His hand above her head clenched into a fist. He felt utterly predatory, and yet he understood what she was asking of him. “Kiss me, dove. You are safe with me.”
“Ow!” A stinging rap on his left ear brought him upright. He met Amara’s horrified gaze briefly before he turned toward his attacker.
“Dunderhead!” Irene said, unmoved by his snarl of displeasure. “Next you will be telling me that you could not help yourself.”
Amara was inching away from both of them, so he seized her hand, entwining their fingers. He had been too enthralled with Amara to notice his sister’s approach. Inwardly he winced, wondering how long Irene had listened to their discourse before she had interfered. Deciding to brazen his way out of his sticky predicament, he said, “How could I, when the lady very much desires my kisses?”
“You are a beast!” Amara hissed, probably mortified he had spoken the truth.
“I thought we had already established our roles, Amara. It was our natures that deserve a closer inspection,” he teased.
Irene took advantage of the distraction by rapping him on the ear again. “Christ!” he yelped, rubbing his ear. “Viscountess or not, if you try that again I will hit back, and your husband will be issuing bloody challenges, not I.”
“A capuchin monkey has more sense.” Irene wedged herself between them. Her eyes filled with pity when she patted Amara on the hand. “Amara, I am astounded. Why would you want to kiss a bounder such as my brother?”
Brock implored to the heavens. “Tell me why I should not toss her out the closest window and be done with it?”
Amara was unquestionably ill at ease around two squabbling siblings. “I did not want to kiss him.”
“Amara, my dove,” he said on a mock sigh, “I had no idea you had a proclivity for lying.”
“I was not kissing you,” she insisted, flustered by his stare.
He lifted a brow. “If not you, then whose heart-shaped lips were pursed under mine?”
“Leave her be,” his sister ordered, pushing him away. “You deserve a swift kick for your needling and I can think of a man or two who might relish the pleasure.”
Refusing to be left behind, Brock matched the pace Irene set as they headed for the box. “That is your best threat, Lady Sutton? I had expected more from a mother of four.”
Irene aimed a chilling smile at him. “Ah, dearest brother, you do so love tempting me. How can I resist such a challenge? After all, you are not the only family member who can be an irritating burr on one’s backside.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
In hindsight, goading the paragon had not been one of his brightest notions. Irene kept her hand firmly on Amara’s arm as the trio entered the box.
“Look who I found,” Irene cheerfully drawled. “It appears your concerns were warranted, Aunt Moll. There were too many rogues lurking about the theater for a lady’s comfort.”
“You forget, Lady Sutton,” Brock said, purposely using her title. “Amara was in my care.”
His sister tossed a smug look over her shoulder. “I forget nothing, brother.”
Brock stood impotently at the back as Amara was swept up into an enthusiastic tide of welcome. Devona hugged her friend, babbling compliments about her gown and hair. Amara greeted Tipton and Sutton with a reserved shyness he had expected, but it was his father who had him reluctantly grinning when he pulled Amara up from her curtsy and kissed both her hands. In the muted light, he could see the affectionate greeting disconcerted her. The distant thundering from the orchestra below could not eclipse her nervous giggle. Her unexpected response conjured memories of late summer and childhood games. It pleased him that instead of drawing away, she clutched his father’s hand while she answered the expected pleasantries about her parents.
“Sit beside me, my dear,” Aunt Moll invited. “It has been too long since we have chatted.”
As if sensing his frustration, Amara turned back toward him and met his gaze. She shook her head, negating his protest before the thought was fully formed. With an apologetic shrug, she took the seat beside his aunt. Devona, oblivious to their silent discourse, managed to uphold both sides of their conversation.
“Tarry not, Brock.” Irene’s sapphire eyes twinkled with humor. “The play has begun without us.” She slipped into the remaining front seat beside Devona.
Confound it! Irene had succeeded in thwarting him. Sir Thomas murmured something to Amara before he took the seat behind her. Having witnessed their aborted kiss in the saloon, Irene was too intelligent not to have reasoned that he had planned the encounter with the family. She would have also deduced that he had every intention of sitting beside Amara.
Brock flinched at the hand on his shoulder. Sometime during his dark musings, Sutton and Tipton had joined him. There had been something in his gaze that had warned them he was considering pitching his meddlesome sister tail over top into the pit below.
“Tweaked your nose, did she?” Sutton said, stepping in front of him so he stood between Brock and his gloating wife. “Perhaps you should not have scorned her plans for a ball in your honor.”
He privately agreed. “What would you do if someone stood between you and Irene?”
Sutton glanced back at his wife. She had lost interest in taunting Brock, and now watched the actors treading across the proscenium. “Most likely the same thing you were planning. However, I would consider it a grand favor if you would not leave my children motherless.”
“I have no intention of harming her. Overmuch,” he amended.
“Miss Claeg is a gentle creature. Any confrontation at this point would only humiliate her,” Tipton counseled, his expression sympathetic.
Annoyed for no more reason than that he might actually deserve their commiserating support, Brock said, “I am topped with the helpfulness from my devoted family. I doubt I could bear more.”
“Come along, then.” Sutton placed his hand on Brock’s shoulder. This time, he accepted the companionable gesture. “You can pretend you are following the play while you plot a polite means of usurping Sir Thomas from the seat you so prize.”
A rare chuckle erupted from Tipton. “By God, she is the one. I thought as much a few years ago when you carried her out of the masquerade. You should have seen him, Sutton, as he tried to soothe the ruffled feathers of his furious dove.”
The night he and Tipton had dragged Amara from Lady Dodd’s masquerade in a desperate attempt to find his reckless sister had been the first time in more than a year in which he had spoken to Amara. The humiliating debacle had done little to heal their breach. Shortly afterward, Brock had decided they both needed the span of an ocean between them.
“If you prefer to reminisce, I am certain we can dig up one or two incidents when you were in a coil with my sister.” He gestured both men to take the seats behind their wives. Perverse as it might seem, if he could not be close to Amara, then he preferred the distance. He had always taken that stance, and perhaps it was the root of his difficulties.
“He must be in love,” murmured Tipton, graciously ignoring his brother-in-law’s gibe.
Brock settled in his seat. Rubbing at the pain in his brow, he quietly disagreed. He was in hell.
It took all of her restraint not to glance back at Brock. Half-listening to Aunt Moll, Amara strained to hear what Lord Sutton and Tipton were saying to him, but the singing below had dimmed the male voices into indistinct murmurs. Visiting with the Bedegraynes had always been a pleasure for her. However, she doubted that had been Brock’s intention.
She risked a peek when she heard movement from behind. Instead of Brock, her restless gaze clashed with Tipton’s disturbing light blue one. The corner of one side of his mouth kicked up, completely unrepentant for being caught staring. Tilting her head back, she caught a glimpse of Brock behind the two viscounts. Lord Sutton noticed her action. She could not claim a familiarity with the man, but he had the audacity to wink. Amara abruptly shifted her attention forward. Good grief, what a quandary! Had
Lord Sutton believed she was flirting with him? Absently, she nibbled the fingertip of one of her white kid gloves.
“It is a pity Wynne has missed this performance. Musical farces are her particular favorite,” Devona confided, unaware of her friend’s misery.
Amara made a concurring sound. Appalled she was ruining yet another pair of gloves, she clasped her hands and placed them on her lap. There was a sudden surge of laughter from the pit, and she wondered if she was supposed to laugh or if the spectators below were providing their own amusements. It was shamefully apparent she was not paying attention to the situation being played out on the proscenium.
“Beg pardon, miss, are you Miss Claeg?”
Amara whirled to the left, surprised that where Sir Thomas had been seated a young woman stood. Not much older than eighteen and bearing too much weight for her short frame, the woman leaned closer when Amara nodded.
“Your brother sent me. He is waiting for you in the saloon.”
Amara recognized the woman. Earlier she had stood at one end of the saloon serving refreshments. “You may tell him I shall join him shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Using the back of the chair, the woman pushed herself upright. With an odd limp, she left the box.
With the woman’s departure, Sir Thomas stepped forward and offered his hand. Amara accepted it as she stood.
Aunt Moll touched her other hand. “My dear, is all well?”
“My brother, Mallory, seeks a word with me. I shall return.”
“That poor gel was as large as a brig,” Sir Thomas said, not without compassion. “Has she brought you troubling news?”
“No, no, my—”
Brock blocked their way. “What is it?”
“It is nothing,” she assured them both. “Mallory must have spotted me. He wishes to speak with me.”
“I will take her, Father. There is no reason why you should miss the play.”
“Miss what, I ask you? A lot of caterwauling and eye rolling,” Sir Thomas replied, answering his own question. “I have yet to make sense of one blasted word. It makes a man wonder about his ears.”
Father and son exchanged a long look. Muttering, Sir Thomas returned to his seat.
Placing a claiming hand on her back, Brock said, “I am coming with you.”
“No.”
There was a flare of impatience in his heated gaze. “No? I have tried my best to steal a moment alone with you and what have I gained for my troubles? Irene is laughing behind her fan, and Sutton and Tipton have been giving me pitying looks. We will address your brother, and then you will deal with me.”
She was getting rather weary of the men around her and their chest-pounding ultimatums. Without a word, she continued toward the curtained doorway. Brock matched her step for step.
Amara halted before they had entered the anteroom. “We will not be addressing my brother. I will.” She whirled, positioning herself in front of him. “There is enough speculation floating around town. Dragging me about as if I am your prisoner benefits neither one of us.”
“Oh, you are bound to me, my lady,” he said, lowering his voice in a way that always managed to give her chills. “The ties are silken. Unbreakable, yet they will never hurt you. I will never hurt you.”
You already have, a voice inside her cried out. She lightly touched his cheek. “There are a thousand reasons why I should discourage you.”
He leaned into her hand. “Once you might have succeeded. Now you will not turn me away.”
Amara withdrew her hand. His words resounded with determination and something else she could not define. A promise? A warning? Whatever it was, she knew he had spoken the truth. “I must go. Will you wait for me?” Acquiring his agreement, she disappeared through the entryway.
Leaning against the partition, Brock broodingly crossed his arms across his chest. “Waiting. It seems I have been doing just that for almost half my life.”
The saloon was occupied with more individuals than Amara had expected. Two couples and a trio of giggling young ladies barely out of the schoolroom had claimed several of the scarlet-covered sofas lining the walls. Amara padded past them toward the fireplace at the end of the room. She discreetly checked between each plaster cast depicting classical poses, quickly averting her gaze when she passed the one on her left. The couple entwined in a torrid embrace were too caught up in each other to notice her interest.
Where was Mallory?
Sensing she was on a fool’s errand, she retraced her steps and headed for the stairs. A male attendant stood nearby, protecting the privacy of the subscribers. Approaching him, she asked, “Perhaps you can assist me. I was told my brother was waiting for me.”
“Oh, ye must be the lady my missus was after,” the man said, his assessment of her a little too intimate for her comfort. “I see no likeness between ye ’n’ he.”
“And the source of many of our arguments,” she lied. “He has never forgiven me for benefiting from our father’s comely visage.” A comparison of Mallory’s darker masculine looks to her own was ludicrous. He probably would bloody the nose of the first man who tried. There was definitely nothing she deemed feminine about him.
“Where might I find my brother?”
The man cocked his head. “Gone. Most gents have no patience with their sisters.”
Her smile tightened at his knowing look. Ah, shame on her for not catching on sooner. The man was not only rude, he thought their relationship was a polite fiction.
“He said to give this to ye.” Misunderstanding her crestfallen expression, he made a sympathetic noise. “A disgraceful congé, I must say. Most ladies prefer something that sparkles. Like tears,” he said, pleased by the poetic analogy.
“Violets,” she murmured, pressing her nose into the delicately scented petals. Someone had wrapped the small bunch with a moistened remnant of a linen cravat.
“Just disgraceful,” the man muttered, seeing the glitter of tears in her eyes.
“The man.” She cleared her throat. “My brother. Are you certain he is gone?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Amara rooted around in her reticule and retrieved a coin. She pushed it into the attendant’s palm. “For my gratitude,” she explained.
Walking away, she sniffed the violets again. The Greeks considered them the flower of Zeus. For Amara, they symbolized a token, a fragrant apology from an errant brother. In Hamlet, Shakespeare had written that the violet was “Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting.” Sadly, like the violet, her brother’s remorse withered quickly once offered.
No one outside the family knew what the fragile little flowers meant to her. They had come from her brother without a doubt. Not Mallory. Doran. Once Tipton had saved her brother’s life. The toll had been high, yet necessary. Doran had promised never to contact his family, never to return to England.
Halting abruptly, Amara realized she could not return to the box clutching the violets. Brock would never believe Mallory had given them to her. The infuriating man would assume the flowers had come from Conte Prola. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation.
Brushing a parting kiss on the blooms, she walked up to the nearest pedestal and placed the tiny bouquet at the feet of one of the statues. Without regret, she continued forward to the mahogany door that would lead her back to the Bedegraynes. The violets were a message. Doran had broken yet another of his promises.
Brock paced the small, private anteroom outside the theater box, resisting the urge to check on Amara. He thought it odd that Claeg had sought her out. Brother and sister had never been close. Her affection had always been for the younger brother, Doran. Perhaps their time together while Mallory painted her portrait had forged the beginnings of a friendship.
For a brief moment, he had suspected Prola of mischief. A cursory glance at the Haslake box confirmed his suspicions were unfounded. The Italian was still seated beside Lady Laurette Omant. The distance and the darkness of the theater made it difficult to d
iscern if the play or the lady held his attention. Brock was too much of a cynic to hope that the gentleman would aim his aspirations toward the daughter of an earl. Maybe he was not worthy of such a lofty prize; then again, Brock did not believe the Italian was deserving of Amara Claeg.
“You did not have to miss the play on my account,” Amara said, finding him paused near the fireplace.
She looked harried. Even though her eyes were dry, Brock would have wagered a hundred pounds she had been crying. “I detest the theater. Probably more than my father.” The anteroom was cramped, barely six feet in width. He crossed to her and tugged her down on a bench barely large enough to hold them. “Why did Claeg summon you?”
She fiddled with the adjustment of her glove. “Nothing dire.”
He held his silence until curiosity had her meeting his stare. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. Brock watched with rapt interest. Shaking his head, he cleared the thickness in his throat. “He went to a great amount of effort to find you for nothing dire.”
The petite bench heightened their intimacy. They sat hip against hip, thigh to thigh. She shrugged. He felt the subtle movement down the length of his torso. “Someone told him I was here with your family. You know of the portrait he paints for our mother. He asked if I could sit for him tomorrow.”
“Will you?”
She stared into the glowing embers, giving him the opportunity to study her profile at leisure. “It depends. I have been neglecting my cousin, Miss Novell. Mama voiced her displeasure before I departed with the Haslakes.” Amara turned toward him, something akin to humor easing the somber expression she had worn since she had entered the room. “My sin is forgivable, since befriending the earl’s daughters serves the needs of my family.”
“Is that what you are doing?”
She crinkled her nose. “No. I genuinely like the Haslakes. It is fortunate that what I find pleasure in and what is expected can sometimes coincide.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 14