Amara gulped some air. “With Mama’s approval? How absurd.”
Climbing back onto his perch, Jem removed his tricorne and slapped the dust from it. “Lord Keyworth would sever my cods if harm came to you. Or if I let you run off to Gretna Green with some rake.”
She was not positive what the man meant by his “cods,” but she had tasted her father’s displeasure. Summoning a smile this time was more difficult. “Jem, let us leave the fiction inside the shop.”
The teasing comment earned a chuckle. Waving her off, the servant stayed until she had entered the shop. Once inside, Amara stood in front of one of the huge Palladian windows. She lifted a hand in farewell and watched his departure.
It was almost one o’clock. Still believing the shop was the likely choice for their meeting, Amara made a casual perusal of her surroundings. Despite the hour, the shop was filled with customers. She effortlessly picked out five women who were without an escort so any apprehension that she might call attention to herself vanished.
The shop attracted hordes of women because it carried those wildly popular novels most gentlemen detested. Lady Keyworth had discouraged her from reading them too. She feared such implausibly romantic tales might persuade her young daughter toward folly. For her, as for most young ladies with a good measure of curiosity, the forbidden was an irresistible temptation.
In secret, Amara had read those novels her mother had disparaged. The stories had been wickedly adventurous and romantic, not to mention highly improbable. She had closed each book, satisfied with the happy conclusions. What surprised her was that after the adventure had faded from her thoughts, a lingering sadness remained. Older, she now understood her mother’s concern. Real life palled when compared to the excessive misery and ardent obsession printed out on those splendid pages. An ordinary husband might be viewed as a cruel substitute.
She thought of Conte Prola and sighed.
Following the walls, she roamed the shop. Thousands of books beckoned, yet she resisted. She climbed the stairs and searched the upper floor. No Doran. The note had stated Finsbury Square. Perhaps she had gotten it wrong.
She stepped outside and opened her parasol. Strolling down the walkway, she peered into several other shops. One of the approaching gentlemen turned his head as they passed. Amara returned his admiring leer with a fixed cold stare. Contrite, he lowered his gaze and continued his ramble in the opposite direction.
Her throat worked as she swallowed her growing anger. It was just like her brother to muddle the simplest plan. Not all of her family’s frustration with Doran was unfounded. Amara halted her promenade, studying the passengers in the carriages and riders on horseback. None of the faces was familiar.
Discouraged, she let her gaze travel to the grounds in the center. The contour was circular. Along the perimeter an iron railing and shrubbery enclosed the commons. She noted the gate had been left open. Two wagons were stationary near the entrance. One was stacked with water casks. The other was heaped with potted plants and garden tools. Obviously, some jobbing gardeners were tending to the maintenance of the square.
Inspired, Amara closed her parasol and stepped into the street. Pausing for a speeding carriage, she rushed forward, barely evading a man on horseback. The frightened horse shied to the left. The words the man shouted at her were hardly complimentary and disqualified him as a gentleman. She fought the urge to cover her eyes when another carriage passed close enough to ruffle her skirt. Not caring if her ankles were visible, she dashed the remaining distance.
Laying a hand across her heart, she was panting from fear and the exertion. When she caught her breath again, she would search the common for her errant sibling. Rough hands seized her from behind and whirled her around. The shock altered her scream into a pathetic yelp.
Dimly, she recognized the stark face. It was Brock who held her in a painful grip. He hauled her up on her toes and shook her. “Of all the—” His voice gave out as his fury strangled him. “What were you doing? Do you know how many times you nearly died? I swear, you have more hair than wit.” Cursing, he crushed her to his chest.
Neither the fright nor Brock’s proximity was able to calm her pounding heart. Pressed tightly against him, she returned his embrace. There was nothing she could do until he was inclined to release her.
“You watched me cross the street?”
Reluctantly, he pulled back. Her bonnet was askew from his forceful handling. Brock lowered her to her feet. While he kept a hand on her, he used the other to straighten her bonnet. “I noticed a foolish woman stepping out into the street. When I realized it was you, I almost had heart failure. Can you imagine how I felt, wanting to call out and yet afraid the distraction would likely kill you?”
“I never anticipated how dangerous the street—”
Renewed anger had him yelling, “Damn it, Amara! You were not thinking at all. It is nothing short of a miracle you survived.”
She was trembling. Oh, not as the result of his anger, she knew she deserved it. Her body trembled because she knew he spoke the truth. The crossing must have seemed to him wholly suicidal. “An apology for surviving seems a trifle peculiar. I offer it just the same.”
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and hugged her again. She felt the subtle quaking of his body. “So I am being irrational. It complements your lunacy. See what a fine pair we make?”
She let him hold her, longer than was proper. He felt like the sun, and she was so cold. Remembering where they were, she was the first to pull back. “Why are you here?” An awful suspicion diminished the joy of being in his presence again. “Were you following me?”
He gave her an infuriated glare. “I thought we had already established you were the one who was touched.”
Amara ignored the barb. Brock was too offended at her charge to be lying. Unless, she thought, she had been searching for the wrong man. “It is merely coincidence that brings us together on the same day, the same time.”
He looked abashed by her sarcasm. The light breeze surged and played with the strands of blond hair that had escaped his queue. “Not precisely,” he hedged.
She had been associating with the Bedegraynes too long not to have witnessed some of the males’ underhanded practices. “Good heavens, you have had me watched. It all makes sense,” she said to herself. “Brock Bedegrayne, you had no right! Who did you employ? One of the footmen, or was this task worthy of a runner?” She recalled the strange gentleman who had stared at her beyond decorum and could not prevent a shudder of repugnance.
“I have employed no one, but if anyone needs a keeper it is you!” he said, losing his temper, again. “Tipton’s man was headed for the vinegar manufactory near Old Street when he caught sight of your carriage. He was not pleased that you were alone, and thought I might feel the same. Once he learned your destination, he sought me out.” He scowled down at her. “So I rushed here only to see you weaving your way through a gauntlet of horses and equipages. Do you know what? Speck was correct. I am not pleased.”
“That gargoyle,” she seethed. Loyal to Lord Tipton, the servant had an unearthly gift for discerning trouble and took his guardian duties too seriously, much to the chagrin of the female Bedegraynes. “Are there not enough Bedegraynes in town to occupy his time?”
His lips curled into a parody of a smile. “Speck thinks fondly of you, also, for which I shall be eternally thankful. Now tell me, where are your people so I can strangle them for their incompetence?”
“I sent my coachman home.”
“What?” he queried so quietly, she felt the need to rub the prickling sensation from her arms.
A thump from behind distracted her. She glanced back in time to see the wagon behind her quiver. The owner was nowhere in sight. The wheels strained forward a few inches. The horses were restless.
Brock cuffed her wrist. She forgot all about the animals when he pulled her closer. His expression frightened her. Although he leaned toward officious, he was never int
entionally cruel.
“Are you meeting someone?” he demanded.
A rumble diverted her attention. She turned her head and watched in horror as the wooden pyramid of water casks shifted, straining against the rope restraints. The sickening clunk terrified the horses. The team kicked at the wagon.
Everything seemed to slow down around her. Brock shouted a warning in her ear and hoisted her off her feet as she saw several ropes snap free. The struggling horses jolted the wagon. She opened her mouth to scream. It never emerged. A final jolt and the pyramid collapsed. The first two casks rolled off the wagon and burst when they struck the ground. Amara had the sensation of flying backward. The back of her head connected with Brock’s chin as they hit the ground. The rumble was deafening. He rolled them toward the gate. His body pressed her into the iron railings while the remaining casks thundered by them into the street.
The stale water seeping into her half-boots and stockings revived her. The world around her resumed its harried pace. Grasping one of the iron bars, she pulled herself up. The rolling casks had struck one carriage, overturning it. The horses had bolted, dragging the battered equipage and the occupants into a landau. She could not tell the difference between the human and animal shrieks. One horse was down and struggling to get up. She assumed its legs were broken. Ten yards away, a body was sprawled facedown in the dirt. Nearby, two gentlemen scooped up a sobbing woman and carried her off the street. The front of her gown was stained with blood. Amara looked away and gagged.
Brock surged up. Taking most of the impact must have dazed him. Cupping her face, he asked, “Are you hurt?” Not waiting for her reply, he felt her shoulders and down along her arms in search of some injury.
“You saved us,” she said dully, praying she would not faint. “I was just standing there gaping at the wagon. You—”
A man rushed to them and crouched down. From his clothes, she assumed he was one of the gardeners. “Are you and the lady hurt? When I saw them hogsheads give, I figured it was dead bodies we’d be pulling out from the rubble.”
Amara shivered. Brock helped her stand. “We are unharmed,” he assured the upset man.
“Others—” She forced herself to look at the pandemonium in the street. “Check the people in the street.”
The gardener dug his grimy fingers under his hat and scratched behind his left ear. “I don’t see how this happened. Those water casks were secure, I tell you. I tied the ropes myself.” Muttering reassurances, the man wandered into the street.
Brock and Amara approached the wagon. Someone had unyoked the horses and led them away from the disorder. He picked up one of the severed ropes and examined the end. Thoughtful, Brock bent down and retrieved another end.
“It was a horrible accident,” she said, kicking aside a wooden rib and iron hoop to salvage her parasol. The water and mud had ruined it. She let it drop at her feet.
“So it appears.” Bracing his hands on the wagon’s splintered side, he abruptly said, “I will take you home.”
“I cannot,” Amara protested. She had lied and risked her life for this meeting. She doubted Doran would reveal himself now that Brock was with her. All of this had been for naught. The beginnings of a megrim throbbed in her right eye.
“You were meeting someone. Who? Prola?”
Somehow they had circled back to their conversation before the accident. “Not Conte Prola. In fact, I was doing my best to avoid the man!”
Her vehement reply eased the severity in his expression. “Who?”
She was not prepared to share her news of Doran’s return with anyone. Tipton had risked his reputation in order to smuggle her brother out of England. Knowing Doran had disobeyed the viscount’s edict by returning divided her loyalties. She had to find her brother before he was recognized.
“No one,” she told Brock. “If I return home, Mama will know I lied about Brook.”
“Lady A’Court? She is responsible for this?”
His expression told Amara that mentioning the A’Court name to Brock had been a mistake. In spite of his anger, Brock was too fair to blame a helpless woman for her husband’s scandalous deeds. Lord A’ Court had been a sadistic fiend who hid behind his title and a thin guise of civility.
“No, Brook is not in town.” She faced him. “I lied, Brock. I told my family I was visiting her. I placed myself in this outrageous predicament, so I deserve the harsh consequences. You are a sensible gentleman. What daring I have for pulling you into my deception! I accept your gracious offer. Take me home.”
He escorted her away from the wagon. At some point during their discourse, the wrecked carriages had been dragged off the street and the victims had been carried off into Lackington’s. Someone had summoned a surgeon. Only shrinking puddles of water and the shattered remains of the casks hinted at the tragedy.
Following the circumference of the grounds, Brock surprised her by catching her by the waist and crossing the street. They made it across without incident. He guided her toward a phaeton. A man she did not recognize nodded to them as he jumped down from the carriage. He moved on to the horses.
She could not believe Brock had been so careless as to leave his equipage in the hands of a stranger. “This is when I reprimand you for, oh, what was the phrase you used? Having more hair than wit?”
“Oh, I lost my wits completely when I met you, Amara Claeg,” he said, lifting her into his phaeton. He left her alone for a few minutes while he thanked the stranger who had cared for his horses. After a brief contest of wills, the man accepted the coins Brock was offering him and departed with a wave of his hand.
Brock continued their conversation as if he had not been interrupted. “Who do you think blindly charged after you when I saw you in the middle of the street? We were both fortunate to survive your reckless impulse.”
“I suppose I was not thinking at all,” she miserably replied. The accident with the carriages was too fresh in her mind. She could effortlessly picture Brock’s broken body under the wheels of a swift carriage.
Something in her expression must have given away her thoughts. As he climbed in beside her, he patted her thigh. “It did not happen. Put it from your mind.” Taking up the reins, he signaled the horse to set off.
“You never explained why you lied to your family,” Brock said, waiting until they had left the square before he engaged her in conversation again.
“Have you ever wanted to escape? Forget for a day what is expected of you? Pretend you are actually being offered choices?”
Brock gave consideration to her wistful questions. “Now and then. If you believe Irene, I quit England for the adventure. Just another Bedegrayne son shirking his birthright.”
“Was she right?”
His slanting glance was enigmatic. “Partly.”
If he thought she would pry, he would be disappointed. He was entitled to his privacy. Besides, it had been a difficult time. They had both spoken unkind words. She would rather not revisit the painful memories.
“When are you supposed to return from your visit with A’Court’s widow?”
The sudden change of topic flustered her. In truth, she was ashamed she had revealed this unflattering side of her nature. Staring down at her mud-encrusted reticule, she said, “You must think I am a depraved creature, spinning lies like a spider on a garden wall.”
She jerked her head up sharply at his spurt of laughter. “Depraved? Amara, if you are a prime example of depravity, then the rest of us are doomed to blister eternally in hellfire.” The humor died on his face. “You have been raised with privilege and a heavy hand. On occasion, my family and I have noticed your fair skin has been mottled by that rigidity.”
This discussion was mortifying. His words laid her bare. “Please—”
“Do not defend them,” he said, his voice rising with his resentment. “Feeble excuses will never redeem them. They are unworthy of your devotion.” His hard gaze had not wavered from the street. “Is it so strange their dove, like your
father’s cherished falcons, yearns for the freedom of the heavens? Do you expect me to admonish you? I would cut the tether myself if I thought you would not later despise me for it.”
His generosity overwhelmed her. She bit down on her lip to prevent herself from telling him about Doran. Recalling his earlier question about Brook, she said, “Since most of my plans are half-baked as you so solicitously pointed out, I was rather vague with my family.”
“A benevolent friend, you would remain throughout the night if asked,” he mused.
Why were they discussing this? She was suffused with guilt. Amara planned to write Brook immediately and confess her sins. “It would be expected.”
When they stopped for a turnpike, she finally became aware they had not deviated from their northern route. Amara looked askance at Brock. For a lost traveler, he was too relaxed. They were not headed in the direction of her family’s town house. She waited until he paid the toll. “I am not confident I warrant a reprieve. However, I imagine any of your sisters would take me in if I asked.”
“No.”
Perhaps she had misunderstood. She wished he offered her more than his inscrutable profile. “If you are taking me home, we are heading in the wrong direction.”
His mouth lifted in a faint grin. “No.”
Bashing him on the skull with her reticule held a growing appeal. “You are not taking me home, nor to one of your sisters. Just what are you doing, Brock Bedegrayne?”
“Why, I am kidnapping you, Amara Claeg.” With a flick of his wrists, the horses hastened their pace.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The view changed from town to countryside before Amara remembered to close her mouth. Brock was respectful of the unpredictability of the horses and road so he barely spared her a glance once he had assured himself she had not fainted.
Her speechlessness fascinated him. It also saved him from having to gag her, not that he was wholly convinced he could resort to such a high-handed maneuver, even though a screaming companion would hinder his plans. Amara had thought herself a devious creature. Once she found her voice, what names would she call him when she realized he was not above taking advantage of her deception?
Tempting the Heiress Page 19