intrigued. “Confess all.”
Amara’s eyes crinkled in amusement at his protracting demand. She thought she could trust him. Besides, refusing him added more importance than it warranted.
“Mr. Brock Bedegrayne.”
He was not particularly stunned by her confession. Casually dropping onto the nearest sofa, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. I had heard he had returned from abroad.” Mallory gave her a considering stare. “Shall I demand grass before breakfast for your honor?”
Horrified by the possibility, she exclaimed, “Heavens, no!”
Satisfied by her answer, he settled back into his slouch. “I thought as much. In our youth, I caught Bedegrayne watching you with a less than brotherly interest. You were too young then. I might have interfered if he had acted, but he kept his distance, choosing to pursue other …” He made a vague gesture with his hand.
Mistresses . That was the word her brother had tactfully omitted. Old memories brought forgotten pain and anger. Once, the six years between their ages had seemed an insurmountable abyss. Now it was the least of her concerns.
“Has he made a formal declaration to our sire?”
She moved from the window. “The connection between our family and his has become strained since Doran’s death. Moreover, Papa has found me an Italian conte.”
His expressive face conveyed better than words what he thought of Lord Keyworth’s lofty opinion. “What about Bedegrayne?”
Had she not asked herself the same question a thousand times? Since her feelings were simmering too close to the surface, she changed the subject. “You are a comely rogue, Mr. Claeg. Why have you not convinced
some young lady to accept the responsibility of pestering you daily into a clean coat?”
Tipping the satinwood Pembroke table of its clutter, Mallory righted it and secured the butterfly flaps. “Probably for the same reason you resist the noble studs our father trots under your nose. I dislike being hobbled.”
Amara was spared from responding to his outrageous comment. A footman entered, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, plates, and a silver cake basket filled with her anticipated spice cake. After the servant departed, she joined him on the sofa.
Pouring the tea, she said, “That is a horrid thing to say.”
“But apt,” he countered, accepting the teacup she offered. “My marriage to Mirabella was a mistake. Not that I would ever make such an admission to our sire. Something tells me that if your Lord Homely had lived long enough to mutter his way through his wedding vows, you and I would be sharing the same point of view.”
She giggled, sensing he had purposely blundered the man’s name just to hear her laugh. “Lord Cornley. The horrid man’s name was Cornley.”
Nudging the cake basket closer, Mallory said, “Well, well, how telling. Does Bedegrayne know you have ceased grieving for your dead betrothed?”
The tea she choked on scalded her tongue. Setting her teacup down, she kept her hands busy by heeding her brother’s not-so-subtle hint and served him the spice cake.
Finally, she said, “Mr. Bedegrayne, above all, understood my feelings about Lord Cornley.”
Brock had never met a more nettlesome and perplexing lady than Amara Claeg. Fate had kicked him in the arse,
and the lovely Miss Claeg had chalked the bloody target on his posterior. Considering his volatile mood, if she had remained, he would have throttled her and by damn, he would have enjoyed it!
“Bedegrayne, if you keep muttering and glaring at the pedestrians, someone will assume you have escaped the private asylum near the park and summon a constable.”
Brock glanced up. Mallory Claeg was perched on the edge of his windowsill. From his lofty position, he must have observed the entire incident that had taken place moments earlier. Now his humiliation was complete.
“Come up,” the man invited. “My neighbors will praise me for the good deed. I think it is time we renew
Amara’s eyes crinkled in amusement at his protracting demand. She thought she could trust him. Besides, refusing him added more importance than it warranted.
“Mr. Brock Bedegrayne.”
He was not particularly stunned by her confession. Casually dropping onto the nearest sofa, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Hmm. I had heard he had returned from abroad.” Mallory gave her a considering stare. “Shall I demand grass before breakfast for your honor?”
Horrified by the possibility, she exclaimed, “Heavens, no!”
Satisfied by her answer, he settled back into his slouch. “I thought as much. In our youth, I caught Bedegrayne watching you with a less than brotherly interest. You were too young then. I might have interfered if he had acted, but he kept his distance, choosing to pursue other …” He made a vague gesture with his hand.
Mistresses . That was the word her brother had tactfully omitted. Old memories brought forgotten pain and anger. Once, the six years between their ages had seemed an insurmountable abyss. Now it was the least of her concerns.
“Has he made a formal declaration to our sire?”
She moved from the window. “The connection between our family and his has become strained since Doran’s death. Moreover, Papa has found me an Italian conte.”
His expressive face conveyed better than words what he thought of Lord Keyworth’s lofty opinion. “What about Bedegrayne?”
Had she not asked herself the same question a thousand times? Since her feelings were simmering too close to the surface, she changed the subject. “You are a comely rogue, Mr. Claeg. Why have you not convinced
some young lady to accept the responsibility of pestering you daily into a clean coat?”
Tipping the satinwood Pembroke table of its clutter, Mallory righted it and secured the butterfly flaps. “Probably for the same reason you resist the noble studs our father trots under your nose. I dislike being hobbled.”
Amara was spared from responding to his outrageous comment. A footman entered, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups, plates, and a silver cake basket filled with her anticipated spice cake. After the servant departed, she joined him on the sofa.
Pouring the tea, she said, “That is a horrid thing to say.”
“But apt,” he countered, accepting the teacup she offered. “My marriage to Mirabella was a mistake. Not that I would ever make such an admission to our sire. Something tells me that if your Lord Homely had lived long enough to mutter his way through his wedding vows, you and I would be sharing the same point of view.”
She giggled, sensing he had purposely blundered the man’s name just to hear her laugh. “Lord Cornley. The horrid man’s name was Cornley.”
Nudging the cake basket closer, Mallory said, “Well, well, how telling. Does Bedegrayne know you have ceased grieving for your dead betrothed?”
The tea she choked on scalded her tongue. Setting her teacup down, she kept her hands busy by heeding her brother’s not-so-subtle hint and served him the spice cake.
Finally, she said, “Mr. Bedegrayne, above all, understood my feelings about Lord Cornley.”
Brock had never met a more nettlesome and perplexing lady than Amara Claeg. Fate had kicked him in the arse,
and the lovely Miss Claeg had chalked the bloody target on his posterior. Considering his volatile mood, if she had remained, he would have throttled her and by damn, he would have enjoyed it!
“Bedegrayne, if you keep muttering and glaring at the pedestrians, someone will assume you have escaped the private asylum near the park and summon a constable.”
Brock glanced up. Mallory Claeg was perched on the edge of his windowsill. From his lofty position, he must have observed the entire incident that had taken place moments earlier. Now his humiliation was complete.
“Come up,” the man invited. “My neighbors will praise me for the good deed. I think it is time we renew
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