“Interesting choice of words, Bedegrayne,” Mallory Claeg said, striding toward them. “I was deliberating on which f-word applied to you.”
Whatever brought Claeg to his door, he had come on his own. He glanced at the manservant. “Tell Cook we will need those refreshments you had mentioned.” He turned on his heel and headed for the parlor he had never used. “Claeg, you surprise—”
Claeg tackled him from behind. They landed on the sofa. Clipping his chin on the wooden frame, he tasted blood. If this continued, one of them was going to get seriously hurt. Feeling he had no choice, Brock smashed the back of his head into the other man’s face. Whirling on his attacker, he cocked his fist. “I prefer having you as a friend, not an enemy.”
Wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, he saw that Amara’s brother had no intention of being reasonable. “Where have you been?” Mallory growled.
Trying for amusement, Brock lowered his fist. “It has been years since I answered to anyone.” He took a few prudent steps backward and sat in a chair. “However, since you asked so politely, I will tell you. I went north to check on some property I own.”
“Alone?”
“I believe that is not your concern.”
Mallory stood; his long hair had become loose in their brief fight. His gaze glittered with malice. “It is, if my sister was at your side.”
Having recently been in Mallory’s position, he empathized with the man. “Have you spoken to your sister?”
“No,” Claeg curtly replied. “Like you, Amara has spent the night elsewhere.”
“Why have you deduced she was with me?”
“Several reasons. I was told my sister went to visit A’Court’s widow.”
“So? Are the women not friends?”
“Yes. I also know my sister lied. The dowager is not in London.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” Claeg said succinctly. “My sister has the penchant for lies when the truth involves a Bedegrayne.”
The brother suspected, but he had no proof. Brock silently contemplated his choices. “Amara is loyal to those she loves. She long ago gave up believing Lady Keyworth’s tripe about Devona’s being responsible for Doran’s tragic demise.”
Claeg visibly cringed at the comparison to his vitriolic mother. “Amara was with you,” he said, mutinous.
The notion of facing him at dawn was unpalatable. Shooting Claeg, even if he deserved it, would not endear him to the family. “If you insist on knowing your sister’s whereabouts, ask her.”
“I will. If you have dishonored her, Bedegrayne, my seconds shall be pounding at your door.”
Brock stretched his long legs out, appearing relaxed. “I will not fight you, Claeg, but know this. My intentions toward Amara have always been honorable. She will be my bride before the year expires.”
The other man curled his hand over his fist. “Is that why you seduced her? Did you think my family would hand her over to the man who had defiled her?”
Brock jumped to his feet. The two men glared at each other with mutual dislike. “Tread carefully. I still have not forgiven you for not asking these questions when they might have been useful.”
“What are you saying, or more to the point, what are you not saying?”
Amara trusted him with her secrets. He would not betray her, even if he could benefit from it. “Claeg, Claeg, do not ask questions for which the answers will only upset you,” Brock chided.
Realizing he would not gain any further explanation, Claeg said, “Have you spoken to my father concerning your intentions, or is this blathering about marriage simply Bedegrayne arrogance?”
He planned to speak with Lord Keyworth as quickly as he could arrange it. “I can be quite convincing.”
Claeg snorted. “You will have to be bloody extraordinary with the ball being days away.”
The hairs on Brock’s neck prickled with foreboding. He knew about the Keyworths’ upcoming ball. Amara had not mentioned it, and now her silence disturbed him. “What is so important about the ball?”
“Amara did not tell you? Our father plans to use the occasion to announce her betrothal to Prola.”
Sellick knocked, and entered the room carrying a tray. “I have brought the refreshments, sir.”
“Not now,” he growled. So, his dove thought she could fly from his arms to another’s, did she? The lady might be a horrendous liar, but she had perfected the passiveness of omission with a competence that would likely get her bottom paddled the next time they met.
The manservant babbled an apology and turned to leave them. The hasty retreat slid everything on the tray to one side. Countering the shift by raising the opposite end higher, the servant gave a shout of dismay as pieces of china shattered on the floor.
Most of the anger had faded from Claeg’s shrewd gaze. Surveying the wreckage created by his unexpected visit, he said, “You have much to resolve, Bedegrayne.” He shook his head in pity at Sellick’s sniffle. “By God, I almost hope you succeed.”
The rosewood desk with its rich ivory inlay was delivered the next afternoon. The footman’s announcement had Amara scurrying down the stairs, the dressmaker’s protests echoing behind her. The gown she wore was held together by dozens of pins and it seemed every breath drove the sharp points into her tender flesh.
The servants had left the desk in the front hall, awaiting instructions on where it should be placed. As Brock had promised, the desk was beautiful and exotic. It was perfect.
“Amara! We have precious little time for your whims. Madame must finish her measurements, else the gown will not be ready for tomorrow evening.”
Lady Keyworth had not joined her below. She stood on the upper landing, her hands clasped in agitation. Amara unconsciously placed herself in front of the desk, blocking her mother’s view.
“I was returning, Mama.”
The older woman tilted her head, attempting to see what her daughter was protecting. “A gift from the conte?”
Hiding her clenched fist behind her back, the edges of her fingernails cut into her palm. What was she to do? She had begged Brock not to send the desk. He knew the magnitude of such a gift would cause her difficulty.
“Conte Prola did not send this. The desk is a gift from Mr. Bedegrayne.”
Her eyes full of speculation, Lady Keyworth pursed her lips. “Why would Sir Thomas’s eldest son believe you would be receptive to such an expensive offering?”
“I suppose in honor of my birthday,” she explained, furious with Brock for creating this unpleasant predicament. “You did send invitations to the Bedegraynes?”
“Come upstairs. We will discuss the small issue of the desk later.”
Her mother’s evasion was telling. “How could you? These women are my friends.” Realizing arguing about friendship would not soften Lady Keyworth’s heart, she appealed to the older woman’s self-importance. “Despite your feelings for anyone named Bedegrayne, the family holds influence in this town. Tipton and Sutton will not be pleased their wives were insulted, nor will Milroy.”
“Milroy,” her mother scoffed.
“Is the half brother of a duke! Do not underestimate the reach of his influence.” She ruthlessly pressed on. “Papa understands the necessity of courtesy, even to one’s enemy. What will he think of your oversight?”
Her mother paled, the consequences of her cruel slight finally cutting through her need for petty revenge. “Miss Novell, in my haste I have neglected several invitations. You will assist me. My daughter will continue her fitting without our guidance.”
Piper stepped into view. “Yes, ma’ am.”
Amara was not surprised her cousin had been eavesdropping. She could almost see the wheels of calculation rotating in the woman’s head as she wondered how she could benefit from the exchange she had overheard.
“Will we be sending an invitation to your friend, the mysterious dowager?”
Amara lifted her chin at the subtle cynicism she detect
ed in the question. “Your rough edges are showing again, cousin.” Piper stiffened at the insinuation. “To answer your question, the countess is still in mourning. I am certain while my mother writes her apologies to Sir Thomas and his family”—she stared sharply at her mother—“she will explain the courtesy we bestow on the dead.”
“Just as you, my dear daughter, will display tomorrow evening how one goes about honoring the living.”
Amara sagged against the edge of the desk. She yelped, jumping up as a dozen carefully placed pins jabbed her in the backside. Even when she was in the wrong, her mother always had a knack for lopping any advantage Amara had won.
Cloaked in colors of the night, Brock stealthily moved past the Keyworth stables and into the gardens. Within he listened to the muffled laughter of the male occupants. They were too busy with their card game to heed any noise he might make. Approaching the house, he kept his gaze on the prize. Light emanating from the window revealed his quarry was in her bedchamber and she was awake.
Good.
He wanted her alert when they had their conversation. Using the trellis as a ladder, he climbed up to one of the balconies. The next part was trickier. Unwinding the coil of rope he had slung around his neck, Brock tossed the weighted end up to the smaller balcony above. He flinched at each failure, the minutes ticking by loudly in his head as he waited for someone to become curious about the noises outside. He had padded the hook with rags but there was always a risk. His fourth attempt almost knocked him unconscious. He stifled a groan. Although his hat had cushioned the blow, the top of his head was aching. His own family would haul him in front of the magistrate if they learned of this. It was incentive enough not to fail.
The hook caught the railing on his sixth attempt.
Hand over hand, he silently pulled himself up the rope. Despite the coolness of the night, sweat beaded and coursed down his face and back. Softly grunting, he seized the top of the railing and swung a leg over. He landed in a crouch.
No one approached the window.
Brock wiped his damp forehead, giving himself a few minutes to regain his composure. Gathering the rope, he left it in a heap on the balcony. This was indeed an unusual courtship. He doubted his brothers-in-law had endured such trials when wooing his sisters. Disgusted by the madness Amara had managed to instill in him, he vowed the next time he entered the Keyworth residence, it would be through the front door.
Amara glanced up from her book for the third time and stared at the window. She should have been asleep hours ago, yet sleep eluded her. Perhaps her ennui had saved her life. She jolted at the muted thud outside her window. Setting aside her book, she quietly slid off her bed. She removed a pair of scissors from the table beside her bed. Amara slapped her hand over her mouth, containing her shriek, when Brock’s face peered through the glass.
She pressed her hand to her heart. “Damn you, Brock Bedegrayne,” she muttered, marching toward the window. She freed the latch and pushed open the panels. “I resisted stabbing Tipton when he tried this. You, on the other hand, tempt me over the verge of sanity!”
Brock grabbed her wrist and removed the scissors she was jabbing in his face. “Settle down. You have no intention of stabbing me.”
“I am not so certain.”
He placed the scissors and his hat on the table. As he recalled her words, his green gaze became mere slits. “What did you mean when you said that you resisted stabbing Tipton?”
Regretting her outburst, she said, “Nothing. I would rather discuss your nocturnal visit.”
“Oh, no, dove, it is not that simple.” He closed the window and the draperies. When he was finished with the task, he faced her with his arms crossed expectantly. “Explain.”
She refused to cause discord between the two men. Tipton had committed no crime. “It happened years ago. Tipton—he noticed how I grieved for Doran. It was within his power to ease my torment and he chose in his own fashion to comfort me.” She crossed her arms, matching his stance.
Brock’s face remained expressionless. Finally, he said, “He told you about Doran.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “It was more than the rest of your family did. I shall always be grateful for his kindness.”
He left the window, and moved so he stood in front of her. Without a word, he pulled her into his embrace. She rubbed her nose against his chest, savoring his comfort.
“Why have you come, Brock? I cannot fathom you scaling the side of the house just for a hug.”
“You would be amazed by what I would risk for you,” he murmured into her hair. “However, in this instance, you are correct. I am here for other reasons.”
“The door!” she exclaimed, remembering that it was not locked. She broke his hold, rushing to carry out the task.
“Amara, your brother paid me a visit.”
“Did he? He came to our house too.”
“He thinks I lured you from town and seduced you.”
It might not have been planned, but the results were the same. Concerned, she turned and met his steady gaze. “What did you tell him?”
They both spoke in whispers. Regardless, the harshness in his laughter still stung. “Not the truth. He was ready to pummel me for just his suspicions.”
She had been so careful. How had Mallory seen through her deception so soon? Everything was escalating out of control. The notion of Brock and Mallory facing each other on a dew-covered common was too ghastly for contemplation.
Some of her mounting horror must have crept into her expression. A parody of a grin parted his lips. “Do not fret, dove. Your brother is safe from me. Putting a ball in him would cost me too much.”
“My concern is not only for my brother, but for you as well!” she said, feeling goaded by his mockery.
“It is odd to hear you speak of caring, particularly when your brother tells me that you and Prola will be announcing your betrothal tomorrow.”
The room closed in on her. “No,” she said fiercely.
“Claeg learned of the good tidings from your father. Keyworth was most pleased by your consent.” He seized her by the waist and hauled her up on her toes. “I could strangle you for letting me touch you!” he rasped. “What were you doing, Amara? Simply compensating the loser? Did you honestly believe I would be satisfied with one night?”
“No!” She struggled, fighting to free herself from his ruthless grip.
“If you were looking for a hot fucking, you should have explained to me my role. As you can feel”—he bumped his arousal against her—“I am always willing to oblige you, Miss Claeg.”
He tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her. His tongue plundered the inner recesses of her mouth. She tasted blood, but endured the kiss. Brock had touched her, seducing her with tenderness and later with impatience. She had hurt him. In his pain, all he preferred sharing with her was his lust.
“Not here,” she pleaded, fearing they would be discovered.
He responded by tearing the front of her nightgown. “Here,” he said, unbuttoning the fall on his breeches. Engorged, his manhood sprang free from the matting of curls. He stalked toward her. “Now.” Shoving her back to the wall, he speared his fingers into the curly nest between her legs. She gasped at his invasion. Already wet, she wiggled as his fingers sank deeper.
“You cannot fake this kind of response. You want me inside you.” He lifted her high and pinned her to the wall with his thrust. “Put your legs around me.”
The rough penetration stretched her almost to the point of pain. Before she could complain, he began moving inside her. Slowly, her body grew accustomed to his frenzied strokes. Trapped against the wall, she was at his mercy. The thought distressed her until she remembered this was Brock. In spite of his anger, his hold was not cruel. What might have started as punishment had spun into desire. His mouth shifted from one breast to the other, kissing and laving her nipples until she ached. Her position limited her movements, so she caressed the back of his neck.
His power
ful release almost buckled his knees. Staggering to keep them upright, Brock smothered his cry of fulfillment against her breast as he emptied himself into her.
Amara made a tiny noise of discontent when he pulled out of her clinging sheath. He flinched at the sound. Gazing down at her with haunted eyes, he said, “I have no excuse for my actions. I treated you no kinder than a rutting beast, striving only for his pleasure.” His hands trembled as he reached out tentatively and cupped her chin. “I would cut my heart out rather than hurt you.”
She leaned into his fingers. “Oh, Brock, I knew the minute you touched me that you would never hurt me. I will confess, I was a little anxious at first. Until now, you have restrained your carnal appetites, have you not?”
“You deserve only a man’s tenderness.”
“Because of what Cornley did to me?” She sighed at his weary nod. “Brock, you have just proven why it will never work between us. No one can spend the rest of his or her life holding back a part of their nature just to please another. You would grow to hate me.”
“Never,” he vehemently denied. Shackling both her wrists, he pressed her bound hands to his heart. “Forget about your family and Prola. Marry me.”
He was breaking her heart. “I did not become your lover because I thought you needed compensation. If anyone is the loser, it is me. Do you think I want to marry Conte Prola? He means nothing to me!” She blinked back the tears in her eyes.
“Refuse him!”
“Once, I thought I could.” She shook her head at the futility of it all. “Papa,” she said helplessly, fearing her father’s wrath more than Brock’s. “My family will disown me if I refuse him.”
Brock was not unmoved by her anguish. He set her down, but held her close. “I can give you a family. You will not be alone.”
He did not understand. Even if she summoned the courage to abandon her family, she feared how her father might execute his vengeance. “I cannot put you or your family at risk. I love you,” she said passionately. “If something happened—”
“Hush.” Brock placed two fingers over her lips, silencing her. “You love me?”
Tempting the Heiress Page 25