The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 2

  Wariness stiffened her stance as she realized the man was half-dressed. He wore a linen shirt, its only adornment four linen buttons to connect the front opening. His breeches were well made and suede. His shoes were missing! She could feel the heat in her face as she stared at his feet sheathed in silk stockings. She had never seen her brothers without shoes or coats.

  Each studied the other; a unique male-to-female alertness had electrified the space separating them. Neither had said a word, and yet Devona felt threatened. She gazed into eyes almost the color of pewter, and she almost could believe the rumors about him.

  “For a housebreaker, you aren’t a very efficient one,” Rayne said, finally deciding it was time to end the staring contest with his bold intruder. “The last one who tried to make off with the bed linen had cleaned out one of the bedchambers before Speck tackled him in the front hall.”

  She was not pouting anymore, a fact for which Rayne silently was grateful. His intruder had lips that were made for kissing. He could almost imagine how the soft resiliency of that bottom lip would feel if he playfully bit it and sucked it into his own mouth. He shifted slightly. Yes, better to have her gape at him like he was addled than to have her offer those sulky lips to him.

  “Maybe it is disappointment that keeps you mute. Considering my reputation, I suppose you had expected to be greeted with disemboweling weapons and skeletons strewn about the room.”

  The woman blinked at the bitterness he could not keep out of his tone. Her hand came up to her face to brush an errant curl from her cheek. Teasing curls of fire framed her face, while the rest of her tresses, he had observed when she had first entered the room, had been plaited in a coil and secured in the back. A half handkerchief of lilac silk was pinned across the back of her head, with the embroidered ends hanging down past her shoulders. If he were to guess, he would say that his intruder had attended a ball before she had decided to rob him.

  “You are an annoyingly difficult man to see.”

  Ah, so the woman had a tongue after all. Despite all her bravado, he could tell he scared her all the way down to her white kid slippers. Not particularly interested in giving up his advantage, he lowered his lids to a predatory slant. “Possibly only difficult to people I do not want to see.” He admired her more when she took another step forward, her cloak swinging around her as she placed the branch of candles on the table near him.

  “I would not have sought you out in this manner if you had read my letters or permitted me an audience.” Now that she was closer, he could see that her eyes were more blue than green, a subtle battle that changed with her surging emotions.

  Rayne considered her for a moment. “Bedegrayne. Miss Devona Bedegrayne.”

  Her eyes lit up in delight, as if he were a pupil who had answered his governess’s question correctly. “Yes. Yes, I am—that’s me. I had feared your gargoyle—”

  Amused, he interrupted. “Gargoyle?”

  “Yes, that rude man who kept slamming the door on my footman.”

  “I fear it is not entirely Speck’s fault. You see, I pay him to be rude and to slam the door.” Rayne’s statement hit its mark as he had intended, and to his delight he watched her face suffuse with color.

  She glared at him, her gloved hands fisted at her sides. “See here, Lord Tipton. I am not normally so presumptuous. Do you think I do not know my reputation would be in shreds if word got out about this evening? However, you had refused all my appeals for your attention, and since there is so little time left…” Her voice faded off, her eyes clouded with the consequences that only she understood. “A gentleman would not make me beg.”

  There was that pout again! Rayne sucked in his breath at the impact of his lust for her. He felt helpless against it, and he had yet to get his hands on her, or press his face against her scented skin. She could bisect his emotions for all to see with just a glance. That vulnerability made him attack.

  “There lies our problem, Miss Bedegrayne. I am no gentleman. If you know anything about me, you should know that I do not acknowledge the title or the civility.”

  He shot to his feet and took the remaining steps that brought her within arm’s length. He reached out, tugging on the strings that held her Spanish cloak of white lace in place. It slipped from her shoulders and fell on the carpet. She was female perfection in his eyes. Her stature was small; the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. The dress she had kept hidden beneath her cloak was meant to heat a man’s blood. It was made of lilac netting, with a white satin slip the only protection from his hungry gaze. The square neck was cut very low, as was the fashion, and framed a generous portion of her breasts, just begging a starving man to feast.

  Rayne very much wanted to be that man.

  She wore no jewelry except for the gold link bracelets attached to her upper arms, worn just below her short puckered sleeves. The need to touch her made him reach out for an area that would least likely get him slapped for it. His knuckle caressed one of the gold bracelets on her arm. Who did it hurt if he slipped lower and stroked the small area of skin just above her elbow? It was just as he imagined. Her skin was softer than silk. She shuddered, and the temptation to do more than touch made him pull back.

  “I know I’m not a gentleman, but what about you, Miss Bedegrayne? Breaking into a man’s town house doesn’t quite make you a lady, does it? Shall we test this speculation?” Rayne leaned toward her lips. Perhaps the pleasure was worth a slap.

  “I won’t let you do it.”

  He was close enough to feel her breath on his lips. “Do what?” Knowing full well what she meant.

  “I will not allow you to insult me.”

  She was not pouting anymore. In fact, she looked mad enough to sink her teeth into his lower lip and draw blood. Self-preservation made him straighten to full indignant height. “Kissing me is an insult?”

  She waved away the question, ignorant of how enraged he was. “You were not planning to kiss me.”

  “Wasn’t I?” he asked, with enough menace to have her stepping back.

  “I should have anticipated it sooner. You are a true strategist, my lord.” Anger bringing her courage to the fore, she stepped up and poked him in the chest. “You block all my posts.” Poke. “Ignore society so I cannot seek you out in a more acceptable manner.” Poke. Poke. “You refuse all my calls, and when I finally confront you, you try to intimidate me by treating me like a courtesan!” She blew the errant curl out of her face. “By all rights, I should slap you so hard your teeth rattle and have both my brothers call you out. But you are Le Cadavre Raffiné, and no other man will do!”

  * * *

  “That little girl might be small, but that mouth of hers puts most hawkers to shame.”

  Rayne grunted in agreement to Speck’s observation. Miss Bedegrayne and her harried servants had departed an hour ago, leaving the house disturbingly silent. He turned the tankard of ale in his hands, studying the dark brew as if it could divine answers to the more troubling questions of his life.

  “An’ what’s this gargoyle nonsense she was muttering about? I never thought that man of hers was ever going to pry her fingers from the door frame.”

  “I think you were her gargoyle, Speck. You know … stocky, ugly, vicious guardian of the door. You struck terror into their hearts.”

  Speck smiled, showing his very pointed teeth. “You think? I kinda like that. Gargoyle, huh?”

  Rayne swallowed his ale, trying to forget the look of despair he saw in Miss Bedegrayne’s eyes when Speck rushed into the room with her two servants practically hanging on to his coat. The moment had erupted into complete chaos with everyone yelling at Rayne at once. Deciding he had endured enough torment for one evening, he had ordered Speck to remove his uninvited guests from his home.

  My lord, please allow me to tell you why I’ve come. Once you know my reasons, you will understand the urgency—

  He never gave her a chance to explain. It appalled him all the more that he had felt the risi
ng need to justify his reasons. She represented everything he had turned his back on fifteen years ago: the money, breeding, and hypocrisy of the class.

  He had thought he had cut that part of himself out like some malignant growth. Although lately— He scowled. Just because you cannot see the seeds of disease did not mean the body was not fertile to grow them. It was as if all that absurd, feminine, outrageous poking had planted a restlessness deep within his chest.

  It was strangling his resolve.

  This would not do. He had been right to send the pretty Miss Bedegrayne on her way. He did not need to get involved in one of her absurd schemes. What did someone of her age and position know of hardship and dire consequences?

  Nothing; he was certain of it.

  He swallowed some more ale. Miss Bedegrayne would bother him no more; her parting glare said as much. Rayne reminded himself that he was glad he had seen the last of her. Partly because the lust simmering in his gut would wane, but also because he feared the next time they met he might be tempted to help her.

  TWO

  Devona could not think of another moment in her life when she had felt more miserable. All her carefully laid plans to gain Lord Tipton’s assistance had faded into oblivion when he had ordered them out of his town house. She had tried to explain. Blast him, she had even begged, for all the good it had done. Sizing up the situation as a complete failure, Gar had hooked an arm around her waist and dragged her out of the house. Absolutely mortifying! She could trust Pearl and Gar to remain silent, and as for Lord Tipton … she doubted the odd man had any friends to tell about her humiliating debacle of an evening.

  A clock somewhere in the house chimed the three o’clock hour. Devona snuggled deeper into the bedclothes, her back automatically seeking the warmth of her sister. Wynne, the elder by two years, had been asleep when Pearl and Devona had slipped silently into the room to undress her. The sisters had attended the same ball that evening. She was certain Wynne was curious as to why she had arrived home before Devona when she had been the one to leave early, pleading a headache.

  Devona sighed. She should try to be more like her sister. Patient and practical, Wynne was too much of a lady to show up at a gentleman’s residence demanding to be seen. No one would ever scream at her that she was responsible for the death of a decent young man.

  “Your feet are cold,” Wynne murmured, her voice thick from sleep.

  “Sorry.”

  “And you are twitching. Stop it.” She rolled over and placed her hand on Devona’s shoulder. “Where did you go after you left the Fowlers’?”

  “Who said I went anywhere?” She tried to sound innocent, and was grateful the room was dark.

  “Because I left the ball shortly after you did and you were not here when I arrived.”

  Devona felt her sister move off the bed, she assumed to light a candle. “I guess you arrived when I was watching Gar and some of the other men play cards downstairs.” The lie was a little weak. Maybe she could bribe Gar to back her up.

  A small flame burst into life, filling the room with cavorting shadows. Wynne walked around the bed and placed the candle on a table close to Devona’s face. “Papa might believe that tale, but I know you better.” She picked up a discarded shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Were you meeting a man?”

  Devona mentally added “not a silly goose” to her growing list of her sister’s virtues. Giving up the pretense of sleep, Devona sat up in the bed. Wynne climbed back into bed and slipped her bare legs under the blankets.

  “I vow it is still cold enough to freeze water. What is the time, do you think?”

  “Three or after, I suppose. We should go to sleep.” Was it too much to hope that her sister would take the hint? Obviously so, since her next words confirmed her determination to continue their discussion.

  “We would be, if you were not intent on tangling the bedding and I was not so worried about you.” A small line appeared on Wynne’s brow as she critically studied her younger sister.

  Devona supposed if she had to choose a favorite between her two sisters, she liked Wynne the best. They were the closest in age. Irene was eleven years older, married to a viscount, and the eldest of the Bedegrayne siblings. Brock, the heir, was next, then Nyle, Wynne, and finally herself. There had been another brother, Bran, but he had drowned two years before she had been born.

  Wynne nibbled her lip and still managed to look lovely despite the late hour. She and Devona did not share the same temperament, or looks, for that matter. Although their height and build were closely matched, the similarities ended there. Wynne favored their mother. Her pale blond hair and cream and rose complexion gave her a fragile bearing. It was also misleading. One could see her strength by just looking into the cool green pools of her eyes. With one glance she could make a man feel like he was king of her affections or slice off his head. Devona always admired that particular trait. A few years back, she had practiced those looks hundreds of times in front of the mirror without success. Whatever Wynne did, it was so much a part of her. She was now using those green eyes of hers to inspect and assess.

  “This goes back to Mr. Claeg, does it not?”

  Devona wrapped her arms around her waist, feeling the chill in the room. “A few years ago, he was simply Doran,” she accused, lacking heat. “We all played together as children … fished and played near the same ponds.”

  “I know what he is, Devona. And what he is not.”

  “Wynne, he is going to die and it is all my fault!” Tears filled her eyes, as they always did when she thought about it.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Doran’s mama and sister, two weeks ago. I came across them on Fleet Street while running errands.” Wynne took Devona’s hand and squeezed it to offer comfort. “It was simply dreadful, the hateful things they said to me. The worst is that I agree with them.”

  “So what did they have to do with your absence this evening?”

  Devona clutched her sister’s hand to the point of pain. “First, swear. You mustn’t tell a soul.”

  Wynne placed her cheek next to Devona’s and sighed. “I swear.”

  Devona closed her eyes and began to recount her embarrassing encounter with Lord Tipton. Her sister quietly listened, rocking them gently, offering Devona comfort the only way she could. There was never any doubt that Wynne could be trusted with Devona’s secrets. After all, loyalty was at the top of that growing list of virtues.

  * * *

  Four days passed before Devona felt she could risk the blatant act of disobedience she was about to commit. Even understanding Wynne would have disapproved. With Pearl and Gar beside Devona, they traveled by hackney coach to their destination. Although reckless, she never considered herself a fool. She would pay dearly if her father’s coach was recognized on Newgate Street.

  Devona had visited Doran twice since his incarceration at Newgate. Horrified by his condition, she had told her family of the first visit at the urging of Pearl. Knowing they would never appreciate Devona’s true reasons for seeing him, she had argued instead that it was her Christian duty to offer him support.

  Her ears were still ringing from her father’s scathing lecture and threats. He thought he had her properly cowed, but her dear papa had underestimated her resolve and guilt. She used a little more cunning to arrange the next visit. She could not travel to the prison unescorted, so Pearl and Gar were enlightened and then sworn to secrecy. They had figured she was reckless enough to go without them, so they had agreed someone needed to protect her from her latest insane venture.

  “So where does the family think you’ve wandered off to?” Pearl tartly inquired, now that she had had a few days to recover from what Devona privately dubbed the Tipton Tragedy.

  “Cards at Mrs. Elizabeth Watts’, I think.”

  “’Tis a sad day for us all when you can look me in the eye and have me believing it.”

  “Do not worry so, Pearl. It will be truth by the end of the day. I just fi
bbed a bit on our arrival time.”

  The coachman called out as the coach slowed to a halt. Gar opened the door and helped the ladies down. In an uncharacteristic nervous gesture, Devona smoothed the front of her simple brown-and-gold-striped carriage dress. A straw bonnet with matching ribbons and veil completed her attire. She wanted to look pleasing for Doran but did not want to call too much attention to herself.

  “Here, take this.” Gar handed her a handkerchief soaked in vinegar. “Sir Thomas will have more than our positions if you are taken sick.”

  Doran was already waiting for them as they approached the gate. Heartsick, Devona feared he fought for a position near the gate daily just so he would not miss her visit. Gar paid a greasy-looking man two shillings so she could come within speaking distance.

  “Miss Bedegrayne.” Doran formally bowed, the simple courtesy reminding them both that he was bred for better surroundings.

  “Mr. Claeg, I trust you are well.”

  His hazel eyes were eloquent, seemingly searching her face to commit it to memory. “No worse than most here.”

  “I—we—” She motioned to Pearl to step forward. “It is a basket of apples. I know it’s not much. I was not even certain they would allow you to keep them.” Before Doran could take the basket, the turnkey seized it. Satisfied after his quick search, he helped himself to an apple and took a huge bite.

  Doran returned his wistful gaze back to Devona. “I have learned to treasure the simple gifts of humanity. Just seeing you, hearing your voice, makes the cold darkness I have to return to a little more bearable.”