“Yes.” Matteo paused, waiting until the man played his card. “Miss Claeg introduced me to Lady Haslake and her enchanting daughters.”
“I assume the Countess of Haslake shamelessly lapped the butter from Conte Prola’s lips.”
He flicked the ash from his cigar on to the floor. He smiled, recalling his discourse with the older woman. The countess was an engaging, generous woman. She was also regrettably very devoted to her earl. “The ladies, they always find pleasure in my company,” he said with a careless shrug.
“And Miss Claeg?”
“Like the ripest fruit. Just out of reach,” he said, feigning regret.
The man sneered. “So cut down the tree.”
Matteo puffed his cigar. A man in his position would never tolerate abuse from an inferior. This crippled, pathetic devil only possessed the power he, Conte Prola, gave him. He tapped a finger against his lower lip, considering his friend’s suggestion. “A wasted effort, I fear, since someone pilfered the proverbial tree.”
The man crushed the cards in his hands. The game was forgotten. His companions’ grumbles further agitated him. Pounding his fists on the table, he yelled, “Leave us!” He threw silver coins at their retreating backs.
Matteo smiled behind his cigar. He found it rewarding to remind a man who prided himself on his control that he lacked it when he needed it most.
With his hands braced against the table, his chest heaving, that horrible mask peered up at him. “Who?”
Although he was not pleased with the answer, he relished the role of messenger. “Bedegrayne.” He held up a silencing hand. “The gentleman is infuriating, I agree.”
Fists clenched, the man closed the gap between them. “He is—”
“A gadfly. Nothing more.” Matteo crossed his arms, confident. “I have taken care of him.”
It was almost four o’clock in the morning when Amara arrived home. She expected that her maid had fallen asleep hours earlier by the fire awaiting her return. The lateness of the hour had her staggering, but it was her encounter with Brock that had left her oddly drained and her mind hazy.
After his proclamation, he had escorted her back to her seat beside his aunt. To her credit, Aunt Moll had not told the others what she had witnessed in the anteroom. She had only smiled at Amara when she had sat down and patted her hand. Devona had distracted her by inquiring after Mallory. She had assured her friend that all was well. The mere fact that she had put the violets from her mind once Brock had begun stripping her gloves off proved how true his parting words were. It was so easy imagining them together as he had promised. Threatened, she silently revised. It worried her, although not in the manner it should.
“Amara, a moment.”
Leaning over the balustrade, she watched her father cross to the bottom of the stairs. “Good evening, Papa.” Tiredly, she rubbed the corner of her right eye. “Or rather, good morning,” she corrected, covering a yawn.
“How was your evening with the Haslakes?”
Something in her father’s inflection slithered through her weariness. “I enjoyed myself immensely. Lord Haslake joined us for a late supper after the play. He sends his regards.”
They heard an indistinct thud several stories up. “The servants are waking,” Lord Keyworth muttered, irritated his privacy was about to be disturbed. “Come, let us continue in my library.”
Feeling the chill of the morning air, she gripped the edges of her cloak together. Amara kept silent as she followed her father. The inescapable lecture was already clearing her head. Everyone had had plans for the evening, she was certain. Her father had been at one of his clubs. Mama and Miss Novell had been expected at a card party.
“Cease your dawdling.”
Amara passed through the arch into her father’s realm. Set-in bookcases divided the walls of the room. A diverse assortment of subjects populated the shelves besides the mandatory parliamentary accounts and law tomes. Books on husbandry, agriculture, math, and flora and fauna resided alongside topography, military campaigns, poetry, and fiction. Fluted columns with gilded capitals supported a rectangular plasterwork ceiling design that her father claimed was faithfully copied from a Roman tomb.
Amara skirted the circular rosewood library table, which was the final repose of a baleful stuffed peregrine. The creature had been one of her father’s beloved falcons. Obsidian glass eyes mirrored her movements, giving them the brief illusion of life.
Lord Keyworth lit a branch of candles near the mulberry and gold floral sofa. “Sit.”
While Amara sat where she had been directed, her father grasped a painted klismos chair through its rectangular open back and dragged it closer to her. Instead of sitting as she had expected, he headed in the opposite direction. Bracing her head against her propped hand, she watched him remove a decanter from its hull-shaped leather coaster.
“I apologize for bothering you at this late hour.” He poured the claret into two wineglasses. “This should warm us.” Returning to her side, he offered one of the glasses.
Amara sipped the claret. The wine mixed poorly with her growing dread. “It is very good.”
Bracing a hand on the back of the chair, he asked, “Do you love me, daughter?”
Perplexed, she replied, “Of course, Papa.”
Lord Keyworth nodded, satisfied with her answer. “Would you say a loving father is deserving of his daughter’s loyalty as well?”
She took another sip, clearing the sudden dryness in her throat. “One’s duty is to the family.”
“Ah.” He stared down into his glass. “Then tell me, daughter, why do you shame me?”
The fevered image of her and Brock embracing, tongues mating, rose unbidden in her mind. “I—I do not understand.”
“Conte Prola, girl!” he shouted, fixing his incensed gaze on her. “How long must I wait until you accept his offer of marriage?”
“The subject has never been broached, Papa,” she denied.
“Bah! Why do you think he accepted my invitation? He is young, ambitious, and holds some influence in his own country. My support—”
“Your money,” she interjected without thought. She regretted the hastily uttered words when he towered over her.
“A father is always gratified by his daughter’s concern. Never fear, I shall profit from the arrangement.”
“Marriage,” she said in a stark whisper.
“I have been too indulgent with you,” he said, his voice filled with recrimination. “You were so inconsolable after Lord Cornley’s death, I hesitated pressuring you into another marriage.”
Choking on a sob, Amara set her wineglass on the table lest she spill claret on her gown. “Your generosity has been boundless, Papa.” Her stomach roiled, thinking of her grief if Cornley had lived.
“As is your selfishness!” he retorted, rankled by the edge of sarcasm he detected in her praise. “You mope around in front of Conte Prola as if the man were eighty and without a tooth in his bald head!”
“I have been courteous to him,” she argued, defiant.
“Unfailingly so, it seems,” he said, the bitterness of his displeasure sullying the compliment. “And what of Brock Bedegrayne? I was told you were quite accommodating to him this evening.”
Comprehension lit in her blue gaze. “Prola sought you out after he left the theater.” The whining toad! “Did he tell you the truth? Mr. Bedegrayne was simply the courier for his family. Lady Tipton, Lady Sutton, and Mrs. Bedegrayne were responsible for the invitation issued. If I had spurned their gentle request in front of Lady Haslake and her guests then I would heartily be deserving of your censure.”
Amara met his anger with a mutinous stare. She cared little if her explanation was riddled with omissions and half-truths. Conte Prola had plummeted in her estimation. She had no qualms about matching his duplicity.
“Perhaps he misunderstood,” her father conceded, finishing the remains of his claret. “Nevertheless, you are not entirely blameless in the matter. You
were observed leaving the box unescorted. Bedegrayne departed minutes after you.”
“Papa, my leaving had nothing to do with Mr. Bedegrayne,” she assured him, wearily getting to her feet.
“If you have any maggoty notions about young Bedegrayne, you will forget them. I have higher aspirations for my daughter than squandering her on a baronet’s son.”
“I have no intention of marrying anyone, including Conte Prola,” she said recklessly. “It seems it matters not which Claeg the conte marries, so if there must be a blood sacrifice let Mallory make it!”
She had gone too far. Smashing his wineglass to the floor, Lord Keyworth rushed Amara. She yelped as he grabbed her by the arm and struck her across the face. “Disrespectful minx!” He violently shook her.
“No, I—”
He slapped her again. She flinched when he raised his fist. “Papa, please!” she begged.
Roaring his frustration, Lord Keyworth lifted her off her feet and hurled Amara away from him. She landed with a bounce on the sofa. Too frightened to feel any pain, she drew her knees up to her chin and curled into a ball.
Her father shook his fist at her. “I am tiring of your drivel.” He reached down and seized her wrists. He hauled Amara to her feet. “Look at you. Hair disheveled, blotchy face, and sniveling. What man would have you?”
She yanked her arms free and swiped under her nose. “Forgive me, Papa.”
“‘Forgive me, Papa,’” he mimicked. “I see nothing of myself in you, girl. I do not even believe you are mine!”
She vehemently shook her head. The cruel words were meant to wound, make her doubt. “That is not true.”
“Have you spread your thighs for Bedegrayne?” he crudely speculated. “If so, you come by your whoring naturally. Mallory is the only one of you three I am convinced is from my seed.”
Shivering, she pushed her hair from her face. “You are drunk. Mama would never betray you. You are only saying this to hurt me.”
“Are you so certain?”
He walked over to her abandoned claret and picked up the wineglass. He twirled the stem with his fingers. “I dislike conversing business with women. However, I see an exception is called for. Nine months ago, I took some heavy losses on an ill-fated venture in Jamaica. Although Prola is unaware of my unfortunate predicament, the profits from my arrangement with him will satisfy the incurring debt and the other investors.”
Amara felt as if her head were stuffed with sawdust. Her eyes stung from lack of sleep. “I do not—are you saying Conte Prola insisted I was to be part of this arrangement?”
“He was amenable to my terms after he met you.” He finished her glass of claret. “Let us come to an understanding. If you refuse Prola, your defiance will be considered an ultimate betrayal to this family. From that day, you will cease to be my daughter.”
Having delivered his ultimatum, Lord Keyworth set the wineglass on the table. She listened to his footfalls, the door closing behind him. Amara sank down onto the sofa. Her mien was impassive as her father’s angry words reverberated in her head. She was still there several hours later when one of the servants discovered her.
“You look frightfully domesticated, mon cher.”
Always in awe of her daring, Brock accepted Mrs. LeMaye’s hand and bowed. “And you, Carissa, look quite predatory.”
At twenty-nine, the widow lured more than one masculine eye with her mature beauty as she entered the room. A fortune in rubies and brilliants glittered from her neck, ears, and wrists. His gaze dipped to the tear-shaped ruby resting over her heart. The size of a nightingale’s egg, it was a seductive trap, for few men could resist admiring the warm, plump swells within which it nestled. With a sigh of regret, he met her gaze.
“A compliment, Mr. Bedegrayne. You have already improved my evening,” she said, her eyes inviting him to share her merriment.
“You amaze me. I would have thought a garden conversazione would be a trifle tedious for you.”
Her eyes glinted, appearing as hard as the rubies she adored. “I prefer doing the unexpected,” she said, sweeping the room with an assessing glance. “Besides, mon cher”—she lowered her voice as she moved closer—“during our brief time together, if you recall, I had better uses for my mouth than debating the twelve articles of garden theory.”
As she had intended, he experienced a swift image of a naked Carissa crouched over him. Her eyes full of wicked mischief as she moved down his body and took him fully in her mouth. Christ. He ruthlessly doused the memory, even though she was the type of woman a man never completely forgot. Countless years ago, he had been drawn to the worldliness she exuded like an intoxicating perfume. Carissa had been his first lover.
Keeping her hand on his arm, she walked the perimeter of the room with him. A woman who was always seeking out potential competition, she made a cynical appraisal of a face unfamiliar to her. “Who is your young charge?” she asked, nodding to Maddy.
Brock shifted his attention to Maddy. He noted the faces of the three gentlemen surrounding her and immediately dismissed them as harmless. “Lord Tipton’s sister, Miss Wyman.”
“Ah, Le Cadavre Raffiné. A most elusive gentleman,” she drawled, her ambitious mind considering the possibilities.
“And married to my sister,” he reminded Carissa. There was no doubt Tipton was besotted with his wife. He would never betray her. Still, Brock understood his sister was no match for the clever, spiteful games some women liked to play. A few imprudently spoken words could hurt Devona. “Do not interfere. You will be unhappy with the consequences.”
“Tut! I do not fear your threats. We both know there are peculiar delights in punishment.” She took his hand and rubbed it against her cheek. “I remember your hands,” she said, unruffled when he calmly took his hand back. “Why do we not leave your little rabbit with her admirers and you can show me in private how very unhappy you will make me?” She stroked his chest.
Brock stopped and stared down at her hand touching his chest. Carissa LeMaye had a beauty most women envied. Her voice caressed a man like velvet and her skills as a lover were enslaving. Nevertheless, the growing tension within him had nothing to do with desire. Beneath her fiery exterior, he had learned there was a calculating coldness. A man could perish, frozen within the chimera.
Some of his disgust must have been expressed on his face. The teasing pout she wielded like a consummate actress faded and was replaced by a belated prudence.
A soft gasp jerked Brock from his reverie. His gaze shifted from Maddy’s silent disapproval to the fluid pain gleaming in the blue depths of Amara’s gaze. She recognized Carissa. It was also nauseatingly apparent, she was aware of the history between them.
“Amara was able to accept my invitation, after all,” Maddy said, stating the obvious. She also looked mad enough to kick him.
Deliberately, keeping her hand on Brock’s coat sleeve, Carissa said, “Miss Claeg, we are encountering each other in the most unexpected places. Do not tell me you, too, have been caught up in this gardening enthusiasm that seems to have enthralled the ton?”
“Not particularly. I have neither the talent nor the inclination.”
Carissa’s fleeting smile revealed the very sharp edges of her teeth. “On this we agree. What is this fascination with groveling in the dirt like swine?”
Shaking off Carissa’s grasp, Brock moved closer to Maddy. He almost hoped she would kick him. He deserved it. Silently, he tried coaxing Amara to meet his gaze. If she sensed his scrutiny, she had suppressed it along with her vivacity. To the others, she might have appeared indifferent to her surroundings. Not to Brock. He knew her too well. The greater her anguish, the deeper she tended to bury her feelings.
“Mon cher, now that your rabbit has her friend, we are liberated to find other amusements, no?” Carissa asked prettily, her small retribution for his slight.
Carissa had judged her rival accurately. Her innuendo struck its mark. A spasm of pain flickered across Amara’s face. Broc
k was torn. He wanted to soothe Amara but suspected she would spit at him if he tried.
Instead he gave Carissa the attention she craved. “You will have to find another playfellow, Mrs. LeMaye. I am discriminating when choosing good friends and amusements. You qualify for neither one.”
Carissa paled, making her subtle touches of cosmetics seem garish. He had hurt her, something he had not thought possible, nor would it have changed the outcome. Sensing Amara’s importance to Brock, the woman had intentionally flaunted their former association. The fact Amara believed he had chosen Carissa over her made him yearn to throttle them both!
“It appears I have arrived too late,” Mallory said, joining the group. His quick perusal assessed the situation in seconds. He placed his hands on Amara’s shoulders in a protective gesture. “Green-eyed, Carissa, love?”
Carissa was not fooled by his mild curiosity. Her beauty and wealth allowed her entrance into polite society, where mistresses and wives often encountered each other. Needling her lover’s sister was the worst display of vulgarity.
“Simply evading the gapes. You were late,” she complained, begging his understanding. “What was I to do, mon cher?”
“Then I am at fault.” Mallory kissed Amara on the head, pretending not to notice she had shied away. “Forgive me,” her brother murmured, so softly Brock wondered if he had imagined it. “You were supposed to wait for me.”
“Papa improved on our plans.” With her eyes she sought the room for someone. Catching sight of him, she lifted her hand. Conte Prola, without halting his conversation with two gentlemen, returned her wave.
That damnable bounder! A low growl of frustration rumbled in his throat, earning him a strange glance from Maddy. She shook her head, admonishing him. What kind of protector was he, placing her in the middle of this farce? If Tipton learned of it, he would likely autopsy critical organs from his body then and there.
“Maddy, you look parched,” Brock said, his glare daring her to contradict him. “Find some lemonade.”
Tempting the Heiress Page 16