“Your mother will think I am in hiding.”
“A clever tactician understands a well-planned retreat. Something tells me the new dowager needs to rethink her plan of attack.”
She did not like the smug expression she saw. He was too pleased at the notion of upsetting his mother. “Why are we here, Tipton?” she asked, the edge back in her tone.
The question did not appear to surprise him. “I explained it to you earlier.”
She gave him a queen-to-peasant glare that would have made Wynne applaud. “I heard what you wanted me to believe. I want the truth. After all, it is so liberating,” she drawled.
“Devona, what reason can I offer when you have already decided on the words you want to hear?” He pulled her into his arms. “Forget the nap,” he murmured, her body reacting to his husky demand. “We are alone and we have a bed. Guess what truth I want to explore?”
She did not have to guess. The outline of his erection was visible proof. The thought of undoing the buttons of his breeches herself had her pulse skittering. She pulled back emotionally before she could give in to the impulse. “I suppose even a horrible mother expects her son to do his duty for the title.”
“Not really,” was his succinctly blithe reply. He nuzzled her temple with his chin. “Wouldn’t want the fiend to breed.”
“What rubbish!” she said, sounding appalled and incensed on his behalf.
He pretended not to hear her outburst. “Not that I haven’t done my best to secure such success, eh, love?” His hot breath stirred a curl resting on her cheek. “How long before you will know if you are breeding?”
It was a personal question, something she was not prepared to discuss, even with him. Her nerves were too much at the surface for clear thought. It was also difficult to bury the deeper suspicion that his pleasure at impregnating her would be due more to the news enraging his family than to the joy of making a life with her. When he behaved so attentively and charmingly, it was so easy to forget that their marriage was not based on love, let alone friendship. He had bought her. One life saved in exchange for hers. She had to remember that or the bruising she felt in her heart was going to be her constant companion.
“When did you bleed last?”
“Our wedding night!” She pulled out of his embrace and moved to the table. Picking up her bonnet, she studied the damage done to it.
Quietly, he approached her, his muscles tensed as if preparing to catch her if she tried to run. “That wasn’t what I asked, and you know it.”
She crushed the delicate bonnet when her hands contracted into tight fists. “What answer shall I give you, my lord? The truth or what you want to hear?” she said, using his own words to mock him.
“You have been nothing but honest—,” he began.
“And you have been more than less, Tipton. Did you think I would be so besotted with you that I would not see?” Disgusted, she dropped the bonnet, but he seized her hands, preventing her from walking away.
“I warned you about this place, my mother.” Tension made a muscle in his jaw throb.
“Yet you dragged me to Foxenclover. Why? I have asked myself. The answer is so obvious.”
Rayne’s pewter gaze darkened at her feeble struggle to free herself from his grip. “Please, share your revelation since you have found no value in my reasons.”
“I have become a new weapon in your war against the Wymans, have I not?” She had managed to stun him, because her hands slid effortlessly from his grasp. “As a viscount, you could have married someone far better than me. Oh, I’m fair enough, so you could stomach the task of bedding me. And my family is respectable enough, so when the game of tormenting your mother wanes you can still hold your head up in society.” Eyes dry, she met his furious gaze. “Maybe I should rest. I am going to need my strength to guard myself against all of you.”
“You think too little of yourself if you believe that.”
His hand speared through his hair. He removed the leather cord that secured his long hair in the back. With his long hair swinging free she could not decide if she had married an avenging angel or a beguiling demon. Or maybe he had parts of each within him and that was what made him all the more confusing.
“Do you love me?” She died by inches, watching the agony contort his handsome face. “Let us just forget I asked.”
His expression was filled with eloquent misery. “Devona, there hasn’t been much love in my life. It is an elusive emotion, I am not even certain it is real,” he spoke as if each word inflicted pain. “I have learned to count on the tangible. When I cut a corpse open, I expect to see a heart, lungs, muscle, and bone. Love”—he lifted his hand in an idle helpless gesture—“it has no texture, no taste, nor odor.”
“Shame on you, Tipton. Even I know men of science are dreamers.” She felt so sorry for him. If he had not just ground her heart to ash with his boot heel, she might have moved to comfort him. Lucky for her, she was learning her bitter lesson early. She held still, not bothering to react to the surprise he did not attempt to conceal.
“I am no dreamer.” The very notion seemed to offend him.
“Truly? What is a scientist, then, but a man who spends his time proving to the world that the unbelievable and unseen exist?” She returned to the chair and leaned over to remove her shoes. “Leave me, Tipton. Disillusionment is a bitter brew. Let’s just permit this dose to churn in my stomach for a while.”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, coaxing her to rise.
“Devona?”
It was difficult to resist the plea she heard in his questioning tone. Still, she had the Bedegrayne pride on her side. Without rising, she spoke, her gaze fixed on her shoe. “Although the act of impregnating me might hasten your mother’s demise, I regret to deny you such pleasure this day. Seek your revenge elsewhere.”
When she heard the sudden intake of his breath, she knew she had overstepped herself. The frozen silence in the room became unbearable. Making herself look in his direction, she watched his profile as he gazed at some activity from the window. His long hair free, he looked like some age-old conqueror. A man who had been fighting for his place in the world for so long that he did not know how to enjoy the simple pleasures. Deal or not, it had been a mistake to marry him.
“Tipton, what if we forgot about the bargain we struck. If it would please you, we could annul—”
“No!” The edge in his harsh reply was razor sharp and she did not feel the steel bite until it was embedded to the bone.
Dry-eyed, she stared at the private battle he waged for self-control. His body literally shook as he used flesh and muscle to cage his feelings. “You once called me reckless.”
“You haven’t changed, madam,” he snapped without thought.
“Can you not see how miserable I shall be, Tipton? I am not like you and your family. I find no joy in hurting others. As to the scandal—you care not of the ton’s opinion and I shall never marry again, so the shredding of my reputation will be of little consequence to me. In truth, it could be worse.”
“Like staying married to me?”
Intuitively she sensed answering either way would unleash the emotion he fought so hard to contain. “I believe you have regretted this business as much as I, but are too honorable to renege on the deal.”
“Honorable,” he said, tasting the word. “That sounds like a gentleman’s term. I thought we agreed long ago that I lacked the attribute?”
Treading too close to the precipice of her own volatile emotions, she hugged herself. “I refuse to feel guilty,” she warned, feeling as though he was stalking her, yet he had not moved from his position at the window.
“Why should you, I say? You came to me with your plan of lunacy. You married me to ensure fruition. And now you wish to end our union because you have just realized the players in our little drama are a bit unsavory. I could have dressed this all up with pretty compliments and lies, but I find that I like you too much, Devona, to spare you.”
> “So this is all my fault? I should settle down and accept my fate since I chose the course.” She shot up from the chair when he did not answer. “Poor Lord Tipton. Done in by a Bedegrayne. Ah, the scandal, the shame! Better yet, if I have such power over you, then I can end it. I will it!” So caught up was she in a fit of hysteria that she did not feel his hands gripping her arms.
“Wyman,” he softly corrected.
With her flustered by his opposing calm, her mouth fell open in surprise. “I beg your pardon.”
“If I was done in, it was not by a Bedegrayne. You are Devona Lyr Wyman, Viscountess Tipton. My wife.” The words rolled off his tongue as if he relished each syllable. “I refuse to debate who manipulated whom; suffice to say we are both wedded and bedded, Lady Tipton. I do not share, and I have an absolute rule about handing back anything I consider mine.”
His declaration disappointed her. “You have not heard a single word I have uttered.”
“On the contrary, my hearing is sound. I do, however, have some concern about your own.”
Misery churned and rose, closing her throat. “Coming here. Seeing you with her.” She rolled her eyes upward, willing the threatening tears away. “I thought to save—it is not too late.”
A curious light gleamed in his eyes when his gaze locked with hers. “Oh, it is, my lady. Much too late.”
To prove it to both of them, he lifted her high until her lips pressed to his. God help her, she did not protest. Instead, her mouth parted eagerly against his as an upwelling of desperation and need filled her. A tremor shook him as it rose from deep within his chest, before it found focus and release at their point of contact. Unbound energy surged and whirled around them, and she was so caught in the moment that she forgot to breathe. He drank deep, his tongue ravishing her mouth, and the only thought that seemed clear was, Take more! Her vision dimmed, the clawing desire to give him more vied with her body’s own life-sustaining demands. Whatever he was to her, adversary, friend, husband, or demon lover, she was unequivocally his.
THIRTEEN
The next morning, the empty breakfast room was less of a surprise and more than a relief. Devona did not expect any less from Tipton’s family. If the ton thought her husband was odd, spending the evening under the wary eye of her new mother-in-law proved this penchant for drama and moodiness was derived from the blood. Crawling out of a smashed coffin at fifteen was simply atmosphere for this family.
Deciding to skip the morning meal, Devona moved to the back of the house and out the doors. She idly rubbed her temple, willing the slight headache away. Where was Tipton? After delivering that devastating kiss the other afternoon, he had left her alone. Apparently, he had been content that he had quelled all thought of her annulling their marriage. Appalling as it was, it was an accurate opinion. Her mood the rest of the evening had turned contemplative, but not once had her musings required his absence.
So distracted was she that the well-groomed flower beds had not made an impression on her. She had viewed numerous country gardens throughout her life. While she always found them pretty, she was never one to sit and contemplate their beauty. Halting several hundred yards from the house, she pivoted and studied her surroundings. The design was charming and well tended. It made no sense! The house had been stripped of many of its finer possessions, and it desperately needed repairs. Tipton’s mother did not impress Devona as a woman who had the patience or inclination to nurture the fragile blooms. Then who? A loyal gardener?
She backed up, taking in the symmetrical beauty of evergreens sheared into pyramids and diamond-shaped flower plots. A looming shadow overhead made her look upward. It wasn’t a tree, but a maze. And the entrance arch was a— “I do not credit this!”
The boxwood arch had been shaped into a dragon’s head. His expression was taunting, daring the trespasser to walk into his open mouth. Now, paying attention, she could see the walls of the maze were his green serpentine body, winding and blocking the journey of the adventurer.
“Amazing.”
“Glad you like it. Want to come play?” The amused feminine voice floated down from above.
“From your ferocious, hungry grin, I imagined you to be male. However, since I have met the living dragon of Foxenclover, I can see the resemblance.” Devona’s hand came up, as she was horrified by her slip.
A peal of laughter rustled the leaves. “Oh, I see you’ve met Jocelyn.” There was more movement behind the wall before an enchantingly grimy young woman emerged from her hiding place. Tipton’s sister? This woodland nymph was young, fifteen at the most. More child than woman, the girl beamed at her, her teeth almost white against her tan. Her light brown hair was coming undone from its hastily formed braid, and the telltale sun streaks and freckles revealed that she spent more time playing in the garden than practicing her school lessons.
“I thought you were Mother come to scold.”
“No,” Devona murmured, trying to fit this friendly child into the family puzzle. “My name is Devona Bedegrayne. Oof.” She laughed, brushing her mistake aside with a nervous gesture. “Not anymore. I am Devona Wyman, now that I have married your brother. Rayne is your brother, is he not?”
The girl’s complexion turned ashen as she scanned the garden. “Lord Tipton is here? He never visits.” She took a step back into the maze.
“It is a pity his duties keep him in London,” Devona lied, linking her arm with her new sister before she ran into the maze. “We are newly married, and I think he wanted to show his family off.”
Brother and sister both shared the same light blue eye color and the resemblance was quite distinct when she snorted in disbelief. “I’ll wager your acquaintance with Lord Tipton has been brief if you believe that! Did you elope? Mama and I have not heard news of the banns.”
“No banns,” she admitted, wondering how much of the tale to reveal. “We dashed off to Gretna Green. It will be an adventurous tale to tell our children.” If she and Rayne managed to remain married.
Devona located a bench to view the grounds and pulled the girl down beside her before she could think of a reason to escape. The child’s demeanor had changed since she had learned of her brother’s presence. Her movements were catlike and always searching, as if she expected a greater beast to pounce on her. Devona frowned. She suspected her concerns were not far from the truth. Everyone knew Tipton held little tolerance for his remaining family. Staring down at this beautiful fey child, Devona could not fathom what this innocent could have done to deserve her brother’s wrath.
“Who manages these gardens?” Devona asked. Of the thousands of questions swirling around in her head, the most trivial had surfaced.
Her chin snapped up to rival the challenging light in her eyes. “The gardens are mine.”
The poor thing thought they had come to take away her imaginary world. Devona placed her hand to her heart to keep it in place. Whatever her husband’s plans, she refused to sit by and watch him hurt his sister. “Of course the gardens belong to you. I doubt Tipton plans to remain here for long.”
“No,” the girl corrected. “The gardens are my creation. I dreamed them, and planted them. I tend them. They belong to me.”
“Odd, I was saying something similar the other day.”
Rayne’s sarcastic drawl startled them. Devona automatically reached for the girl’s arm to prevent her from running. She tightened her grip to keep her in place. “Good morning, Tipton. I was beginning to believe that I had been put out to the country and here we have not even been married a week.”
Tipton’s cheek ticked as if he was trying to conceal his grin. “I keep all my wives at my side for at least a month.”
Devona did not bother to hide her smile. She was pleased that he had sought her out. “Well, the news relieves my anxious heart. Lucky for you I came across your sister. She is a hidden jewel, Tipton. No wonder you keep her from London. Your male acquaintances would be begging you for an arranged marriage.”
His sister stood, cour
ageously accepting Tipton’s critical scrutiny. “I meant no offense, sir. About the gardens belonging to me.”
Devona quickly assessed the encounter as potentially volatile. Her inclination being to side with the weaker opponent, she stood and placed a protective arm around the girl. “Tipton, are these grounds not wondrous? They are your sister’s design.”
He was silent as if weighing the significance of Devona’s vocal stance. “I do not recall approving funds to restore the gardens,” he finally said.
The girl gave a careless shrug, the stiff action betraying that she was feeling anything but nonchalant. “Talk of funds and distribution does not interest me. Only the gardens. If it has been a waste of time then it has been mine to waste.”
“Then if I ordered that these beds be salted and burned, you would not care?” he asked, delivering the threat so calmly that even Devona was astonished by his cruel suggestion.
“Rayne!”
Hatred burned bright, but she remained composed. “You are master of Foxenclover, my lord.”
Intrigued and perhaps slightly disappointed by the lack of the tantrum he had expected, Tipton cocked his head to the side, considering her as if she were a pawn on a chessboard. “You would not try to stop me, girl?”
“Madeleina.”
The quiet correction had him stalling. “I beg your pardon?”
His sister met his cold gaze, matching it. “I have a name. It is Madeleina.”
Noting the heightened color in her husband’s face, Devona piped, “You have such a beautiful name. Do they call you Maddy?”
“Only my friends.”
The meaning was clear. They were not counted as her friends. How could she blame the girl? Tipton had all but promised to destroy something she cherished. It had to be some record. He managed to alienate his sister with the first words out of his mouth.
“Well, Madeleina,” he spoke the words as if they were foreign to his tongue, “you have not answered my question. How would you stop me?”
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 17