The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton

by Barbara Pierce

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Teaser

  Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To Mom

  PROLOGUE

  England, 1792

  Rayne Tolland Wyman was certain of two things: The first, today was his fifteenth birthday. The second, he was dying. He shifted in the darkness, only to discover he was being held in place.

  His eyes rolled white, then crossed as he focused on a circle of light that suddenly appeared. He did not know if it was real or just a fevered manifestation, nor did he care. It chased the shadows from his emaciated body, banishing them as it moved over his legs, traveling upward until it hovered over his bare chest. He choked back a sob, noticing for the first time the two fat leeches feeding on his chest, their slick, dark, flowing forms glistening in the faint light. Christ! If he listened carefully, he swore he could hear them sucking the life out of him.

  “Mum,” he croaked, his throat dry from screaming during the worst of the fever. His arm twitched, too weak to drop off the side of the bed and search for comfort. Gloved fingers reached out to him, clutching his limp hand. The coolness of the leather-clad fingers seemed impersonal, yet the fragile bones within were identifiable even in his befuddled state. He clung to that disembodied hand as if it was the only thing holding him to earth.

  “Hush, boy, I am here,” she crooned.

  His mum. The only grandmother he had living, and at times more of a mother to him than the one she had given birth to. She blended with the shadows, dressed in black as she was. A lace cap kept her gray hair tidy, and was bright enough to keep his dimming vision from sinking completely into the darkness. “I’m dying, Mum.”

  “Bother that,” she snapped, her faded blue eyes filling with tears as she denied both their fears. “The fever has a strong hold on you, but you will fight it. Fight it for me.”

  The light faded, winking out of existence as if it had never been. He heard voices in the distance. His grandmother’s? Maybe the surgeon called to attend him and his brother. Devlin. The elder son. The most precious heir. He had fallen ill two days before the fever had taken Rayne’s mind. Their mother had closed herself off from the household to pray at Devlin’s bedside. To Rayne’s knowledge, she had not visited her second son once.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rayne could almost taste the drizzle even though the air around him was stale. “Mum.” She did not answer him this time. He turned his head, wondering why they had closed the bed curtains. Did they not understand he was smothering? Couldn’t they hear him calling out? Fear had a taste, he decided. It was a combination of blood, the brine of sweat, and stale urine. Rayne swallowed; the blackness of the room pulsed with the contractions of the ravenous parasites that were slowly killing him.

  “I want them off.”

  Lightning struck the house. The concussion vibrated his body. He gasped, sounding like a strangling man taking his last breath. The lightning struck again, then again, again. The storm outside seemed to mimic the seething torment he felt within.

  If he had the strength, he would have ripped those feasting creatures off his chest and smeared their bloated guts across the oak floorboards. Such musings burned in his pained head, until the voices disturbed him again.

  “Our man wants his meat fresh,” the male voice warned.

  “They don’t come fresher than this. I heard tell the chap died two days past.”

  Died? Rayne’s mind turned over the words, trying to make sense of them. Had Devlin died? Was that the reason for everyone’s absence?

  “Right shame, dying and not being able to tie it up proper, even at the end,” the mysterious male continued.

  “Naw, he come from gentry. Saw the old lady meself, all dressed up and blubbering with all the other black carrion. Heard he was diseased. They just lost the older one this morning. Business like this could make me a rich man.”

  “Diseased, eh?” The man paused, considering the ramifications. “I warrant our client knows our goods come damaged.”

  Another crack of lightning shook the house. Rayne flinched as nature’s energy cracked open the roof. He could feel the rain beat down on his face, though he was too weak to do much more than lie there and allow it to wash away the sweat beading on his face.

  “Move the glim closer, so we can have a look at him.” The man clucked his tongue. “Young. Fifteen if not a day. Our man said no smalls.”

  “We’ll be getting two guineas for ’im. He’s more man than child.”

  Helpless, Rayne felt cold hands on the side of his head. Twisting and tugging, they dragged him headfirst into the storm. Water clogged his mouth and nose when he tried to speak. His narrowed gaze caught a flash of light, and his mind dully registered that it was a knife. He felt his clothes being cut from his body.

  “Aw, would you look at those wounds. Sucking leeches probably kilt him ’fore the fever done him in.”

  He was dead. No, that was not quite right, he silently amended. These men thought he was dead. They had mentioned leeches, the fever. He was not in his bed. Devlin had not been the one to die. He had, or at least his family thought he had. Dear God, they had buried him alive!

  “Give me a hand here. Bloody sack is soaked and I can’t cram him in it. I’ll hold him while you work it over his head.”

  Despite the cold rain, and his nudity, a warmth stole into his body. Pain seeped into his muscles as he willed his useless body to move, to show some sort of life. A heavy sack was being worked over his body, over his face. He could smell rain on the man’s hands that hovered so close to his nose now. He could also smell earth, the earth that almost had swallowed him whole, not caring that he was alive.

  His hands shot up, manacling the wrists of his savior. The man easily broke the contact as he and his companion stumbled backward in surprise. As Rayne jackknifed into a sitting position, his blue-tinted lips sucked in the much-needed air his body craved, ignoring the babbling of half-forgotten prayers his new companions evoked. He knew the sounds he made as his lungs ejected fluid and took in air made him seem more monster than human. He was too involved in bringing himself back to life to tell them he was harmless.

  Later he would have time to be amused by the notion that two grave robbers, intent on stealing his corpse, had saved him from the hideous nightmare of being buried alive.

  ONE

  Fifteen years later …

  “I warrant ye won’t be getting yer way with this gent, missus.”

  Devona Bedegrayne did not seem upset by her footman’s grim assessment of the situation. Being the fifth and youngest child of a baronet, she was not the sort to be put off by minor obstacles. Her olde
r sister Irene described Devona’s nature as tenacious as a mouthful of nettles, something she had desperately wanted to put to the test every time her cheeky sister uttered her glib little phrase. Devona, realizing she was clenching her jaw, immediately relaxed.

  So Rayne Wyman, Viscount Tipton, was proving to be a difficult man to visit. She had tried to be polite about gaining an introduction. Since Lord Tipton abhorred society functions, she had chosen to discreetly contact him by post. He had returned all her thoughtfully worded letters unopened.

  Undaunted, she had tried to pay him a social call. She knew her family would disapprove even though she had called on the proper day, the proper hour. Lord Tipton was not in, or so the rude little man had said before he slammed the door in her footman’s face.

  Devona was beginning to think the man was purposely avoiding her, although she could not understand why. It was not that she had a fine opinion of herself, even if this very evening Lord Nevin had tried to flatter her by comparing her copper tresses to the constrained fire of Mount Etna. Personally, Devona just considered her unfashionably colored hair unruly and a source of distress when she was forced to look critically into a mirror. Still, what woman minded a little flattery? She frowned, staring at the imposing door that was keeping her from her goal. She doubted when she finally forced an audience with the elusive Lord Tipton that he would be comparing her hair to ancient volcanoes.

  Barely disguising her sigh, she met the gaze of her loyal servant. “What did his man say this time, Gar?”

  “He said”—Gar took a deep breath, trying to lessen the irritability in his tone at his lady’s persistence—“that a real lady does not make social calls at midnight. His lord has no need to buy off the streets.”

  “Well, that certainly puts me in my place, does it not?” she said dryly, noticing even by the light of the carriage lanterns that Gar’s ears had reddened. Her gaze strayed back to the secured door in the distance. “What we need is a better plan. Trying to pay a social call is not working. Lord Tipton is obviously beyond the notion.”

  “My lady, let’s go onward home and try another day,” Devona’s maid, Pearl Brown, implored. “Even with us in attendance, this isn’t respectable. Nor the night safe.”

  It took quite a bit of adventure to rattle Pearl, and she looked like she had reached her limit. Of course, it did not help Devona’s staff that their stubborn mistress enjoyed testing the limits of everyone around her. “It was perfectly safe to travel to the ball this evening, and as you can see I have yet to step down from the carriage.” Inspiration, sharp and bright as a lightning bolt, lit up her face. Of course, that was it! Devona clapped her hands together, dismissing the wary looks her servants gave her. She had a plan.

  Minutes later, Gar was pounding his elbow against the door while he grappled with the shifting weight of Devona and the yards of silk overflowing in his arms. “’Tain’t likely to work,” he muttered.

  “You underestimate my abilities. My future husband’s gain is the stage’s loss.”

  Pearl scowled. “The master is sure to tan all our hides when he hears of your latest mischief.”

  “Nonsense. Papa can be very indulgent,” Devona reassured them, even if it was a tiny lie. It was up to her to keep her staff’s spirits up.

  “Only ’cause there’s too many Bedegraynes to work up too much steam about,” was Pearl’s tart reply. “If your sweet mama was alive, she would have pruned the first bud off your hoydenish ways.”

  The comment aimed and delivered the guilt right where it was intended. It was a direct blow to her heart. Anna Bedegrayne had lost her life in a senseless accident. In the act of running after her mischievous three-year-old youngest daughter, Anna was struck in the temple by a heavy wooden beam a workman had been maneuvering into position for some household renovations. The simple childhood game, and a generous gift from a loving husband, clashed, then went horribly wrong. Her brain hemorrhaged and she died. Devona accepted the blame for her mother’s death. Being reminded of it by an impertinent servant was another matter.

  “If I were you, I would tread carefully when speaking of my mother. You never know how a hoyden who is responsible for killing her mother might react.”

  Pearl, seeing her words had hurt her mistress, was instantly contrite. “Devona—”

  The door swung open, ending their conversation. It was time for their performance.

  “Make way, man!” Gar ordered, brushing past the stunned manservant before he could form a suitable dismissal. Gar carried Devona into the small hall and placed her on a plain walnut bench. “There, there, missus, all will be well.”

  On cue, Devona clasped her stomach and groaned. “The pain is worse, Gar. I—yes—I shall be sick!”

  Lord Tipton’s manservant stood firm. “She can’t be doing that here. Off with you.”

  Stubborn man, she thought. Guards his master like an unyielding gargoyle. You’d think the man had countless women vying for his attention, though Devona knew better. Men considered demons were quite safe from the machinations of the ton’s mamas. Crying out, she doubled over, her face lost in the folds of her skirts.

  Gar drew himself up and used every inch he had on the man to tower threateningly over him. “See here. Our lady is ill. If you can’t run for the doctor, then the least you can do is find a clean chamber pot before she disgraces herself on your floor.”

  Pearl put her arm around Devona, offering comfort. “And something to drink as well, if you can spare it.” Concealing her nerves, she patted Devona’s arm. “This crying will make you feel worse, my lady.”

  The manservant wavered as he glared at the trio. His duty warred with his instinct that these people were up to something. The suggestion that the sobbing woman might actually be a lady had him grudgingly warning, “Don’t move a hair. I’ll see what I can do.” He disappeared down one of the dark halls.

  “Trusting soul,” Gar murmured.

  Devona lifted her head. Her face was clear of the agony and tears she had affected. “You owe me a shilling, Gar.” She gave Pearl’s hand a quick squeeze. “Since he went left, we shall search right.” Devona was already heading in that direction.

  “Miss Bedegrayne, how do you know His Lordship will be this way?” Pearl whispered, close on Devona’s heels. She was determined not to be left behind.

  “A simple deduction, really.” Devona tried a door, and peered within. Empty. She moved on to the next door. “This side of the house is lit up. Besides, the gargoyle went the other way.”

  “Maybe the man went off to get his lord?” Pearl asked, growing more nervous with each step.

  “Highly doubtful. He was about to throw a woman in pain out on the streets. We’ll be lucky if he actually went off to get a chamber pot. Ah-ha!” Devona froze when she noticed the shadow and light under this next door flicker. Anticipation bubbled in her blood. After all, it was not every day a lady introduced herself to a supposed demon.

  “Gar,” she said, pitching her voice so the sound did not go beyond their small group, “you and Pearl return to the hall and await its guardian. Distract him if you must, for I will need time to speak with His Lordship.”

  Devona watched the dance of light and shadows as it escaped from underneath the door. She had not explained to Gar and Pearl her reasons for seeking an audience with Lord Tipton, nor the dire outcome if she failed to secure his help. He would help her, would he not? She had never thought until this moment that she would fail. Sensing their concern, she glanced at her motionless companions. “All will be well, once I speak to Lord Tipton. Go ahead; I shall be fine.”

  Without thought to the consequences, she quietly opened the door and blinked. What she saw within did not meet with her expectations. Why, the room was empty and … quite normal. It was not a large room, but it definitely was a male’s domain. The walls were a plain pea green; the only adornments were several landscapes depicting the changing seasons of country landscapes and a huge ornate gold-foiled mirror that was suspended o
ver a chimneypiece of cream-colored marble. A welcoming fire beckoned her to enjoy its warmth. No dainty, fashionable furniture was displayed to impress the visitor. Everything from the old French upholstered rococo armchair, the oversized Hepplewhite library cases spanning the length of two walls, and on to the geometrically precise library table serviced its owner with efficiency and comfort.

  Who was this Lord Tipton? She had gleaned every bit of gossip bandied about the ton, and none of it added up if this elegant, private sanctuary reflected the man she had been desperately trying to meet. Her lower lip pouted a bit as she turned this latest intriguing tidbit in her mind. So lost in thought was Devona that she failed to notice that she was being assessed as well.

  A prickling awareness jarred her from her musings. Rubbing her arms to ward off an imaginary chill, she pivoted. Her gaze scanned the room again. There, in one of the shadowed corners, her gaze sought out, then faltered when she realized she was not alone. The mysterious Lord Tipton. This was the man the ton snidely called behind his back Le Cadavre Raffiné. The Refined Corpse. She doubted any of the fashionable would have repeated such an insult to the man’s face, if he had ever bothered to show himself.

  She could tell even in the dim light that he was magnificent. Too fascinated to be wary, she took the branch of candles closest to her and brought the light to this man of shadows. He sat sprawled out in a corner chair, one leg propped up on a nearby chair while the other was bent close to his chest. His left arm rested casually across the surface of his knee. He held a smooth, flat stone between his fingers, which he slowly stroked with his thumb. Her attention caught the movement, and she stared at his long, elegant fingers. He had large hands. A long scar ran from his wrist to his thumb. He possessed the hands of a warrior, a man who had battled for everything he claimed, and won. The gentle stroking of the stone seemed contradictory and disturbed her on some level she could not define.

  Lord Tipton cleared his throat. If it was her attention he wanted, he gained it. Her focus shifted to the thick column of his throat, then up to his face. What masculine beauty! It was a proud face, all chiseled angles that begged exploring. A day’s growth of beard peppered his jaw, and drew attention to his full, sensual lips. His hair, a blend of chestnut and honey, was unbound, and tangled over his shoulders. There was a distinct streak of blond or perhaps it was white that sprouted from his right temple. Someone had told her it was the mark of le compagnon du diable, the devil’s companion.