Tempting the Heiress by Barbara Pierce

moved once he was satisfied with her pose, she was sharply reprimanded. He sketched. He cursed and sketched some more. Hundreds, it seemed, and none pleased him. The setting seemed sparse. There was a place for her to sit, lush draperies, greenery, and an exotic brass incense burner. Still, there was something in his light blue gaze that seemed fey. Whatever he saw when he stared at her could not be viewed by mere mortals until he painted it.
    “Lines are marring your forehead,” Mallory said, adding broad strokes to his sketch. “Relax.”

    Amara wrinkled her face in retaliation, earning a laugh from him. Aspiring for a tranquil expression, she switched her focus to her surroundings. The building was both a showroom for his work and his home. She had been given little time to explore the house, but the studio itself smelled of turpentine, oils, and other mysterious chemicals that were appropriate for an artist’s alchemy. Paintings of varying sizes covered the wall, whereas others were carefully stacked upright.
    Her scrutiny returned to her brother. The studio was in better condition than her unkempt brother. Mallory’s unruly shoulder-length hair hung in front of his face like the bars of an iron cage. His clothes could not have been in worse condition if he had slept in them.
    She dwelled on the observation.
    When she had entered the studio earlier, he had not been alone. There had been a woman. Her brother had escorted her out of the room before formal introductions could be made. His actions would have seemed odd if she had not already recognized the lady as Mrs. Carissa LeMaye. The eight-year difference in their ages had not shielded Amara from knowing the more salacious details about the woman’s life. While Amara had been in the schoolroom studying Latin with her governess, the exotic raven-haired beauty had been a much sought after Cyprian. She had married well, twice, and each man had made her a widow, leaving her sizable jointures from each estate. Whatever her circumstances, her name was still discreetly linked with numerous gentlemen of the ton, her brother being her latest conquest. Men were corruptible twits, she bleakly brooded. In fact, there had even been rumors years ago that the young widow had once been under the protection of Brock Bedegrayne.

    “Enough!” Mallory dropped the charcoal, and lifted his hands in surrender. “You will be scaring future generations if I immortalize that glower. What is wrong?”
    A denial was forming on her lips, when she relented. He was watching her too closely and would recognize the lie. She stuck with the truth. “My toes are numb. I am hungry, and missed tea again. That alone will put me in ill favor with Mama.” Privately enjoying his pained expression, she added, “I also have need of the convenience.”
    “Consider yourself unfettered.” He waved her off. “Go see to your needs and I will summon the housekeeper for some tea.”
    Uncoiling from her position, she rubbed her lower back in a very undignified manner. “And perhaps she has a few of those little spice cakes left over from the other day. You know, the ones with the currants?”
    The look he gave her was filled with brotherly stoicism. “I think we can accommodate you, dearest.”
    After taking care of her personal needs, Amara returned to the studio. Finding it empty, she strode to the open window. She stared down at the activity below, wondering if Brock was awaiting her return.
    “Looking for anyone I know?” Mallory asked, his appearance greatly improved by her brief absence. His dark hair was combed and confined with a leather strap. He had replaced his wrinkled attire with a freshly pressed coat the color of claret and a gray waistcoat. The knot in his cravat was uninspired. Nevertheless, she acknowledged his attempt with a slight nod.
    “I doubt you would believe me. I barely believe it myself.”
    “Oh, I have the capacity to believe the extraordinary,” he retorted, apparently