Tempting the Heiress

by Barbara Pierce

  “And which of the two am I?” He was certainly not duty. Lord and Lady Keyworth would likely geld him if they caught him touching their precious daughter. Amara was too wary of him still to view him as someone who could give her pleasure. He was too tangled in her hurtful past. Yet the soft expression on her face gave him hope.

  “The unexpected.”

  “A compliment, Amara,” he praised, the knotted tension in him loosening into a warm liquid gush of delight. “And here I was despairing before your return that you would never succumb to my considerable magnetism.”

  “Lout,” she said, cuffing him affectionately on the side of the head.

  He snatched her hand. Turning it over within his own, he stroked her palm. She had delicate, slender hands. He found them ridiculously appealing.

  “What are you doing?”

  He tugged off one of her gloves and dropped it on her lap. “I hate stating the obvious.” When he seized her other hand, she gave him a token resistance. He peeled the second glove off with less finesse since she was being stubborn.

  “I believe in playing fair,” he told her, as he removed his gloves. What he had not explained was he generally broke that particular rule every time she came near him. Discarding his gloves, he reached out and captured both her hands.

  “Do you feel it?”

  Her hands felt cool. They trembled slightly within his grasp.

  “W-what should I be feeling?”

  “The connection between us.”

  Amara’s eyes were wide and dilated. She was reacting as if he had stripped her bare and laid her down in front of the fire. He had an idea of her chaotic thoughts. A lady would never allow a man to touch her thus, unless he was her husband. Earlier, she had spoken of forgivable sins. Brock swallowed a chuckle, acknowledging that what he was about to do would not qualify in Lady Keyworth’s rigid book of rules.

  He brought her hands up to his face, inhaling the essence of her skin. “Flowers. You always smell of them.”

  She bowed her head. The glimpse of guilt he saw made no sense. Drawing in a shaky breath, she tried to end his exploration by pulling her hands away. “No. Someone might catch us.”

  “I am beyond caring, Amara. My family has weathered its share of scandal. What is the worst that could happen? Marriage? Shall I procure a special license on the morrow?” he lightly taunted, not quite understanding the anger he felt.

  “Must you mock everything?”

  He released her left hand, keeping the other captive. “Not everything,” he murmured. Turning her hand over, he traced the slender bones just below the surface with his fingernails. The flesh on her arms prickled in reaction.

  “You must stop,” she insisted, her plea dissolving into a moan.

  Encouraged, he nipped the inside of her wrist. “You are so sensitive. I have often imagined you in my arms, shuddering with pleasure.”

  His tongue flicked over the lines scored on her palm. She shifted on the bench. Brock not only understood her agitation, he craved it. Lapping his tongue down the length of her first two fingers, he slipped them into his mouth. He sucked on her tender digits. She made a faint mewling sound in her throat. The needy reverberation cleaved him in half. He felt his manhood thicken, surging with a primal response. Brock ignored his discomfort. He had no intention of assuaging his needs in a badly lit anteroom with his family just beyond the closed drapery.

  “C-could I—”

  She bit her lower lip and turned her face into the wall, while he scraped his teeth downward and then repeated the sensual teasing. Brock’s fingers itched with curiosity. He imagined her nipples were puckered buds pressing against the restraints of her stiff corset. He longed to plunge his fingers into her bodice and cup each scented breast, lifting them to his eager mouth.

  “I want to touch you,” she whispered.

  He pulled her fingers from his mouth and bit the flesh side of her hand with less gentleness than he would have liked. “Look me in the eye and ask.”

  Slowly, she met his gaze. Was it rejection she feared? By God, could she not see that he would grant her anything she wanted?

  “Can I—Is touching permitted?”

  His hands curled as he resisted lunging. With a surprisingly steady voice, he replied, “Always.”

  Amara took up his hand, comparing each side to her own. “Your skin is much darker than mine.” Impulsively, she brought the back of his hand to her cheek and rubbed against him. “Hmm … fuzzy.”

  Brock choked, both amused and mildly offended. “Kittens are fuzzy.”

  “Woolly, then,” she quipped.

  Enjoying himself, he expelled a sigh full of dejection. “You are a merciless witch, Amara Claeg, comparing a man’s peculiarities to kittens and lambs. What is next? A dormouse?”

  Relinquishing his hand, she covered her mouth to hide her laughter. In the dim light, her mirth twinkled in her lovely blue eyes like stars reflected off a moonlit sea. Brock’s heart shifted in his chest. With firelight in her hair and laughter her siren’s song, he had never encountered a more alluring woman.

  “Amara,” he said, his voice thick with yearning. Confined by the small bench, he twisted toward her, sliding his legs under hers so that she practically sat in his lap. He silenced her laughter by framing her face with his large hands.

  “Brock.”

  He heard regret in her inflection, but he would not heed it. “For once in your life will you forget about what is beyond the closed door!”

  Her hands circled his wrists. “I cannot. What you propose is not real.”

  God, she was a stubborn creature! Feeling goaded, he demanded, “Is this real enough for you?”

  Dragging her close, he slid his mouth over hers. Tasting her was not sufficient. He wanted to devour her. Biting her lower lip, he used his tongue, enticing her to part her lips.

  Amara complied.

  Moaning his approval, he brushed his tongue playfully against hers. He showed her without words what he desired. Having gained her consent, his left hand slid down to her hip while his right threaded her hair. He bucked his body against her. Finding her own way in this passionate play, she retaliated by retreating just enough to bite his lip. Lust stewed like a heady brew in his gut. His manhood was a rigid rod beneath his breeches. His body throbbed and ached for release, while their kisses almost inflamed him to madness.

  “Oh, my!”

  At Aunt Moll’s exclamation, Brock and Amara sprang apart. He cracked the back of his head against the wall. Poor Amara fared worse. Her leg had tangled with his, sending her crashing to the floor in an awkward heap.

  Aunt Moll covered her eyes with her hand while she used the other to lean heavily on her cane. “I have been struck blind. I cannot see a blessed thing.”

  Brock glared at his aunt. She was not easing the indignity of the situation. He extended an impatient hand to Amara. “I will throttle you if you apologize to my aunt.” He hauled her to her feet, only holding her until he was certain she would not collapse from embarrassment at his feet.

  Amara was a little white around the mouth, but she was sturdier than she thought. “Oh God,” she muttered, her stare fixed on the distinct bulge ruining the perfect line of his breeches.

  “What, my dear?” his aunt queried, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be blind. Brock closed his eyes, his humiliation complete. Deducing the reason Amara was appealing for divine intervention, Aunt Moll swayed precariously, forcing Brock to surrender his remaining dignity. He caught his elderly aunt before she broke another limb.

  “Not one word,” he warned his aunt. “Consider adding mute and deafness to your recent affliction.” He smoothly pivoted Aunt Moll away from Amara, who stood openmouthed and seemingly incapable of speech.

  Rallying, his aunt said, “I will discourage the others from retiring.”

  “An excellent notion,” he replied, certain of his aunt’s discretion. She favored Amara. And him for that matter. “We will join you soon.”


  Brock closed the drapery once Aunt Moll departed. He bent down and retrieved their gloves. Seeing them in his bare hands, Amara surfaced from her stolid state and snatched the gloves.

  “I cannot believe I was so careless.” She plunged her hand into one of her gloves, engaging in a brief vicious battle.

  Brock stilled her actions. “Stop tugging. Here, allow me.” He took charge of the task. “You are liable to slap yourself in the face with it if you continue.”

  She rested her head on his chest and shuddered. “Oh, Brock, I have never been so ashamed. How will I ever face your aunt again?”

  Nestled against him, her entire body quaked. He felt like the lowest wretch. Abandoning his task, he wrapped his arms around her. Brock blamed himself. He should have predicted where the simple caresses would lead them. Every time he touched her, he tended to lose what wits he had. They had still been clothed when his aunt stumbled upon them. Still, what if Amara’s inexperience encouraged her to view him as the most depraved villain, a seducer of innocents?

  “It is not as terrible as you think.” He was weak against her tears. “Hush now. Do not cry. I—”

  She drew back so he could see her face. The suspicious glitter in her eyes made his stomach spasm, but she astounded him with her laughter. “Did you see your dear aunt’s face? For a few seconds, I believed her claims that she had been struck blind!”

  Brock shook his head, marveling at her fortitude. Amara had changed. There was a quiet strength within her that she had lacked years earlier. He squelched an unreasonable pang of regret. It was not because he found something lacking in her. The lack was within him. He wanted her to lean on him, but, in truth, she had stood on her own. During his absence, she had healed and continued with her life. A life without him. For the first time, Brock felt the stirrings of fear.

  “Aunt Moll values your friendship and ties to our family. She will not think less of you.”

  Calmer, Amara worked her other glove over her hand. “You are eight and twenty. I am certain your aunt is well aware you have coaxed a kiss or two from hundreds of women.” She did not sound pleased by the notion.

  “Legions,” he said, deliberately provoking her.

  “I have no doubt,” she murmured. It was a trick of the light, perhaps, and yet Brock would have sworn her eyes were more green than blue.

  “Not that they meant anything,” he arrogantly amended.

  “How could any woman when tossed amid the multitude?”

  Too late, Brock recognized his error. An angry woman was not a demonstrative one. He watched her gingerly probe her coiffure for wayward curls. Capturing her chin, he confessed. “You have. One stolen kiss and you have managed to send the others into oblivion.”

  Amara did not exactly melt at his tender words. In fact, the expression on her face sent a cold wind through the room. “You seem disappointed, Brock. Was I supposed to swoon or throw myself into your arms in gratitude?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Not precisely.”

  “I will not deny there is an attraction between us.” She took a deep breath. “In all honesty, I wish I could consign my feelings for you into oblivion as easily as you thrust the other women out of your life.”

  “You are deliberately twisting my meaning.”

  She tossed her head back in a haughty manner. “You are pleasing to the eye and your touch is sorcery. Why should I not enjoy a dalliance?”

  She pricked not only his pride, but also his temper. “The devil you will, Amara Claeg!” he roared. “You are not the sort of woman a man takes on as his fancy piece.”

  Her cheeks suffused with color. “I do not pretend I am a diamond of the first water, but neither am I a woman at her last prayers.”

  Brock tensed, prepared to pounce if she tried to leave him. Espying her fallen reticule, she stomped over to the bench and claimed it. “Furthermore, I have reconsidered our earlier debate.”

  “How could we debate?” he taunted, intentionally baiting her. “You were too engrossed sucking my tongue!”

  She ignored his vulgarity. “I am referring to our discussion about animals.” Slicing the air with her reticule she nearly struck him on the head. “I agree. You are not comparable to a kitten, lamb, or dormouse. Brock Bedegrayne, you are unquestionably a conceited, braying ass!”

  He was risking his neck, but he could not help it. Brock laughed down into her gloriously furious face. She shrieked and launched herself at him. Catching her by the wrist, he spun her around and hugged her to his chest. “Such vile language. What would your mother say?”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Hmm, she might at that,” he said with a chuckle.

  Amara writhed in his arms. “Release me.”

  “Have a care, if you please. I develop a rather unruly response every time you rub up against me.”

  She ceased her struggles. Had she been so lost in her fury that she had not noticed that her enticing backside was pressed up against his turgid cock? Egad, she was an innocent.

  “Heed me, my dove. Since you are apparently dense, it appears this is the time for plain speaking.” When she protested, Brock intentionally ground his pelvis against her as a reminder of her tenuous position. “This is no dalliance. This is a courtship.”

  “A courtship?” she choked out.

  “Yes. It is certain to be a difficult one since it involves the two of us.”

  She sniffed, and managed to exude contempt despite her predicament. “There is no need to trouble yourself. I already have one suitor I do not want.”

  It had been unwise of her to mention Prola. He felt completely unreasonable when he thought of the man. “Oh, it is no trouble at all,” he purred, “since I do not intend to be your suitor. I intend to be your lover.” Brock nuzzled her closer.

  “Lover? Touch me and I will scratch your eyes out.”

  She was trembling under all that bravado. He, more than anyone, understood what he was asking. He had seen how her face had paled when she finally noticed his arousal and remembered the violence done to her. “Damn it, I am not Cornley!”

  She sagged against him. “I know. I know.”

  “I am tired of the past standing between us.”

  “Cornley is dead.”

  Brock whirled her around, keeping her within reach. “I am not speaking of that bastard. When are you going to forgive me?”

  The vivid passion he so admired faded into enigmatic coolness. “I do not understand.”

  “You are a liar, Amara, and a bad one at that.” He let go, fearing in his present mood that he might actually hurt her.

  “I should return to the Haslakes.”

  Now that the passion and temper had passed, she was trying to rebuild the walls he had meticulously destroyed. This was one occasion she would be walking away disappointed.

  “Amara, I care little of which path we choose. The result will be the same. I can kiss you senseless or prod your cursed temper until neither of us sees reason. Either way, it will be my body covering yours, my name you cry out when the passion crests, making you wonder if a person could die from the shattering joy.”

  They stared at each other, both remembering the kisses they had shared, and she forgot to be angry or afraid of him. He could make her feel that way again. She must have sensed his purpose because she asked, “This is your notion of a courtship?”

  “No, just a pleasurable means to end the madness. From my way of thinking, the last ten years or so have been a courtship of sorts. It is not my fault if you have not been paying attention.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “You are late.”

  Matteo scowled at his accuser as he entered the room. “It was unavoidable.”

  He strolled to the four gentlemen seated at the table, peering over the shoulder of the rude cur who only offered his back. It was apparent they had been playing the game of connexions for hours. Matteo silently studied the stranger to the left. His face revealed much, making him at best a mediocre gambler. The trump he
played seconds later was not unexpected. Winning the trick, the man crowed his triumph.

  Matteo met the sardonic gaze of the man who had scolded him. Fat pigeon, those pale cynical eyes seem to say. There was no doubt who was really controlling the game.

  Losing interest in their card game, he strode by the table, wondering where he could place his cloak without soiling it. The room might have been private, but it was beneath his refined tastes. A scarred table and six roughhewn chairs were the extent of the furniture. The hearth was black with soot and had not been clean in days. Utterly disgraceful. Opening a small box on the mantel, Matteo selected a brimstone match. He retrieved from the inside pocket of his coat the remnants of a cigar. Crouching down in front of the fire, he ignited the match. He suckled the cigar as impatiently as a newborn hungering for its mother’s breast as he held the flame to the tobacco. Tossing the match into the hearth, he closed his eyes and savored the cigar.

  With deference to Miss Claeg he had curtailed his favorite habit. He could not properly court the lady when she complained at their second meeting that the putrid odor clinging to his coat sickened her. So he suffered. A man was willing to endure any hardship as long as the prize was worthy. Miss Amara Claeg was one such treasure.

  “Remove your cloak before a spark turns you into a thrashing conflagration,” the dealer said, his gaze focused on the cards on the table.

  Patience, Matteo counseled, when several of the gentlemen chuckled. Obeying the gruff order, he placed his cloak on an empty chair. Another man might have been angry, he mused, exhaling a cloud of smoke. What Matteo felt was pity. He deliberately leveled his gaze on his cohort. Threequarters of the man’s face and the left side of his neck gleamed like melted wax. This was an individual who understood intimately how fire ravaged tender flesh.

  “How was your evening at the theater?”

  “Sadly flat,” he confessed, questioning the wisdom of this particular discussion in front of strangers. “The uproar from the pit fatigued my ears.”

  The extensive damage had left the dealer’s face an impassive mask. Only his pale eyes glowed with menace. “Fortunate for you that your interests resided aloft.”