Nerves sparked along her spine. She had to make him understand. If all efforts failed to release Doran from Newgate, his life depended on Lord Tipton’s cooperation. She took a deep breath and jumped. “Are you acquainted with the Claeg family?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, uh, my father thinks highly of Lord Claeg. Our country estates are rather close.”
“Convenient.”
Devona straightened her spine, and plowed ahead with a determination that most found admirable, if not a little irritating when one was the focus. “I grew up playing with Lord Claeg’s children. In particular, his second son, Doran.” She did not like how Lord Tipton’s gaze had narrowed to pewter-colored slits. “As we grew to adults, Doran started to view me not as a sister, but as a—ah, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” he grimly muttered. “Are you engaged, Miss Bedegrayne?”
“Yes. No.” His glare was rather unnerving and her thoughts scattered for a moment like white petals on the grass. “He wanted to marry me, but Papa was against it. Doran is the second son of a baron. He was educated as due his position. He just lacks direction. Papa said that he was shorted the steel needed to hold someone like me. Whatever that means,” she mumbled more to herself, and blinked in surprise when Lord Tipton replied.
“I think I do.” He tapped his riding whip against his thigh. “So being the lovely, spirited, backward creature that you are, you decided to take on the opposition.”
She frowned, thinking that his deductions made her seem a trifle nutty. “I am not backward.”
He grinned, delighted by her reaction. “I also called you lovely.”
“To soften the sting, I bet.”
“Just remember you were the one who came calling. You must admire something about me?”
Devona glared at the mock sincerity on his handsome face and knew the truth would only get her in trouble. She scooted back when he reached for her hand. “What would you expect from an addled chit?”
He stared at her in awe. “Your eyes lose their blue when you have your back up.”
“I do not—” She lowered her voice when she noticed her tone had caught the attention of a strolling couple. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Are you certain, Miss Bedegrayne? I am positively fascinated by the many facets of your character.” He held up a hand, relenting when she started to search for something to hit him with. “Calm yourself, you maddening creature. You are too adorable when vexed. All right, so Papa has cast your beau onto the streets and you are feeling badly ’cause he’s a dear friend. I doubt your father is going to accept my recommendation, even if I was inclined to give it. Which I’m not.” He leaned forward, making certain she understood.
She did. “I do not need your word, sir. I need your skills as a surgeon.”
He relaxed back into a slouch and gave her a roguish leer. “You look in splendid health to me. Trust me, I’ve examined you quite thoroughly.”
Why, the man was actually flirting with her! She gave him a playful shove. “Not me, you fool. Doran.”
“I admire your loyalty, but if the man is ill, allow his family to see to him.”
As this was always the hardest part to explain, she felt the sting of tears. “Not ill. He’s going to die, and it is all my fault!”
“Why don’t you tell me the rest of it?” Rayne gently coaxed, sensing she was tightrope-walking across a thin wire of emotions.
Her hand shot out, a gesture of helplessness. “After Doran returned from a tour of Italy, he got it into his head that we should marry. Papa’s refusal seemed to make him more determined.”
“Do you love him?”
“How could I not? I have known him for most of my life.”
Rayne’s expression remained carefully blank as he mulled over her words. “Love has many degrees.… The kind of love you have for your brother is different from the love you have for a lover, a husband.”
“Since I have never taken a lover nor a husband, I cannot compare.” She could not understand how the discussion had disintegrated into such an improper topic. Stranger still was the fact that she felt prompted to reply.
Satisfaction gleamed in his gaze. “Sometimes lover and husband are the same man.”
If he had set out to distract her from crying, he had succeeded. Their conversation was definitely out of her element. Showing her displeasure, she squared her shoulders and made a production out of smoothing her skirts. “I appreciate hearing a surgeon’s perspective on relations,” she said with just enough tartness to have him grinning again, “However, the degree of my affection for Doran is not under consideration.”
“My observations were merely that of a man. No more, no less, Devona Lyr Bedegrayne.”
Her name was a purring caress from his lips. The sounds stroked her, making her feel hot and restless. He was dressed as fitting his station this afternoon, she noted, thinking back to all his claims that he was not a true gentleman. What was troubling to her was that she almost preferred him the way she had first met him, half-dressed and barely civil. This teasing, playfully sensual side of him made her feel that each of her nineteen years had not prepared her for a man like him. Lord Tipton was indeed a wicked man.
He held up a hand, stalling her from retorting. “All right, enough. Let’s continue. You were explaining how you are at fault.”
Since the subject was a safer course for her, she gathered her thoughts. “He never gave up on the idea of having me. While trying to prove to my father his worthiness, he fell in with a criminal element. He was arrested three weeks ago for his participation in a coining ring.”
“For most that is an automatic death sentence.”
“It is for Doran. His father has disowned him. Who would vouch for him if he cannot call upon his own family? He has no money, no friends—he will hang.”
“You feel responsible.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She was going to cry after all. “He did it for me. If he had not felt like he had to be more than he was, he would have never been driven to this crime.” She listened for a second to the people, laughing and chatting around them. “I have to do something to save him.”
“Where do I come into this scheme of yours? If you expect me to break him out, you are—”
Devona shook her head. “No. I would not ask that of you. I want you to resurrect him after they cut him down from the gallows.”
Whatever Lord Tipton had expected, it was clearly not this. Rubbing his face, he looked away. “Do you know what you are asking?”
She grabbed his hands and squeezed. “You are Le Chirurgien de la Mort. They say you have made it your life’s ambition to cheat death. You are a highly regarded surgeon; if anyone could resurrect Doran, you are the one.”
“Christ, Devona!” Rayne jerked his hands from hers, tension knotting them into fists. “You have spent too much time listening to legends in the ballroom. I may not attend those affairs, but I know what I’m called. The Refined Corpse, Death’s Surgeon, and a few other less savory sobriquets. Names. Just meaningless names made up by small-minded people for things they do not understand.”
Was she so wrong? Despair intertwined with grief, choking her. “But your work … the people you have helped. I know.”
He took her face in his hands, willing her to understand. “You are asking for a miracle. If this were fifty years ago before they started using the automatic drop, I would say his chances of surviving would have been about even. Think! His neck is going to have to support the weight of his body for fifteen minutes. I can’t help you.”
Her tears flowed over his fingers. “I will be responsible. I do not know if I can live with that.”
A horn blew in the distance. Their gazes locked, a silent battle of wills. They ignored the entertainment that was stirring up the crowd around them. He was not going to help her, she thought, her desperateness as wild as the rumble she heard in the distance, warning of the approaching storm.
Screams, surg
ing over the landscape like a tidal wave, filled the air. Everything slowed at a time when Devona would have expected speed. Their heads turned in the direction of the commotion. The crowd cleaved for a runaway chaise driven in their direction by four thundering horses. Before the danger and the horror could fully register on her face, Rayne blocked her horrific view by tackling her. The ground spun as he rolled them out of the path of those killing hooves, wood, and metal.
Time returned to its normal tempo as the horses and chaise raced over the blanket, flattening the food hamper. Devona lay tangled in Rayne’s arms, the warmth of his body barely keeping the chill she felt at bay. His hat was gone, the neat queue mussed so that one side was free, his long hair tickling her face. Both of them were breathing hard, and she could not decide if the pounding heartbeat she was feeling against her chest was his or her own.
“When I saw the horses and chaise charging toward us, I could not seem to think or move,” she whispered, her voice raspy from dust and dawning realization that the viscount’s quick reflexes had spared them from a painful death. “You saved us.”
Panting, he stared down at her, his eyes fierce and his body still battle tense. Rayne looked every bit the hardened warrior who had protected her body with his own. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him she was fine, but she could do nothing more than lie caged under him and tremble. Her lips parted to thank him and the warrior in him seized the invitation. Warm lips settled over her cool ones. Reverently, he used his mouth to reassure them both that they were alive. The first kiss was divine! Her body suffused with heat as she became keenly aware of the weight and strength of the gentleman who covered her. Devona knew she should demand that he cease the wicked liberties he was taking, but how could she resist him while his mouth coaxed and nibbled? His tongue brazenly stroked her lips, and she wanted more. She tightened her hold when she felt the ground whirl around her again.
“Release her, you bastard!”
Having nothing to do with pleasure, Devona closed her eyes and groaned into Rayne’s mouth. Abruptly he was yanked off her body. She watched him shrug off the two men who held him, his stance one of defiance and challenging confidence.
“I’m going to kill you for touching her!”
She knew that voice. Brock, finished exploring the heavens, had plummeted to earth like some arrogant golden god prepared to smite the mortal who dared to touch his little sister.
Sitting up, she threaded her fingers through her hair and pulled out a small stick. The gravity of her and Rayne’s situation was starting to hit her as she realized their near-death experience had drawn an audience. Wynne approached her, placing a shawl around her to conceal her torn sleeve. Why had she not noticed how terrible she looked? Her dress was torn, her bonnet gone, and her hair was unbound. Having been thoroughly kissed, she was certain she looked quite brazen. Wynne gave her a sympathetic hug.
Not liking the expression on her brother’s face, Devona stood. “Brock, there is no need for this.”
He did not acknowledge that he had heard her. His glare promised death and it was focused on Lord Tipton. “I demand justice for my sister.”
“A duel for a kiss?” Rayne smirked. “Can I help it if your sister keeps throwing herself at me, Bedegrayne?”
Devona heard a collective gasp from several ladies. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer. Brock was not the only one feeling provoked and someone was going to pay. A scuffle broke out between the two men. Her brother swung and clipped Rayne in the chin. She winced as she heard his neck bones crack. Rayne repaid in kind by delivering a painful blow to Brock’s kidneys. Men came forward and grabbed both budding pugilists before they could do any more damage.
Her brother struggled against the restraining embrace. “Name your choice of weapon and seconds, you devil’s piss.”
Devona jumped between them, silencing Rayne’s taunting retort with a glare. “Stop it, both of you!” She grabbed her brother by the front of his ruined coat. “You will not challenge him. In fact, you will apologize—”
“Apologize!” he exploded.
“Yes! He was not attacking me, you simpleton. He saved my life. I would have been under the wheels of a runaway chaise if he had not rolled me away from their path. What was he supposed to do, ask your permission?”
Brock was still far from appeased. “And what was he doing with your mouth, Devona? Reminding you to breathe?” He renewed his struggle, pinning Rayne with a glare. “You are a dead man.”
Rayne’s face lost the answering fury, becoming carefully blank. “You tell me nothing new, Bedegrayne.” Disgusted with all of them, he walked away.
FOUR
Rayne was surprised and disappointed that the bold Miss Bedegrayne had yet to figure out a way to contact him. If her father had any sense, he would have locked her in her room and set a guard at the door. Not that Rayne thought such high-handed tactics would discourage the lady. Still, five days had passed. There had been no notes, no seconds pounding on his door, none of the usual chaos he had come to expect from a Bedegrayne. If he didn’t know himself better, he would have had to acknowledge the edginess he was feeling as loss. Did he actually miss her? It was absurd.
It wasn’t boredom, that was certain, he concluded while covertly watching the older woman across from him. His mother. At forty-seven, Lady Jocelyn Tipton was still magnificent. Excellent bones, he thought, one side of his mouth lifting as if he had made a joke. Her once-blond hair was streaked with white and darker undertones. She had a quiet dignity that demanded respect.
She also was petrified to sit in the same room with him.
Call it perverse, but Rayne saw no reason to alleviate her fears. Some might even say he went out of the way to provoke them. If she saw her only living son as some kind of monster that needed to be shunned or killed, then who was he to deny it? True enough, he had stopped being her son years ago.
“The reasons for this visit must be fairly life threatening to abandon the safety of Foxenclover.” He avoided the family’s country estate just as fervently as she avoided London. Unfortunately, there were times neither could avoid their duty.
She met his gaze, then faltered. “We must discuss your sister, Madeleina.”
“Madam, why would I wish to discuss your daughter?” He never thought about the younger sister his mother had conceived after his so-called rebirth. It galled him to know she existed because his parents had tried to create another heir to replace him, after it was clear they had not considered him worthy of his birthright.
“She is fourteen this summer. She has been allowed to roam wild and it has given her some rather eccentric notions. I have done my best on the limited funds you provide.” Her tone sharpened despite her fear. “She needs proper guidance. A school for ladies, I think. Before long it will be time for us to think of presentation at Court.”
He shrugged carelessly, sensing the action would infuriate Lady Tipton. “She could take up snuff and wearing breeches for all I care.”
Her teacup clattered as she placed it on the table. “Care or not, the child is your sister. I will have you do right by her!”
“Polish or rough as gravel, I am certain I can find some farmer to remove her from our hands.”
Her pale complexion became a blotchy pink. “What do you think your father would say if he was alive to witness such callousness? You have permitted the country house to fall to ruin; we have been reduced to letting go most of the staff. The small stipend you send for our care goes for our food, a few dresses, and precious else. Your grandmother would be horrified by your lack of honor, sir!”
It was a barb meant to sting, and it did. “Mum accepted who I was, more so than you and my sire.” She had died four and half years after his illness, leaving a hole in him that never seemed to heal. Of them all, she had loved him best. Her death had severed his final emotional ties to the Wyman family.
“If it is your desire to punish me for all the sins of what I did and did not do, then that is your privile
ge. However, Madeleina is an innocent. She does not deserve this coldness.”
To hear his mother defend her, when there was a time he had needed her support and had received silence, had made his sweet, eccentric sister his natural enemy. “How long will you be residing in the city?”
Dry-eyed, her hate plainly visible on her face, she stiffly stood. “I am returning to Foxenclover forthwith. I can see I made this visit in vain.”
Rayne didn’t bother to reply. She thought she was disappointed. Her presence reminded him of all the grief, anger, and hatred he had not put behind. It disturbed him to discover that he was still being haunted by a fifteen-year-old incident.
“You were not the one groomed to be Viscount Tipton. However, once we lost Devlin, and your father … I thought you would find purpose in the title, something you seemed to have lost.” She started to walk toward the door, and then surprised him by stopping in front of him. “You are so removed from me, I cannot even fathom what you think of us. Are we a burden, or just an amusing instrument for revenge? Or maybe, just maybe we are a reminder that you once were human.”
“Still telling the parish that I’m the devil’s creature, Mother?” he taunted softly, the menace in his tone causing her to back up toward the door.
“Whatever you are, you are not my son. It would have been better if you had remained dead.” She turned her back and walked out of the room.
Rayne reached into a pocket, removing the small, smooth stone he liked to rub while working out his problems. It would take more than guilt to get him to change his mind about how he dealt with the Wyman family. It was their poor luck that the man they hated also controlled the family’s finances. It had to rankle his mother, and that amused him. Sadly, he had to take his joys where they landed. His thoughts drifted to Devona Bedegrayne, causing his smile to become genuine. She was the only one of late not wishing for his quick demise. He liked her spirit and her loyalty, something lacking in his own family. He ruefully shook his head, thinking what a handful she was. Rayne was also confident, if she was to be in any man’s hands, it would be his.
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 4
