A blissful calm eased into his being. The tempestuous whirlwind of lust that had been tearing at him since he had first met her had abated. But not for long. He grinned to himself. Rayne eased out of her. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. She curled up at his side, resting her head on the curve of his shoulder. Neither spoke. Words were not needed. His arm secured her to his side, a blatant act of possession. Listening to the lulling drone of insects outdoors, he fell asleep.
* * *
Devona retied the bow on her bonnet for the twelfth time in the last two hours. This was their second day in the coach. Although she had yet to issue a complaint, she felt she would go mad from the boredom. Tipton, preoccupied with his own thoughts, had silently stared out the coach’s window. Each hour that brought them closer to his family estate, Foxenclover, the more dour his visage had become.
She knew nothing of his family. Tipton was rather closemouthed about the subject. If the rumors were true, his grandmother had died of heart failure the minute she laid eyes on him. Not long after, the Wymans tossed their second son off the family lands. His infamous resurrection had terrified the parish, and what could a family do but side with public opinion? Her mouth quirked into a mischievous grin. She would wager her monthly allowance that Tipton had enjoyed tormenting the entire lot.
“What are you plotting, love?”
She kicked at him playfully. “Why does everyone I know assume I spend my hours scheming mischief?”
“Because you are entirely too good at it.”
“I cannot decide if I am being complimented or insulted,” she said, plucking at the ribbons of her bonnet again.
Rayne reached over and tugged the ribbons himself. “Stop fussing. I am not bringing you to Foxenclover so my mother can criticize your attire.” He removed the bonnet from her head before she could stop him.
Assuming she could put herself back together later, she did not bother to argue. “Why are we going to your country estate?”
“I doubt anyone would find it unusual that I would like to show my new bride off to my family.”
The explanation was reasonable. Too bad for him she did not believe one word of it. “I am not staff, Tipton. I am your wife. I think you owe me the truth. Everyone knows you despise your family for the way they treated you.”
He gave her a considering look. “Listening to rumors again?”
“Only when no one will give me the truth,” she said through clenched teeth.
Rayne rubbed his jaw, resuming his vigil at the window. “I should warn you that our presence will be resented. I will do my best to protect you from my mother’s tongue.”
“If this visit will bring out the worst in all parties, why are we bothering? Tell the driver to take us back to London.”
“So soon after our marriage,” he mocked. “They will say I could not tame the Bedegrayne flame.” His gaze ignited as it always did when he spoke of bedding her.
“Oh.” She glanced away, trying to quell her own body’s response. She had learned in these early days of their marriage that there was little about her that did not stir her husband to passion. “Then choose another destination.”
“Foxenclover is mine. I will not be run off.”
He watched her in his intense fashion. It no longer made her uncomfortable. What she had once mistaken for intimidation was simply his way of focusing on his objective. He had wanted her from the beginning, just as he wanted her now. She had been too inexperienced to understand.
“I want you.”
She checked the trapdoor above to make certain it was secure. “Here? I do not think so.” She laughed, encouraging him to share in the jest.
He lifted her feet to his lap and efficiently removed her slippers. “Not much space,” he spoke in a conversational manner, “but I think our creativity will compensate.” His hand glided up her stockings to her thigh.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Too sore?”
“No.” She was, but she refused to discuss the subject.
His smile was reckless, as he worked her stockings downward. “Ah, a challenge. I promise you will not be disappointed.”
True to his word, he saw to it that she was not.
TWELVE
By the time they were three miles from Foxenclover, Devona had managed to tidy up her appearance. The bonnet he had plucked from her head was firmly in place. If her cheeks were slightly flushed, she could always blame the confinement of the closed coach.
“No one will ever suspect you were ravished,” Rayne assured her, growing more amused by her fussy behavior. “I told you, my mother is the one who must please you. Not the other way around.”
Devona wrinkled her nose in exasperation. “She is your mother, Tipton.” As if that explained everything.
“I mean it, Devona. If my mother or sister says anything upsetting, you are to tell me immediately.”
She stilled. “You have a sister? You never mention her.”
“You make it sound like I have been hiding a mistress from you.” He did not understand why a man had to dissect his life for all to behold.
“Do you?”
“What?”
Devona licked her lower lip. The automatic habit had him wishing they had more time alone. He could still taste her on his lips. “A mistress, you dense man!” she said, her words barely audible over the roar of the blood in his ears.
“I would not worry about me stashing a greedy light-skirt or two.”
“Two!”
He went on as if she had not screeched at him. “If all I was after was a quick tumble, I would not have gone to the trouble of luring you into marriage. No,” he continued, privately glad she had not thought to plant her foot into his vitals, “I can see that keeping you satisfied will expend all my energies.”
She looked far from pleased by his admission. “You should have mentioned your sister.”
“Why? She is a child. It is not unusual for an older sibling to be disinterested. How close are you to—what’s the name of your other brother? The one traveling.” He did not bother to remind her that her family had tried and failed to protect her when Le Cadavre Raffiné had set his sights on her. It was better for him if she believed that she had had a choice in the matter.
Her expression grew more insolent. “Nyle. My brothers are grown men. When they are abroad they still remember us by sending letters. Can you say the same?”
He could not, so he disregarded the question. “Do not concern yourself with my relationship with my sister. I don’t.” Sensing that Devona was sizing up his sister’s plight as that of another Doran Claeg in need of liberation, he sought to distract her. “Look out the window. Foxenclover should be coming up on your left.”
The search quieted her arguments as he had hoped it would. Her enthusiasm, sometimes childlike, but nonetheless honest, stirred a discontented humor within him. He could not remember having such naïve feelings, even when he was a child. Still, watching her practically hanging out the window, he wondered if the lack had been bred or drilled into him.
“Rayne, this must be your Foxenclover.” She glanced back at him, her eyes bright with animation and excitement. “It looks old.”
Giving in to the urgency to hold her, he pulled her into his lap. His hand splayed across her abdomen, holding her in place while he gestured to the window. “See there.” He pointed to a wall and part of the foundation. “That’s all that remains of the original house. It burned to the ground around 1697. My grandmother said that it was in protest to William and Mary’s clever window tax.”
“What do you believe?”
“That my infamous ancestor was mad.” He toyed with the swinging earring in her right lobe. “I hope I have not given you reason to fear having my children. Most likely the Wymans have bred out that tainted blood by now.” His hand tightened on her abdomen. She could be carrying his heir at this very moment. The fierce elation made him feel light-headed.
“Oh, if your ancestor was r
esponsible, I am certain he had a very good reason.”
Already, her loyalty was switching to him. The unidentified emotion twisting his heart lessened. “Maybe he hated the house. The tax was just an excuse to get rid of it. I doubt the family will ever know.” He shrugged, not particularly caring to probe his ancestor’s dark secrets. “Whatever his incentive, he was caught up in the Palladian fever that overtook the time. I cannot recall the fellow’s name, but he was a disciple of Burlington’s.”
The coach slowed, finally halting in the yard. Only one man approached the new arrivals to see to the horses. Rayne opened the door himself and climbed down. Scanning the yard, he compared the Foxenclover in his mind to the neglected estate he saw before him. This had been what he wanted. The fifteen-year-old who had walked away from his family had wanted to see the lands fall to ruin. He waited for the rush of satisfaction to wash over him. He felt nothing. Nothing at all.
“Tipton. A hand, if you please.” Devona’s voice startled him from his frozen musings. He turned to help her down from the coach.
“I rarely visit here.” The flash of shame came out of nowhere. Exposing Devona to this ugliness was like showing her the deformity of his soul. The downfall of Foxenclover was his revenge and his mother’s prison. Rayne wondered what his optimistic wife would do if she understood the full extent of his hatred. Maybe the madness pumped through his veins after all.
“Hello!” a cheerful feminine voice called out. The approaching woman, who, judging from her appearance, was most likely the housekeeper, waved. “Where are you folks from?”
Before Devona could reply, Rayne crisply replied, “I am Tipton. Kindly inform my mother of my arrival.”
The housekeeper halted her stride so suddenly that she skidded a few inches. “Ah, sir, Lord Tipton. It is a pleasure to have you visit.” She cast a worried glance at Devona. “I will tell Her Ladyship of your presence.” She all but ran into the house.
“Really, Tipton,” Devona chastised behind him. “What purpose does it serve to scare that poor woman half to death?”
“The fact that I can do it,” he replied, aware that his answer would starch up her spine. “Let’s go see who else I can intimidate.”
Entering the front hall, he noted it was clean and extremely bare. His mother, not pleased with her pauper state, must have been selling off the statuary, paintings, and furniture that had once adorned the hall.
“It is quite … large.”
The observation made him smile. It was so Devona. “It looks like it could use some furniture, maybe a few objets d’art. Thievery in the country has become astonishingly bold.”
“I do not perceive this as a problem of boldness, but rather a lack of attentiveness. Particularly yours,” his mother announced from the open doorway to their right. “I was about to have some refreshments. You both may join me.” She retreated into the room, leaving them no choice but to follow her.
“Your mother?” Devona inquired softly.
“Too cheeky to be anyone else. Come, we might as well get this finished.” Rayne crooked his arm and she accepted his silent offer by placing her hand on his arm. They walked side by side to the morning room, presenting a united front. For the first time, he would not be confronting his mother alone.
The room they entered was plainly his mother’s domain. The cream-colored paint appeared fresh, and stenciled flower and vine panels accented the walls. The floor was bare wood, but it was scrubbed. His grandmother’s favorite Indian rug had a place of honor in front of the hearth. He could not conceal the cynical smirk on his face as they passed an Adams pedestal showing off a black basaltware urn. The Dowager Lady Tipton held on to the items that mattered to her and cast aside the ones that did not. His gaze flickered to the finely displayed Wedgwood. Well, it was simple to figure out where she had allocated him.
“I did not know you had a mistress, Rayne. And I cannot fathom why you would bring her here.” His mother sniffed as if breathing the same air as them would cause her harm.
He felt Devona’s muscles tense, preparing for retaliation. He held her in place, not sure how she would react to his mother’s casual insult. His mother had the instinct to judge her enemy and attack the weakest. At least he knew he came by his own gift for ruthlessness honestly.
“Madam, this house and land belong to me. I may do whatever I like. Sadly, you cannot say the same.”
Eyes, a weary and older version of his own, narrowed. “I will not sit here and allow you to flaunt your whore in front of me. Not in front of Madeleina. Leave this house.”
“Lady Tipton”—Devona stepped forward before Rayne could tell his mother what he thought of her mandate—“there has been a misunderstanding that I would like to rectify before one of you says something you will regret.”
The older woman exhaled a harsh sound that could have been laughter. “I have never regretted anything I have ever said.”
Devona moved away from Rayne and sat on the sofa beside his mother. “That is just pride speaking.” She glanced at her husband. “Something I am certain you both have in common.”
“Rayne, this is utterly priceless. A philosophical highflyer. Wherever did you find this creature?” she asked, her false interest tainted by sarcasm.
“Enough!” Rayne shouted, his temper slipping its leash. “If you show nothing less than the proper respect due my wife, you and your daughter will find yourselves living in a cottage so small that you will have to entertain outdoors. Do I make myself clear?”
“So typical, Tipton.” Devona’s disapproval was a tangible wave that rose and crashed against his anger. “Only you could turn a simple wedding announcement into a threat!”
The cup and saucer in his mother’s hands rattled. She carefully returned them to the cart. “Marriage. You married your mistress?”
“Miss Devona Bedegrayne was never any man’s mistress. To insinuate otherwise will risk my displeasure. Poke at me if you must, but keep away from my wife.”
His mother seemed to physically deflate before them. Her lips trembled as she tried to find her balance. “Why are you here? Certainly not for my blessing!”
Misunderstanding his mother’s distress and bitterness, Devona tried once again to salvage their first meeting. “Eloping the way we did, there was no time to get the families together—”
The announcement seemed to shock Jocelyn back into her old self. “You eloped to Gretna Green? Now it all makes sense. What did you do, Rayne? Spawn a bastard in her belly so her family had no choice but to sacrifice her to Le Cadavre Raffiné?”
Devona’s hands clutched her reticule so tightly her fingers were white. She abruptly stood. “I do not care who you are. You have no right to speak of Rayne in that manner. Your son is an intelligent, wonderfully kind man. I married him quite willingly. I can only assume he received his character from his father, since I have never met such a mean-spirited creature, with the mothering instinct of a snake!”
“Devona.” Rayne tried to draw her away from his mother.
His mother, never one to place herself at a disadvantage, rose from her seat. “Legal or not, my opinion of your lady has not been swayed. You and your whore may leave this house at once!”
Rayne’s foot shot out, kicking the cart over, shattering his mother’s favorite tea set into fragments. The sound brought the housekeeper scurrying into the room.
“I heard a horrible noise,” the servant began, looking about the room until her gaze settled on the overturned cart. “Oh, madam, not the Worcester?”
Rayne answered, since he finally had managed to silence his mother’s rabid tongue. “Regrettably so, Miss…?”
“Mrs., my lord. Mrs. Poole.” Feeling unclear about where her loyalties lay, she cast a quick peek at her mistress. She found no reassurance. Her mistress’s attention was focused on the broken porcelain.
“Well, Mrs. Poole, I assume from the appearance of this room that you are a good housekeeper.”
“I know my job, sir!” she
defended herself.
“It is always rewarding to see the efficient results of the wages I pay out to Foxenclover,” he remarked, leading Devona to the door. She still looked furious. He figured she was biting a hole through her tongue to keep mute. Soon he would be able to comfort her and have her out of hearing range. “Our rooms are prepared, Mrs. Poole?”
“Yes, indeed, sir. If you and your missus would follow me.”
While Devona followed the eager Mrs. Poole, Rayne made the point of quietly closing the door on his mother.
* * *
Devona savagely tore off her gloves and threw them on the table. Lobcock! She had heard the rumors, had seen the way Tipton’s face became shuttered at the mention of his family. What had she done? Attacked his mother! Frustrated and angry, Devona was already doing her best to destroy the knotted ribbons on her bonnet when Rayne strolled into the room.
While her eyes were burning with useless tears, she tugged on the knotted ribbon until it snapped. There, now even her pretty bonnet was ruined! Misery overtook the ire that had ridden on her back since she had first entered the morning room, causing her to all but collapse into a chair.
“I ruined my bonnet,” she said, the tears she had been fighting back running down her cheeks.
He gently removed the bonnet from her head and placed it on the table. “I’ll buy you a dozen to replace it.” Kneeling on his haunches, he stroked the top of her hand.
She used her free hand to wipe away the tears. “Forgive me. I do not know why I am crying.”
“Don’t you?” His eyes narrowed, an unsettling reminder of his mother. “I thought your reasons quite appropriate. You have just discovered your husband’s mother is a horrid, unpleasant bitch,” he said calmly, as if announcing the weather.
“Tipton!” She choked, thinking how strange it was to want to laugh at such a distressing time.
“You see? No more tears. Speaking the truth is always liberating.” He moved away, seeming restless. “Do you want me to help you undress? No one would scold you for wanting a nap.”
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 16
