conversation. “You are so kind to visit us. I pray you will come to the house for a proper call when time permits.”
Brock stiffly bowed. “I will endeavor to find the time, my lady.”
Since Lady Haslake had two unmarried daughters, Amara could almost hear the wheels of machination turn beneath the older woman’s curled coiffure. The notion of Rett turning her limpid violet gaze on Brock Bedegrayne congealed her insides.
Oblivious to the tension, the countess cheerfully continued. “I thought I noticed Sir Thomas earlier. Haslake will never believe it. For years we have begged the stubborn man to join us. What inducement did you dangle to secure his compliance?”
Amara nearly flinched when Brock took up her hand. Meeting her wary gaze, he brushed a kiss against her knuckles. There was something proprietary in his efficient movements. What brief tingle she had felt when the conte had touched her could not compare to the quivering avalanche of sensation that flowed across her skin.
“Like most gentlemen, my father has fallen prey to a certain lady’s charms.” He schooled his features into a look of tolerant amusement, when he glanced at Amara. “Miss Claeg, you have been remiss in visiting my family.”
Uncertain of her part, she replied, “It was never my intention to offend. I thought your family would be engrossed with your homecoming.”
“In the hearts of the Bedegraynes, you are family and have been missed,” he softly confessed. Returning his attention to the bemused countess, he said, “I have been ordered to kidnap Miss Claeg or not return at all.”
“Rogue!”
Tucking Amara’s hand under his arm, he gave her a smile fitting of a pirate. “Do you speak of me or my sire, ma’am?”
The countess chuckled, her probing gaze reconsidering the young woman before her. “Both. If Lady Keyworth learns of this, I will plead that the Bedegrayne men were a formidable and most irresistible force.” She looked back, sensing her daughter’s presence. Conte Prola was at her heels. He recognized Brock immediately. The rigidity in his gait and the insincerity of his smile belied his friendly advance.
“Laurette, Miss Claeg is leaving the gentlemen in our care.”
Her friend curtsied. A youthful replica of her mother, she slid a curious gaze from Brock’s inscrutable features to Amara’s flustered one. “Mr. Bedegrayne, what plans do you have for our dear friend?”
“Nothing sinister, Lady Laurette. My family has invited Miss Claeg to join us in our box. I will return her before the play has ended.”
Conte Prola pressed himself forward. “Miss Claeg, you are not obligated to leave with this—this gentleman,” he jeered. “What kind of lady would allow herself to be dragged off by a scoundrel who thinks nothing of rough handling and hurling curses in the middle of the street?”
Wide-eyed Lady Marea stood beside her sister. The conte’s friend Mr. Burnes had followed her, but he stood outside the circle. Bringing a fist up to his lips, he stifled a yawn.
There was temper in Brock’s eyes, but there was a reckless defiance in his stance. “The forgiving kind,” he tossed out, “and too good for either one of us. Shall we go, Miss Claeg?”
Upset, the conte seized Amara by the arm before she could turn away. Brock halted and stared deliberately at the man’s brazen hand. “You are embarrassing yourself, sir. She may forgive. I, however, will not.”
Conte Prola savagely muttered something in his native tongue. With measured care, he released her and stepped back. Amara edged closer to Brock. The conte had not hurt her. If she trembled, it was due to the fact that she had just avoided being the hapless rope in a brief, fierce battle of tug-of-war.
Mumbling a vague apology to all, she pretended Brock was not really dragging her away from a truly awkward scene.
An expert at soothing ruffled pride, Lady Haslake placed a comforting hand on the conte’s arm and led him to a seat beside her. Not uttering a word, his friend followed in their wake.
Thoughtful, Marea remained at her sister’s side. She gave her sister a disrespectful nudge with her elbow, earning a promise of retaliation. “A jest you both said. We just witnessed two handsome gentlemen baring their teeth over Amara. In public,” she stressed, still energized from the encounter. “When she returns, I propose we pull her aside and have her retell her tale, this time without interruption. A blessing indeed!”
Laurette nodded. She had felt a twinge of envy as she watched Brock Bedegrayne visibly struggle against the urge to toss their friend over his broad shoulder and march off with her into the night. Her sister was correct. Amara Claeg was keeping secrets. When she had a chance, she intended to coax them from her.
She wrapped a companionable arm around her sister. “Come, Marea, I have lost my enthusiasm for the play. If Mrs. Siddons cannot stir my heart, let us see if flirting with Conte Prola and Mr. Burnes does not improve our evening.”
Brock had anticipated a quarrel. He had looked forward to it. Stripping Amara of her polish always had some rather fascinating results. Instead, she had surprised him by leaving her friends without argument. He had wrestled with the decision of whether he should simply drag her off and damn her embarrassment, or permit himself the pleasure of smashing his fist into that condescending Italian face; it had been Amara’s unrelenting little fingers digging into his coat sleeve that swayed him into doing neither.
Had she wanted to escape or was she protecting the man from his notorious temper? The uncertainty was hurling him toward acting rashly, and then everything he sought would be lost. He slowed their pace, even though there were few to hinder their journey. The orchestra had commenced, luring most of the spectators to their seats. He wanted, nay, needed this time with her.
The gown she wore shimmered with every movement. The soft swell of her breasts and hint of equally enticing hips beckoned a man to take what was being offered. There was a fire in his blood only she could assuage. He had felt it for so long, he almost hated her for it.
Noting his stare, she frowned slightly. “Is there something wrong?”
“No,” he lied. He finally recognized the fan she clasped. “You are pleased with the fan?” Seeing his gift in her hand foolishly delighted him. It was a small measure, really, but for a man who had nothing, it was everything.
Sensing the mood change, Amara cocked her head. She snapped open the fan as they walked, displaying its full beauty. “How could any woman resist such a treasure?”
He halted, refusing to let her ruin it by brushing aside his generosity with playful words. “The fan was not meant for any woman. It was meant for you, Amara.”
Contrite, she closed the fan. “We both know that is the problem. You should not be sending me gifts.” She pivoted, so she was facing him. “And I certainly should not be accepting them. As it is, my mother thinks Conte Prola is responsible.”
Without ceremony, Brock shoved her against the wall. He startled a gasp out of her, but no one could see them with a tall pedestal obstructing the view. “You bestowed the credit on that fop?”
Faintly, she said, “Well, his man had delivered a spectacular bouquet of marzipan flowers the very same morning.”
The unbidden image of Prola feeding s
ugary petals to Amara arose in his mind. It made him want to pound the wall above her head.
Misunderstanding his fury, she tentatively touched his chest. When he remained impassive, her touch grew bolder. She stroked him as if he were some wild creature who needed soothing. “You can blame yourself for the confusion.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Am I? Well, neither you nor the conte added a card, so why should I correct my mother if she thinks another gentleman sent the fan? Perhaps you consider it cowardly,” she argued, forgetting all about placating him, and grabbed the edge of his coat and tugged. “Nevertheless, we both know she would have thrown your box and beautiful fan onto the nearest burning grate if she had learned they had come from you.”
She was not exaggerating. No matter how splendid the gift, Lady Keyworth would have understood his intent even though Amara appeared obtuse. “Fine. Your argument is sound, but I do not have to like it.”
“It was a thoughtful gift. Can you blame me for wanting to protect it and—”
“Yourself?” he finished. “No. Can you forgive me and my temper?”
She sniffed, and he was grateful her eyes were clear of tears. “How can I not? What is a beast without his claws and sharp teeth?”
The lady thought nothing of provoking him. Bracing his hand against the wall, he stared down at the appealing face that had haunted his dreams. Testing them both, perhaps, the longing he had always kept banked slipped into his eyes. Her expressive blue eyes widened, and her breath became shallow as he leaned closer.
“A beast, you say,” he murmured, enjoying the scent of her hair. “If I am the beast, then you must be the maiden who desires to tame me.” Their lips were almost touching. A deep inhalation from either one of them would have joined them. The anticipation was a clawing need within him.
“Why would any maiden desire taming a beast?” she asked breathlessly, her gaze fixed on his mouth. “I imagine the lady envies the beast for his freedom. She hopes he will help her explore her own wild nature.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 13