Tempting the Heiress (17 page)

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Authors: Barbara Pierce

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical Romance

BOOK: Tempting the Heiress
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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. Brock 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.”
His rudeness finally granted him Amara’s attention. “Cretin,” she jeered, using her ire on her friend’s behalf to put voice to her own. “Maddy, permit me to join you. There is something sticking in my throat.”
Something was sticking all right, Brock thought. Disgust. “I will escort you both,” he curtly announced. A weaker man might have shriveled under her stare.
“Your presence is not required.” She tried walking around him.
He grabbed her arm, whirling her around until she stood at her starting point. “You have it just the same.”
Claeg wrapped his hands around Carissa’s waist. “Your flair for spinning discord is positively Byzantine.” She arched her back, gasping when he dug his fingers painfully into her sides. “Never play your games with my sister again.”
Peering over his mistress’s shoulder, Claeg exchanged a silent promise with Brock. Carissa’s perfidy would not go unpunished. Brock dismissed the retreating couple. Whatever the woman’s fate, it was well deserved. Any
lingering fondness he had for her dissipated when he saw the pain in Amara’s eyes.
“You are causing a scene,” Amara said through a forced smile. Feeling spiteful, she deliberately stepped on his foot. He promptly released her. “Then again, you are notorious for them.”
“Provoke me further and our memorable exit from the Dodds’ masquerade two years ago will seem like a leisurely promenade in Hyde Park.”
She raised her chin in defiance. “Touch me, and you will be meeting my brother at dawn.”
“Your brother has already vanished with Carissa.”
When she heard Brock utter the woman’s given name, a perilous light flared in Amara’s eyes.
Not certain where her loyalty lay, Maddy stood between them. “Uh, Brock?”
He gnashed his teeth at Prola’s approach. He wanted the man to disappear: away from the conversazione, out of town, and most assuredly into another country.
“Your brother, he found you?” the conte inquired courteously.
Now that Carissa was gone, Amara seemed to loathe the man’s presence as much as Brock did. Staring at the tips of her slippers, she replied, “Yes, thank you.”
While Brock contemplated murder, it was Maddy who innocently spared the man’s life. Stepping in front of Brock, she pressed Amara for an introduction. Drawing on enough feminine wiles to risk a paddling if Tipton ever caught her at it, she asked, “Conte Prola, if I may be so bold and impose on you, would you object to escorting me toward the refreshments? These stimulating discourses are so demanding on one’s throat.”
Brock sensed that Prola was reluctant to leave Amara alone with him. Brock completely understood the man’s sentiment. Maddy brightened her smile when Prola glanced down at her. With practice, the imp would have the majority of males in London under her rule. The conte succumbed without even whimpering. Winking at Brock, Maddy led the Italian away, regaling him with her considerable knowledge of the defining qualities of a proper town garden.
“You should not encourage her. Tipton will not thank you for it.”
Brock shrugged, unconcerned. “Prola wants you. He will play the gallant for Maddy because he hopes it will impress you.”
“Then perhaps I should join them.”
“I disagree.” He turned her around, escorting her in the opposite direction. They continued down a narrow hall toward the front of the house. Brock wanted distance from Prola. By God, he wanted time with her alone. He led her down the stairs to the lobby.
“I am going back.” She wrenched her arm from his grasp and dashed up the stairs.
He raced after her. When piqued, the woman had the swiftness of a gazelle. He caught her at the top. “Will you let me explain about Carissa LeMaye?”
“Explain what? That you were lovers?” She backed him down a step. “It was quite evident. I am astonished you let her wander off with Mallory. Or do you share her?”
A gentleman cleared his throat behind them. “If I may pass,” he mumbled, pretending that he had not overheard Amara’s insolent question. He hastened down the stairs, his brows never descending from his scalp.
“I have tolerated more than enough!” Brock marched
her up the stairs, searching for a vacant room. Lifting the door latch, he kicked open the door. The tiny room was not his first choice, but he was too furious to quibble. “A foul mouth deserves an appropriate setting.”
He pushed her into the water closet.
Amara pounded on his chest. “Are you crazy?”
Brock bolted the door. “If I am, the blame is yours.” He crossed his arms against his chest. Amara took three steps away from him and propped her back against the wall.
“The smell is unbearable.”
“So is your opinion of me.” He leaned against the door and rubbed his neck. “Amara,” he entreated, “I was not much older than Maddy when I met Carissa. She was older and I had never—known a woman.”
“I have heard enough.”
He closed his eyes, sorting his thoughts. How could he make her understand without causing more hurt? “I suppose she chose a lowly baronet’s son because I was smitten with her beauty and my inexperience amused her. The affair was brief. She left me for an older, titled gentleman who bought her a small house.”
“Did you love her?” A single tear dropped from her lashes and dripped down her cheek.
Since she was calmer, he came to her. He brushed the wetness from her cheek. “No,” he assured her. “Nor am I interested in renewing her acquaintance. Your brother was correct. She wanted to hurt you because she was jealous.”

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