Tempting the Heiress

by Barbara Pierce

  She nodded, letting the tears flow down her cheeks.

  “I have waited most of my life to hear those three words from you,” he said, hoarse from emotion. “And I have loved you longer than I can recall.” He lifted her lovingly into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  “I am not fragile, Brock.” She slipped her legs under the blankets.

  “Precious, then.” He nipped her lower lip and pulled back out of reach. The last time he had not bothered removing his clothes. He felt guilty about his careless handling and had something to prove, she suspected. Wordlessly, she sat back and watched him disrobe. He had a beautiful, virile body. Just staring at him gave her a wicked thrill.

  The tattered remains of her nightgown rested on her shoulders. She shrugged out of the garment while Brock kicked off his breeches. When he had shed the last of his clothing, she held the blankets up, inviting him to join her. Covering them both, he settled down beside her.

  She turned on her side, and rested the palm of her hand on his stomach. Sliding lower, she wrapped her fingers around his manhood, feeling him lengthen and grow rigid at her bold contact.

  He lay back and relished her petting. “Come here,” he murmured, already reaching lazily for her hip.

  “No. Not that way.”

  “Amara,” he said, stunned by her rejection.

  “I told you that I am not fragile. I can bear your weight. Cover me,” she demanded. He had loved her in so many ways, she had not realized until later that he had determinedly avoided holding her down with his weight.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I assume loving each other in a bed will be rather tame after the wall,” she said wryly, making his face redden.

  He eased himself between her legs. “We will move slowly. You can change your mind if you become frightened.”

  Amara wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. She was slick from their previous joining, so there was no resistance when he entered her. Buried to the hilt, he held himself motionless. She arched her back, the throbbing pulse of his manhood making her crave more of him. Caging her with his arms, he stared down at her, his concern for her distracting him.

  “I am going to bite you if you do not start moving this instant!”

  The apprehension faded from his expression. “Promise,” he whispered in her ear. He eased out of her, and pinned her hips with a forceful thrust.

  Amara leaned forward and bit him on the shoulder. “Again.”

  His slower, controlled strokes had her squirming. She squeezed his sides with her legs, encouraging him to hasten his pace. He ignored her command.

  “I cannot bear it.”

  “I disagree,” he replied, his face taut with desire. He pushed deep, proving she accommodated every inch of him. She moaned and writhed beneath him.

  They both froze at the quiet knock. Someone jiggled the latch.

  “Miss Claeg, the door won’t open.”

  “My maid,” she mouthed the words silently to Brock. “Corry, I locked the door for some privacy.” The wicked amusement she noted in his green eyes worried her.

  With laughter twitching his lips, he resumed his devastating thrusts. The moan escaped her before she could stop it.

  “Oh, you are ill. I knew something was wrong,” her maid said from the other side of the door.

  “No, no,” she said, assuring the maid. “Stop it,” she whispered to her mischievous lover. She felt overly warm and tingling just under the surface of her skin.

  “You are so close,” he said, biting her earlobe. “I can feel those tiny muscles milking the head of my cock. In a few more minutes, even your father’s presence could not keep me from spilling my seed in you.”

  Her sheath constricted painfully around his manhood. The man was using her maid’s presence to heighten her arousal. Curse him, it was working!

  “Miss Claeg, let me into the bedchamber.”

  Unable to hold back the flow of her release, she turned her face into her pillow. Her hips jerked as the first wondrous wave rushed through her. The pleasure ebbed and surged with each thrust. Holding her breath, she clutched him fearing she would cry out. Brock was fighting his own limitations. The allure of her release shattered his restraint. Slanting his mouth over hers, he ground his pelvis into hers. Seconds later, the viscous pulsation of his release filled her.

  “Miss Claeg!”

  “Corry, there is nothing wrong. Go to bed!” she said, sounding exasperated.

  “If you say so, miss.”

  They listened to the maid’s retreat. Amara punched him in the chest. “You dolt! What were you doing?”

  Unrepentant, he dealt easily with her outraged struggles. “If I must explain, then you leave me no choice. Once I have recovered from the potent wiles of your luscious body, I will endeavor to repeat my performance.”

  Amara lifted her brows in disbelief. “You will kill us.”

  “Only if it is done properly.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You have been avoiding me.”

  She crossed his studio, irritated that his remark was accurate. It had taken all of her courage to face him. “Untrue. Mama has kept me occupied with various errands. You are coming to the ball?”

  “That reminds me, many felicitations on your birthday, puss.” Mallory leaned over and kissed her cheek. “And yes, I have received the paternal decree that by not attending the ball I will diminish my inheritance.”

  “That is outrageous!”

  Her brother winked at her. “I thought so too. Not to worry, I had planned to attend, decree or no.” He gestured at the painting in front of him. “Your portrait is nearly completed. What is your opinion?”

  He had finished her face during her absence. The lady who stared back at her was striking. She wore her hair up, a riot of soft curls framing her face. Her blue eyes gleamed with intelligence and confidence. Overwhelmed, she stared blindly at the painting. “You have made me beautiful.”

  “No,” he corrected, obviously pleased by her reaction. “This is a faithful reproduction of my model.”

  “Oh, Mallory.”

  Gruffly, he motioned toward the chair several yards away. “Sit. I can work on your hands while we talk. Do you recall the position I need?”

  “Naturally. Pain imparts excellent instruction. After our first session, I could not bend my wrist without cringing.”

  “Have I been difficult?” he queried from behind the framed canvas.

  “No less than a sister expects from her brother,” she teased.

  “I called on Bedegrayne recently.”

  “He told me.” Amara closed her eyes, realizing her error.

  The soft scratching of his brush halted. “Interesting. Give me one reason why I should not call him out?”

  Having loved and married the wrong woman in his youth, Mallory was probably the only one in her family who would understand her situation. “I love him.”

  “Dear God, it is contagious,” he said with brotherly disgust.

  “Brock told you that he loved me?”

  “Only a lovesick fool would challenge one of our father’s decrees.” There was a wealth of bitterness in his chuckle. “I should know.”

  While Mallory worked, her thoughts drifted to her night with Brock. He had spent most of the night in her bed. They had not wasted their remaining time together sleeping. Nor were there further discussions about Prola or the ball. Instead, they savored their newly proclaimed love. They cuddled, lazily exploring each other’s bodies. Later, as promised, when he had recovered his vigor he had continued his seduction.

  Amara’s face flushed with the recollection.

  She had turned discouragingly onto her stomach, pleading exhaustion. Ignoring all her protestations, he had covered her as if she were a mare and entered her from behind. The sheer wickedness of the act had prompted her immediate release. Encouraged by her sensitivity, he had driven her to completion three more times before losing himself in her softness. Only the approachin
g dawn and the waking servants had chased him away. She had watched his descent from the window. It was short of a miracle he had not been discovered or broken his foolish neck.

  “Where did you go?”

  She blinked, dissolving her last image of Brock. Repositioning her hands, she begged, “Mallory, what should I do? Papa promised that he and Mama would disown me if I refuse the conte’s offer.” Amara refused to tell him everything their father had said that night. Such a confession would provoke her brother into cutting his tenuous ties with their sire.

  “What will you lose?”

  “My family,” she snapped back at his obtuseness. “Everything.”

  “I would not abandon you, puss.”

  “You might if he threatened to cut off your funds.”

  He clasped his heart in mock despair. “How little you think of me. What little you know.” He dabbed his brush into one of the colors on his palette and the scratching strokes resumed.

  “I think not only of myself. Brock could be in danger. It is ill-advised to underestimate Papa’s fury. Or what if my selfishness cost Brock his family? How long before he would grow to resent me for his loss?”

  Mallory cocked his left brow up at her anxious reasoning. “Since I am certain you have tried all of your arguments on Bedegrayne, what does he have to say?”

  “He loves me,” she said miserably. “I do not think he qualifies as rational.”

  He removed the brush he had clenched between his teeth. “No one in love does,” he said dismissingly. “I once followed my heart and I am still living with the consequences.”

  “That is your lofty advice?” she asked, her voice ascending in her agitation. No longer caring about her pose, she shook out the stiffness in her hands. “What is the moral? Love destroys fools?”

  “No,” he countered impatiently. “Cowards never find love.”

  Carefully, positioning her hands again, Amara bit down on her lower lip. She found no comfort in her brother’s advice.

  “A little early for visiting, is it not, Bedegrayne?” Lord Keyworth inquired politely, as he skimmed the octavo in his hand. His gaze flickered over Brock. “A few extra hours in bed would have been beneficial. You have the look of a man who is suffering from overindulgence.”

  Brock was unable to disagree with the observation, and his cheek dimpled into an unapologetic grin. He was blissfully exhausted. His dove was a demanding creature, and he had enjoyed every hour satisfying her desires. How would Keyworth react if he learned those numerous hedonic acts had been committed with his precious daughter? Brock’s lips twitched. The older man would likely swoon on his desk.

  “A Bedegrayne’s stamina is remarkable. Nothing will keep me from attending your ball.”

  Keyworth scowled, and set the octavo down. “No offense, but I was under the impression you were much like your father and detested these social frivolities?”

  “What is the point of having principles, if you are not allowed to bend them on occasion?” He shrugged.

  “Like sending my daughter a costly desk?”

  Among other things. “I have collected many treasures during my travels. When I found the desk, I thought of Amara.” Brock doubted the man would appreciate hearing that the desk had been custom made for her. “If you prefer, consider it a gift in honor of her birthday.”

  Even Keyworth recognized the value of the desk. Greed was a soothing balm for a bristled pride. “You are very generous. Our family is indebted.”

  Brock rebuffed the formal courtesy with a casual gesture. “Your approval is important. It was one of the reasons I have sought an audience with you this morning.”

  The older man picked up a paper knife and tested the edge. “Would it surprise you to learn I am aware of your interest in my daughter?”

  “The interest is returned, Lord Keyworth.”

  “Civilization was not built on the whims of a young lady. Nor are fortunes.” He tapped the blade idly on his finger.

  The stirrings of temper burned in his gut. Brock was not expecting the man to embrace him, but he would not tolerate being patronized. “I can offer Amara a name she can bear proudly and my successes abroad will put jewels around her neck and silk on her back.”

  “I respect Sir Thomas. Our association, both personal and business, can be traced back to long before you were born. The loss of that friendship had troubled me.” Keyworth bowed his head, weighted with regret. “For the sake of Sir Thomas, I will be forthright. There are several reasons I find you unsuitable. You lack the proper peerage I seek for my daughter. Until recently, your prospects were, at best, dismal. Even if I amended my opinion, Lady Keyworth will never accept a connection between our two families. Simply put, you are unworthy of my Amara.”

  The tempest simmering in his stomach boiled over. He tasted acid in his throat. Unworthy? The devil he was! What kind of man preferred brutal rapists and unctuous foreigners for his daughter? Shaking with rage, Brock stood.

  Pulling out his pocket watch, Lord Keyworth checked the time. “You must forgive me, our chat took longer than I had expected. You are still welcome to attend the ball. Conte Prola and Amara are planning to announce their betrothal this evening. Being Sir Thomas’s son, you will concede defeat graciously, I know, and offer the couple your compliments.”

  The image of Prola sharing Amara’s bed was intolerable. “The hell I will,” Brock growled, bracing his palms on the desk. “For Amara’s sake, I approached you in a manner deserving of your position. Having failed, I will use the candor you favor. Amara belongs to me. Marry her off to Prola and she will be a widow by her wedding night.” Having issued his warning, Brock turned to leave.

  “Mr. Bedegrayne!” Lord Keyworth roared. “Prola is not the only man who would be in jeopardy on his wedding night.”

  The gauntlet of war had been cast to the ground.

  Matteo found Lord Keyworth near the aviary. All around them, servants went about their tasks preparing for the ball. Instead of doting on one of his winged predators, the man was stroking the sleek plumage of a ringdove.

  “I sent for you hours ago.”

  It was the arrogance of his summons that had cost the man his hours. The conte was not his servant. “An unavoidable delay, I confess,” he said soothingly.

  “Brock Bedegrayne was here earlier.”

  “This was upsetting to your lady, no?”

  The bird shrilled in protest at the viscount’s fierce grip. “I am upset. The man will ruin everything if we do not stop him.”

  Recently, he had come to a similar conclusion. “Forgive me. I do not understand. What has the man done?”

  “The bounder intends to marry my daughter. I have reason to believe she has encouraged him.”

  “How is this?” he demanded, puffing with indignation. “You assured me your daughter was a virgin!”

  The insinuation his daughter was despoiled had Keyworth sputtering. The older man’s face was mottled with an unflattering red hue. “I have not dishonored our agreement with lies. My daughter is untouched,” he said, although he did not sound convinced.

  Matteo frowned down at the agitated bird. “Why have you summoned me?”

  “I do not trust Bedegrayne. He might try kidnapping my daughter.”

  It was a possibility. “Where is Miss Claeg?”

  Keyworth glanced up at one of the upper-story windows. “I ordered her to remain in her bedchamber until the ball. She will not defy me.”

  “I have confidence you will protect her, even from herself. What do you require of me?”

  “Find Bedegrayne. Give him an excuse not to be present this evening. Is the chore too unsavory?”

  He knew one or two gentlemen who enjoyed such work. “No, no.” The image of Bedegrayne broken and bleeding brought a gentle smile to his lips.

  “Good!” Keyworth said, letting the ringdove drop to the ground. “If you get missish, just remember, the man will not hesitate strolling over your rotting corpse to reach my Amara.”


  Matteo nudged the bird with his toe. The ringdove did not move. Its fragile kohl-lined head rested limply in the grass at an awkward angle. Blood welled in its blind dark eyes. Lord Keyworth in his fury had strangled the poor creature.

  Above them, Amara paced the width of her room. The chaos of preparation resounded through the entire house. Instead of assisting her mother as expected, she had been ordered to her bedchamber. Even her mother had been surprised by her father’s vehement adamancy. Her parents had been still arguing when she left the parlor.

  Papa’s surliness had not distressed her. The source of her unease had been hidden in her reticule, when she had entered the house. She had discovered the note on the floor of the carriage after she had said farewell to her brother.

  Amara looked at the crumpled note she had clenched in her fist. Shaking out the paper, she smoothed the creases out with her fingers. There was a single word.

  “Tonight.”

  Doran was coming home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Catching sight of her brother coming up the stairs, Wynne groaned, “I have no time for you.” With one of her daughters sleeping comfortably on her shoulder, she continued down the hall to the nursery. Brock followed in her industrious wake.

  She greeted the nurse, who was dressing the infant’s twin. Obviously, he had interrupted his nieces’ bath.

  “Wynne, your brother is here!” Milroy shouted from below.

  His thunderous announcement woke up the sleeping infant. With a voice rivaling her sire’s, she cried out her displeasure.

  Wynne gave her brother a caustic glare.

  He spread his arms in supplication. “You are not the only one in a rush.”

  Making soothing noises, she rubbed her daughter’s tiny back. “I was so tempted to ignore Lady Keyworth’s belated invitation. The audacity of that woman! If not for Amara, I would have tossed her note into the fire.”

  “Amara had no role in the affair. Her anger matched yours when she learned of her mother’s deception.”