“This is not very proper,” Devona said, gasping when he inched higher to her thigh.
“What is proper for society and what is proper for us are entirely different matters.” His fingers slipped within the slit of her linen undergarments, persistent, seeking, until he touched the satin curls between her legs. “You like the feel of my mouth on yours, do you not, my heart?” To prove his point, he brushed a kiss against her pouting lips, which he was beginning to crave as much as his next breath. “There are other ways to give each other pleasure. For instance—” Rayne delved deeper in the small nest of curls and was rewarded with the sweet honey of her response.
Devona sucked in her breath; a small sound escaped her well-kissed lips. “I do not— This is not— Oh, Rayne!” Her hands reached up to his head, knocking his hat off with the gesture. Gloved fingers became tangled in the tied queue, and in her eagerness to explore she gave a handful of hair a hard tug.
“Ow.”
“Sorry,” she murmured automatically, not particularly aware of the action for which she was actually apologizing. She was too caught up in the sensations his mouth and hands were creating.
Rayne did not know how long he could endure the torment. The longer he held her, touched her, kissed her senseless, the more he desired her. His erect cock pressing against the confines of his tight breeches was a constant reminder of how much he wanted to remove his hand from beneath her skirts and bury himself deep into her welcoming warmth. Using his thumb, he caressed the blooming bud of her arousal. The small circular motions made her squirm on his lap. He was not sure if she was attempting to draw closer or evade until she moaned. The low, begging sound of unfulfilled desire had him teetering over the edge of self-control more than anything before this.
“This is just a taste of what we could explore together.” He kissed her closed eyelids before pulling her tighter to him so that his mouth was close to her ear. “I could replace my hands with my mouth.” He noticed his breath was synchronized with hers, quick pants leading them to the razor edge of culmination. “After I have tasted the sweet dew of your passion with my tongue … m-my teeth.” Inspired, she sank her teeth into his earlobe. He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from abruptly releasing his seed.
Whatever he was about to say faded at the look of wonder on Devona’s face. “I feel so strange. Stop. No, wait! Oh, my God!” He kissed her deeply to muffle the scream that would have certainly been heard in a half-mile radius. She bucked against the unbridled tempest of her release. Locked in a tight embrace, he held her, the knowledge that he was the first man to ever show her such pleasures giving him a fierce satisfaction.
Devona buried her face into the fabric of his coat. She looked sleepy and exhilarated all in the same moment. “So that is what married couples do,” she murmured. Rayne placed a comforting kiss on the side of her head. “I do not see what the big fuss is about. I found the entire affair quite thrilling.” She frowned, her brows drawing up in a manner he thought adorable. “Maybe that is the problem. If all ladies knew how wonderful this was, then we all would spend our times dallying out in the gardens and carriages instead of sipping warm lemonade at a ball.”
The vibration of his silent laughter had her drawing back in question. She was so good for him. He had been feeling battered after his last meeting with Brogden. Cutting off a man’s leg tended to make him not inclined to feel friendly, even if he had once considered you a friend. Devona’s joy of life was like fresh water sinking into the barren dryness of his soul. “Before you start your own enlightenment movement for young ladies, I must confess there is more to the marriage bed than what you have just experienced.”
“You jest!”
“A humble prelude,” he said, trying to swallow the smile that threatened at her disbelief. He did not want her to think he was mocking her. It was just the opposite. His heart and a major part of his pride swelled at her notion that there could be no more beyond their initial pleasuring.
“Oh.” She paused. “Then there is no fear of me breeding?”
He did not even want to dwell on the emotions that surged at the thought of her becoming plump with their child. In his present, unsatisfied condition, he would have sold his soul to make the possibility an absolute fact. He took her small hand into his own, accepting the simple comfort her closeness offered. “You need to take me inside you to make a child. Has no one ever explained this to you?” He realized at her blush what a dolt he was. Of course not! Gently reared ladies did not sip tea and nibble on biscuits while they discussed their lustful rendezvous. What was more amazing was that she had allowed him to touch her at all!
“N-no. Not exactly.” She appeared to be shamed by the admission.
“Don’t. You slice me in two with that expression.” Rayne held her face between his rough palms. “I have spent so much time in rough company that I have forgotten how to act like a gentleman. Devona, I treasure the combination of spirit and sweet innocence. It shapes what you are. Forgive me for my crudeness?” He would never beg forgiveness for touching her. If he had his way, he would be doing more than that soon.
She leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. The carriage dipped to one side and her lips landed on his chin. “You have been rude, stubborn, and high-handed.” She kissed the insult away when he opened his mouth to protest. “You have also been kindhearted, generous, and have saved my life. A crude man? Never, my lord.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. The quiet action was telling. It meant that she trusted him. At least Rayne hoped his assessment was more than wishful thinking. In more ways than she could guess, Devona needed him. He was willing to save her childhood love, ignore Brock’s challenges and her calculating father’s disapproval. He would even endure the title of Viscount Tipton and all the burdens the rank implied, if it meant that he could keep her willingly by his side. Then again, he was just greedy enough to keep her even if she was unwilling. A determined man was a formidable one.
EIGHT
Rayne wearily sank into a large overstuffed chair. His valet, Stevens, appeared at his side and immediately began fussing about the scuff marks on his boots while he went about his task of removing them. Rayne thought the odd, slender man’s voice held the quality of a buzzing insect. It was high, persistent, and in its finest form made the recipient want to smash it into an indistinguishable smear.
“Enough.”
Stevens’s sharp angular nose went high in the air, almost sniffing the command. “My lord, you have hired me to see that you are outfitted as a gentleman. Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you could not get yourself hired on as a cook’s apprentice wearing garments as wrinkled and soiled as the ones you are wearing. Now if you will follow me upstairs, I will make certain there is a hot bath prepared and a freshly pressed dressing gown—”
“No.”
The valet had taken a few steps before he understood. “Is something amiss, milord?”
Rayne rubbed his eyes. “Only your presence. Leave me, for now. Think of the extra dust I shall pick up in my hours of solitude. It will give you something else to fret about.”
Stevens left without a word, something about which Rayne would have been surprised if the servant had acted otherwise. He paid his staff well to keep them quiet and honest, and to see to their duties with diligence. It was not his valet’s fault that Rayne was in a dark mood. The man had only been doing his job. Normally, his fussy behavior amused Rayne. Not tonight.
He had ended his day with a visit to Brogden’s bedside. The visit had not gone well. What had he expected? The man had ignored all medical advice, keeping various skilled surgeons at a distance, in the hope that his friend would save his leg. Rayne had failed him. He reached for the glass of brandy Speck had poured earlier, warming it near the hearth. He filled his mouth with the liquor, enjoying the subtle burn on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back, resting it on a strategically placed pillow.
What scorched his pride was the fear that if h
e had been better skilled he might have been able to repair Brogden’s leg. No, by the fates, he thought with a sudden fierceness, he had been correct to amputate. There had been too much gangrene. The man was fortunate not to have died from the poison. Even if Rayne had been able to scrape away all the rotten flesh, there would have been nothing left to stitch together over the bone.
“My lord, a Mr. Bedegrayne to see you. Shall I send him on his way?” Speck asked, looking like he would relish the idea of vanquishing one of the Bedegraynes and succeeding.
Rayne glanced at the ornate clock on the mantel. It was past eight in the evening, a time when men were at their clubs or escorting their women to a ball. He would have preferred to send the young, angry man away. However, Brock played a small part in his plan to gain custody of Devona. If he was fortunate, he might survive the evening without gaining an appointment for a duel.
Bedegrayne filled the doorway, his pale green eyes flashing annoyance as he entered the room, with Speck following in his hostile wake to collect his coat and hat. A most thorough servant, the man was probably searching him for hidden weapons as well. Rayne was not particularly worried that Brock would shoot him in his study, but he had lived close to the rough fringes of life to be on alert.
“Bedegrayne,” Rayne greeted him calmly enough to have the younger man visibly clenching his teeth. “So good of you to save me the trip of seeking you out.” He nodded at the chair Speck was already positioning beside him. “Take the seat, and tell me what drove you from the gaming hells so early this evening?” With a subtle hand movement he dismissed Speck’s protective tarrying. The butler silently departed.
“You can stuff your civility, Tipton. I am not as gullible as my sister.”
“Which one? Lovely Wynne or the Bedegrayne changeling, Devona?” His steepled fingers linked, then unlinked in a contemplative gesture. “The Bedegraynes breed such beautiful creatures. ’Tis a pity the sacrifice was a bit of common sense.”
Brock, still refusing to sit, rested his hand on the top of Rayne’s chair. “You surprise me, Tipton. I had assumed we would have to dance a bit before we got to the point.”
Unblinking, Rayne met his opponent’s gaze. “You have developed some eccentric tastes if you think I’d prefer dancing with you.” He almost grinned at the barely contained growl Brock swallowed. He admired the restraint. It gave him some hope the young man had not been completely corrupted by the group of deviants he preferred.
“Since you respect the direct approach, how’s this?” A concealed blade slid from his left coat sleeve, landing efficiently into his hand. The razor-sharp edge hovered dangerously close to Rayne’s throat.
One side of his mouth lifted into a parody of a smile. Speck was losing his touch in his old age to have missed the knife. For a man facing imminent death, Rayne did not appear overly concerned. “It seems you have the advantage. The real question is, will you lose it?”
A lock of blond hair fell across Brock’s face, giving him a rakish look. His angular features were drawn tight, and the hint of sweat on his forehead revealed that he was aware he was playing a game with stakes beyond his means. “You have mocked me and my family. You toy with my sister’s affections. Do you think anyone would cry foul if I just slit your throat? I would probably be the toast of the Season.”
“You are most likely correct.” Rayne mentally measured the length of the blade and the slim distance between his throat and the deadly point. “I think the only soul who would hate you for your deed would be Devona.”
Brock sneered. “She is too innocent to understand the minds of men.”
“You think?” he countered, taunting. “I guess it is the failing of older brothers to not comprehend that even sisters have unfulfilled desires.”
“You touched her.” The words were stark. Brock was feeling the full impact of his failure to protect his sister from the ton’s fiend.
“I think men in general underestimate the alluring passion women keep bound up within them like firmly tied stays. Take Devona—”
Brock’s hand jerked, leaving a small bloody nick. “Obviously, you did, you callous bastard!”
The cut was negligible, but the young Bedegrayne was on the verge of having a stroke. Rayne decided to help him along. “A man would never ask for a more sweeter, responsive woman in his bed. The taste of her was as addictive as honey.”
The last of Brock’s self-control snapped. Red-faced with fury, he pulled the knife back to strike the fatal blow. The slight movement was all Rayne needed. His movements were as precise as a metronome. He grabbed Brock’s wrist in a viselike grip, kicked his leg out, and knocked his opponent to his knees.
Sweat beaded on both their brows as they continued the silent struggle to gain control of the knife. Rayne surprised him by ramming the hilt of the blade upward into Brock’s forehead. The burst of pain was enough to stun him. Rayne took the advantage and forced Brock’s arm down. The blade slammed harmlessly into the padding of the chair.
“Devil take it, this is my favorite chair.”
Livid, Brock struggled against the firm grip on his wrist. “You lament over your damn chair, after what you did to my sister?”
Rayne gave Bedegrayne’s wrist enough of a twist to have him wincing. He would have never resorted to such trickery if this family were a more agreeable clan. “What exactly do you think was done to your sister?”
“You bedded her!”
“A gentleman never tells, but then again, I’ve never been much of a gentleman.” He gave Bedegrayne a wolfish grin. “If I had bedded your sister, she would still be there and you and I would not be wrestling on the floor.” Just because he could, Rayne gave the younger man’s wrist another bone-wrenching twist before he released it. “You should be ashamed to think so little of Devona. She is a generous, loving, beautiful lady. I am amazed you two are kin.”
Brock eyed him warily, not certain how to proceed. “You are not her lover?”
“No.” Rayne walked over to the table and poured two very generous brandies. He returned to Bedegrayne’s side and handed him a snifter. “But you haven’t posed the correct question. What you want to know is, did I touch her?”
“There’s a difference?” Brock grudgingly accepted the glass with his uninjured hand.
“If you have to ask, then I would say your experience with the fair sex is nonexistent,” Rayne mocked, leaning against the chair. He privately wondered if he should remove the protruding knife from the chair before Brock got it in his head to gut him.
Remarkably, Brock did not rise to the baiting. Instead, he rolled to his feet with a cautious movement that had Rayne sympathizing. Almost. “I am giving up trying to figure you out, Tipton. You said that you had planned to seek me out. What were your intentions? Or is provoking me just a recently discovered amusement?”
Rayne offered him the opposing chair as if they had not been fighting for their lives just minutes ago. “Any enjoyment I receive is incidental. What I need from you is your tenacity. In my favor this time.”
Brock sat, keeping his injured knee straight. “Why would I want to help you?”
“Because it is in your best interest to see that Devona is married off. Who better than I?”
“Oh, I can list a score of men who would make a proper husband for our Dev, more so than the notorious Le Cadavre Raffiné,” he said defiantly.
Rayne propped his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward. “Would these same men accept her if word got out that she was my woman?” He knew the answer; he just wanted to hear the words from Bedegrayne.
“You told me you had never bedded her!”
“This is the best part, Bedegrayne. Whether it is true or not is not significant.” He gave him a smug smile. “Regardless, she is mine. All I have to do is say so. There have been enough witnesses to put us together. The gossips will have her bedded to me before you can meet me on an abandoned dawn field.” Brock viewed him as an adversary. He was also counting on Rayne being a smart one.<
br />
“Damn,” Brock mumbled, his posture slouched in defeat. “What do you want me to do?”
Approval beamed through Rayne’s gaze. His new brother by marriage was not a complete arse, after all. “To do what you do best. Be a stubborn bastard.”
* * *
Tea was served in the green and gold Worcester tea service. It had been in the family for several decades. It was also one of Devona’s particular favorites. She needed something to keep up her spirits, since her fellow conspirators appeared less than enthusiastic to be joining her in the small parlor.
Pearl had positioned herself at the window, peering out through the small opening in the curtains. Her nervous gestures and observations of doom were wearing on someone of Devona’s temperament. Unfortunately, she needed the irritating woman. Wynne, in contrast, sat calmly beside Doran’s sister, Amara. She offered a plate of biscuits to the quiet young woman and was politely rejected.
Inviting Amara had been impulsive but necessary. She was similar in height to Devona; her shoulders seemed unnaturally bowed from the continuous battering she took for being Lady Claeg’s disappointing daughter. Her brown hair was gathered tightly into a bun in the back. The serviceable gray dress made her appear sickly. Devona wondered if the woman’s hair had the tendency to curl like her brother’s. As she gave Amara a measuring stare, Devona’s assessment was quick. A little clipping and curling to frame her fragile heart-shaped face, a hint of color to draw attention to her stormy dark blue eyes, some new fashionable dresses and Miss Claeg would be enchanting.
Amara, uncomfortable with being the center of attention, sipped from her cup to hide her distress. Without looking directly at Devona, she asked, “I am still not certain why I am here today, Miss Bedegrayne.”
Devona tried not to sigh. Obviously, Amara had every intention to keep their friendship at a distance. “Devona, please. And I shall call you Amara. It is such a beautiful name, do you not agree, Wynne?” She shot her sister a comply-or-else glare.
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 10