The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton

by Barbara Pierce

  She had been surprised that Brock would have dared to approach her at the funeral. He had held her arm, his handsome face weary and full of concern. It embarrassed her still that in an unguarded moment she had told him of her mother’s wrath, of her ruined hair. She touched what was left of her long tresses. The length of it hung two inches from her ears. If the housekeeper had not entered the room when she had, Amara was certain she would have been sheared to the scalp. What her mother could not control she destroyed.

  A puff of wind made Amara turn toward the window. She took an involuntary step back at the shadowed figure of a man. “Brock?” she asked in a strangled whisper.

  “If this is the manner in which Bedegrayne does his courting, I am surprised no outraged father has ever thrust a sword through his heart.” Lord Tipton stepped closer into the small circle of light from her wavering candle.

  She felt a rush of heat, more for thinking Brock Bedegrayne would ever come to her in the night than facing Tipton in her nightclothes. “Forgive me, Lord Tipton, I never receive visitors in my bedchamber, let alone undressed.” Amara walked to the table, recalling there was a small knife in the drawer. She would defend herself if he approached her. “Just so you know. Mr. Bedegrayne has neither called upon me by day or night. I do not know why I thought…” She rested against the drawer. Behind her back she fingered the handle.

  Her expression must have given her away. He gave her a gentle smile she had thought him incapable of and sat in a nearby chair. “Take the weapon out if it gives you comfort, Miss Claeg. I have no interest in your jewelry or have intentions of seduction. I bring you news.”

  Deciding her tiny weapon would do little to deter a determined Lord Tipton, she pulled the chair she had placed near her bed closer to his side. “I have heard you prefer to follow your own rules. However, calling on a lady in the middle of the night seems peculiar even for you.”

  “Why does Bedegrayne call you a dove? With the tartness in your tone I think of something with a little bit more claw, like a hawk.”

  Amara did not answer the question. She doubted His Lordship came to discuss Brock’s predilection for childish pet names. “You say you bring news?”

  Tipton hesitated. “I hope I have not judged you incorrectly, Amara. What I am about to tell you will put someone’s life at risk.”

  “Really?” She could not think of why he felt the need to share such knowledge with her. Unless this did have something to do with Brock. She could not ask. To do so would reveal her feelings to a man who she suspected knew exactly how to manipulate people, using their secrets. “The only person I ever cared about was buried today. I do not see how your news could affect me.”

  “You did not bury him.”

  Her mouth parted in horror. This man was a surgeon. He probably knew his fair share of resurrection men. “Has someone sold you Doran’s corpse?”

  “Come now,” he snapped, his body rigid as if prepared to spring. “Don’t faint on me, Amara. No one sold me his corpse,” he said, smiling at some hidden joke. “I did, nevertheless, take possession of his body.”

  “You speak in riddles, my lord.”

  “Doran did not die of a seizure. We only gave the guards a show so I could buy his corpse for my dissecting table.”

  The room reeled as she searched for her equilibrium. “Doran. He’s alive.” She could hardly bear to believe it, fearing it was a cruel lie.

  “Yes, and presently on a ship sailing…” He paused. “I think it’s wise that I keep that information to myself. I did promise Claeg that I would approach you when it was safe to do so and tell you not to grieve for him. He is satisfied with his choice.”

  Amara closed her eyes and the tears she was holding fell down her cheeks. “Will I ever see him again?”

  Tipton frowned. “It will never be safe for him to return to England.”

  “I understand.” Doran was alive, yet she was still alone. She, too, would have to be satisfied. “You risked much to tell me this. You have my thanks.”

  Not used to anyone’s gratitude, he shrugged it off. “I keep my promises. I am leaving town and do not know when I will return. I did not think it fair for you to suffer in my absence.”

  Amara suddenly felt lighter. She had not known the weight of her grief until it was lifted. “I cannot believe you would leave Devona unattended for long.” She had not been so caught up in her own troubles not to have noticed how the two of them had looked at each other.

  Tipton gave her a rueful grin, reminding him that hidden in the shadows of his soul there was a man. One who felt, and maybe even loved. “After this night, I shall never leave Devona alone. I have applied for the post as her personal keeper.”

  * * *

  Devona stood aside, waiting for the servants to carry in her trunks. Her hand squeezed her reticule. Within it, she held the certificate of her marriage. Her debt to Tipton had been paid. She was a married woman. A wistful longing twisted her heart. A hasty flight to Scotland had not been spun from girlish dreams. None of it seemed real without having her family by her side.

  With Devona dressed in a light blue dress and her sister’s new bonnet, which Wynne had insisted she keep, the ceremony had been quiet and swift. The parson’s wife and the cook had been their witnesses.

  Devona held her hand in the light so she could admire the ring Rayne had given her. The setting held two bloodred rubies, just like two hearts, she thought, her romantic inclinations showing. Inside there had been an inscription. Forever, I am thine. If she had not made the deal with Tipton she would have considered the sentiment romantic. A wry grin revealed a dimple on her right cheek. Knowing her new husband, she realized the inscription was a reminder that she would never be free of him. The inscription proved something she had suspected on their journey north. It was proof that their sudden marriage had been under his direction for some time. She was not certain if she was pleased or frightened at the precision of the execution.

  “Best wishes, mum.” The departing men tugged on their caps and left the room.

  She gazed about the room, wondering what she should do. She and Rayne would only be staying the night. The room was sparsely decorated, the prominent piece of furniture being the bed. Many couples quickly married, then moved upstairs to consummate their marriage before the pursuing family could separate the newly married couple. There was little the family could do to annul the marriage if the bride could already be carrying her husband’s child.

  Devona doubted her family was rushing north to save her from Tipton. Papa may have been reluctant to offer his blessing to the match, but strangely, Brock had supported her decision. To her relief, her brother had ceased issuing those ridiculous challenges to Tipton. Wynne also had seemed genuinely happy for her. As for Irene and Nyle, they would follow their father’s decree.

  Devona’s husband entered the room. Had she thought this room large? Standing in front of him, the two of them alone for the first time since they had spoken their vows, she felt the walls closing in on her.

  “Do you have everything you need?” he asked. The simple task of removing his hat and setting it aside sent a wave of anticipation from head to toe.

  “More than enough for one night.” Rayne. She wanted to say his name aloud. She was his wife. There were no social barriers to distance them anymore. Only the pact they had made.

  “I will save your precious Claeg if you are willing to pay the price.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You, Miss Bedegrayne. Just you.”

  He gave her a questioning look as if expecting her to say more. When she remained silent, he glanced at the room. “Not exactly up to your standards, is it?”

  Devona had not considered that he would be bothered by the accommodations. She was not a world traveler, but she possessed enough sense to accept that if she wanted to surround herself in luxuries she should have remained at home.

  “We have a bed and the sheets appear clean. As for food?”

  His g
aze strayed to the bed. “I spoke with the innkeeper. They will provide us supper and warm water to wash, if you choose.”

  Although she welcomed the idea of washing the grime of their journey from her face, she wondered how she was supposed to accomplish the personal task with a husband around. He did not expect to watch? Her eyes widened at the scandalous thought. She cursed herself for not consulting her sister Irene about what one does with a husband.

  He must have sensed her distress. Uncertain of its cause, he rubbed his thumb against her chin. “Devona?”

  Lowering her lashes, to hide her response to his caress, she whispered, “Supper and w-water. Fine.”

  “Ah.” He exhaled, drawing her rigid stance into his embrace. He pressed a kiss onto the bonnet she had yet to remove. “You are nervous, Wife?”

  “I have never been married before, my lord,” she replied, her voice muffled since he had pressed her face into his chest.

  “Devona, do you remember how you felt when I touched you in the carriage that day?”

  She was glad he could not see her blush. “Yes.” The warmth she felt was not on her face as she expected, but rather it was lower, deep within her.

  “That was only the beginning of our exploration.”

  She drew back, eager to see his face. “Will we—do you expect—you will make me your wife tonight?”

  “Of that I have no doubt, my love.” He laughed and gave her a tight squeeze before releasing her.

  Seeing that he was prepared to stay within their room for the evening, she reached up to untie the bow under her chin. “We do not have to do this. My family will not contest our marriage.” She did not underestimate her family’s determination to remove her from Tipton’s custody if they had been against them, whatever deal between them be damned.

  Rayne glanced out the window before drawing the curtains. “I am not bedding you because I fear your family, Devona.” He sent her a look that turned the warmth in her stomach into a bubbling cauldron. “My motives are completely selfish,” he added.

  * * *

  Another ball was being given for the amusement of the ton. More music, more dancing, another hostess praying her efforts had made her the success of the Season. To walk through the crowded ballroom no one would ever guess the anger that was being hidden behind the smiles.

  Word of Tipton’s romantic flight to Scotland to marry the reckless Miss Devona Bedegrayne was the talk within the intimate circles. Some wondered if Miss Bedegrayne had been kidnapped, another ravished victim of the fiend. However, her family was supporting the match. Even hotheaded Brock Bedegrayne could not be counted on to put a ball into Tipton’s beating heart.

  The thought of Tipton touching her caused one to grieve and plot revenge, another to pray that she was mauled for daring to rut with the resurrected demon. Two angry, tormented individuals who unbeknownst to themselves were united in purpose. No one knew that behind the laughter each prayed for retribution and death.

  ELEVEN

  Their wedding supper had not turned into the private affair Rayne had imagined. When the innkeeper’s wife learned of their recent marriage, she had insisted that they celebrate with the other guests. The cook had taken special care, Rayne had been told by the innkeeper’s wife, since there would be three newly married couples sharing a meal. They had supped on duck soup, trout pie, vegetable pudding, baked custards, and various fruits. For Rayne, he might as well have dined on bread and broth, for his appetite was of a carnal nature.

  He leaned back in his chair, quietly sipping bramble wine and admiring his wife. “Wife.” He liked the ring of permanence of the word. He thought her most beautiful this night. She had changed her dress, the color reminding him of a tropical lagoon he had once seen. She had tamed her tresses into several fat curls, which were pinned in place and framed with a matching band of fabric. Devona must have sensed his perusal, for she halted in midsentence and glanced in his direction. She gave him a hesitant smile, then returned to her conversation.

  He had wondered if she would change her mind about marrying him once Doran was secure and beyond his reach. Not that it would have mattered much. Whether it was by scandal or by duty, he had intended to have her. Too distracted by his own fears, he had forgotten that Devona was a righteous creature. If she gave her word, then she kept it. No matter the price. Doran Claeg was a fine example of the extremes his wife would go to to keep her word.

  Rayne scowled. Perverse as it might be, he wanted more than duty warming his bed. Although she was innocent, he sensed the passion in his young bride. Everything she did vibrated with it. He did not consider himself so removed from society not to have recognized desire and curiosity in her gaze.

  Warily, she glanced in his direction. Rayne realized he was glaring at her, and tried to keep an expression of bored tolerance on his face. Inept idiot, he mentally chastised himself. One minute he was looking at her as though he could ravish her on the table in front of one and all; then the next he was scowling at her like she did not meet his approval.

  Hell of a way to seduce your bride, ol’ man! Brogden’s strong, clear opinion intruded into his private thoughts. He could almost hear the man’s laughter all the way from London at his clumsy handling of his wife.

  * * *

  “Here, let me help you,” Devona offered the servant, taking an edge of the oilcloth and helping her smooth it across the floor. The maid had arrived with two buckets of tepid water for Devona’s sponge bath. She sent Tipton a nervous glance. The action was becoming habit lately. He sat in a chair; the tome he was holding had held his interest for the last thirty minutes.

  Devona did not believe it for an instant.

  Tipton had generously procured her a bath, but he was not leaving. She might be new to life as a married woman; still she could not imagine any woman bathing in front of a man.

  “Right and tight, mum,” the maid cheerfully said, oblivious to the tension radiating from Devona. “You’d be needing my help, mum?”

  “Ah, yes!” Devona did not care if she did sound pathetically grateful for the woman’s assistance. Perhaps between the two of them, they could figure out a way to conceal—

  “No.”

  Eyes wide, Devona snapped her head in the direction of her husband’s succinct reply. He stood. The forgotten book was still clutched in his left hand.

  “I will see to my lady this night.”

  The maid accepted her dismissal with an understanding nod. “You got yerself a fine gent, mum.” She lifted one of the buckets and poured some water into the washbasin. “Makes me think of me own wedding nights.”

  “Nights,” Devona echoed, the grip she had on her skirts turning her knuckles white.

  “All three of them.” The maid winked at her. With a nod to Tipton she slipped through the door, leaving Devona to her own fate.

  For someone who found herself rarely searching for conversation, she was at a loss as to what to say to her husband. She went to the towel horse and adjusted the towels she would use after her sponge bath. Devona nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt the touch of his fingers on her shoulders.

  “This isn’t an execution, Devona,” he teased, turning her around so they were face-to-face.

  “I know,” she said, feeling ridiculous that she was about to succumb to a fit of vapors if she did not settle herself. “It is just that…” How was she to say it?

  He playfully wrapped one of her curls around his finger, subsequently releasing it. “What, Wife?” he coaxed.

  “You have to leave!” she blurted out, and then quickly realized it was not the correct thing to say to one’s husband on his wedding night. She had made a muddle of it, she thought, closing her eyes so she did not have to see the pain and anger reflected in his.

  “Doubts, Devona?” Tipton silkily asked. “We had a deal.”

  That damnable deal! How humiliating it was to know she had secured a husband by an exchange of favors instead of hearts. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He was such a
beautiful man. His hair had always fascinated her. She dearly wished she could stroke and revel in the thick silkiness of it.

  If he had courted her and proposed to her in a normal fashion, she would have been honored to accept. As she stood before him, the reality was that beauty without heart was soulless. Could he ever think of her as more than just an amusement or something he claimed like the winnings from a gaming table?

  “My lord, my word is as binding as your own.”

  He gave her a mocking smirk. “Obviously not.”

  He was going to make her say it aloud. A tear slid down her cheek. “I gave you a promise.” Anger gave strength to her voice. “Mayhap you are the one who wishes to annul our vows.”

  He reached for her again, threading and locking his fingers through her hair at the back. Pulling her closer, he leaned closer so that their noses were inches apart. “A man would never challenge my word. You risk much, little wife. Have you forgotten that now I have the power to beat you for your cheek?”

  Considering their present conversation, she could not believe all she wanted to do was close the gap between her and him and kiss him. It was too wanton. And amusing. The man speaks of beatings and all she could think about was feeling his warm lips nibbling at her throat.

  “Did I say something to amuse you?” His eyes had heated to their pewter hue.

  “Ah, no, my lord. It’s just that I—” She wriggled out of his grasp, pulling away before she did something foolish like actually kissing him. “I want you to leave so I can take my bath. Even a thickheaded male should understand that a woman needs to do such things in private!” Her tone might have been frosty, but her cheeks were burning hot.

  He laughed. The man truly dared to laugh at her misery. Her eyes narrowed as they searched for something light enough to handle yet heavy enough to give him a good headache. He grabbed her arm when she stalked past him.