Free Tempting the Heiress by Barbara Pierce Page A

cord.
    Underneath the yards of baize, she uncovered a teak box. Carved into the yellowish-brown wood was an unusual circular pattern of lotus flowers, peacocks, and palm leaves. The box itself was a costly gift. Lifting the lid, she bit the tip of her finger as she studied the prize within. Laid out on red velvet was an opened fan. The sticks were made of pierced ivory. Near the head, replicas
of a nude woman reached skyward toward panels of varying crisscrossing designs, each more intricate than the last. The leaf was silk and the color matched the ivory sticks. Scattered across the fabric were silver sequins, and thin silver ribbons scalloped the edge. Overcome, she pressed at the lump forming in her throat. It was the most beautiful fan she had ever beheld.
    She allowed the lid to drop at the sound of the door opening. Relieved at the sight of the footman, she retrieved the discarded green baize and went about wrapping the box.
    “Miss Claeg, pardon my intrusion, but your father is most insistent that you see him at once.”
    Her father. She had forgotten all about him. Returning the marzipan bouquet to its box, she stacked the two boxes. “Mundy, please take these packages to my room. Tell my maid to leave them to my care.”
    “Yes, miss.”
    Amara made a quick search of her surroundings, even lifting the tablecloth high so she could peek under the table. Like the sender of the note, whoever sent the gifts had chosen to remain anonymous. She released the tablecloth, allowing it to fall back in place. Perhaps one person had sent all three. She straightened, thinking over the possibilities. Donning her gloves, she abandoned her barely touched breakfast. The revelation of her mysterious benefactor would also have to wait. She quit the morning room in search of her father.
    Instead of inviting Brock into the house, which would have added a certain formality to his visit, his new brother-in-law headed back into the stables. The building was new. The clean smell of new timber was still evident despite the
more prominent odors of horse and hay. They walked down a narrow corridor past the stable office and tack room.
    “Your patience is admirable, Mr. Bedegrayne,” Milroy said, “and it will be taxed a few minutes more if you can bear it. A bee stung one of the bays three days ago and its right hock is swollen. I’d like to see if the poultice has helped.”
    Brock’s mouth quirked. “I think I can find something here to amuse myself.”
    “I thought as much. I figure a man who has baked under India’s sun for more than two years can handle some manure on his fine boots.”
    With that, they stepped out of the corridor. The connecting room was larger in height and breadth, accommodating wooden stalls and bales of hay. The head coachman raised a hand in greeting, and begged a moment to discuss the horse that had concerned Milroy. Excusing himself, Brock took advantage of the distraction. Moving from stall to stall, he admired the occupants. Whatever the man’s faults, Milroy possessed an appreciation for excellent horseflesh.
    His brother-in-law joined him at the fourth stall. “Impressive,” Brock said, running his hand down the neck of the black roan stallion that had caught his attention. “Have you considered selling him?”
    Genuine amusement crept into the indigo depths of the man’s eyes. “No more than I would Wynne or my daughters.”
    “Do you race him?”
    “For what? Money? Status? No, Mr. Bedegrayne, Fardoragh and I already know his worth.”
    The stallion blew out an answering breath, and swung his head toward his master’s outstretched hand. Milroy at
some time during their walk from the outdoors to the stables had lost his gloves. A glimpse of a thin white-silver scar across the finger pads of his left hand reminded Brock how greatly the fighter’s rough life contrasted with his own.
    “How is the bay?”
    Giving the stallion a hearty pat on the shoulder, Milroy lifted his brows, perhaps