Page 1 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
PROLOGUE
England, 1792
Rayne Tolland Wyman was certain of two things: The first, today was his fifteenth birthday. The second, he was dying. He shifted in the darkness, only to discover he was being held in place.
His eyes rolled white, then crossed as he focused on a circle of light that suddenly appeared. He did not know if it was real or just a fevered manifestation, nor did he care. It chased the shadows from his emaciated body, banishing them as it moved over his legs, traveling upward until it hovered over his bare chest. He choked back a sob, noticing for the first time the two fat leeches feeding on his chest, their slick, dark, flowing forms glistening in the faint light. Christ! If he listened carefully, he swore he could hear them sucking the life out of him.
“Mum,” he croaked, his throat dry from screaming during the worst of the fever. His arm twitched, too weak to drop off the side of the bed and search for comfort. Gloved fingers reached out to him, clutching his limp hand. The coolness of the leather-clad fingers seemed impersonal, yet the fragile bones within were identifiable even in his befuddled state. He clung to that disembodied hand as if it was the only thing holding him to earth.
“Hush, boy, I am here,” she crooned.
His mum. The only grandmother he had living, and at times more of a mother to him than the one she had given birth to. She blended with the shadows, dressed in black as she was. A lace cap kept her gray hair tidy, and was bright enough to keep his dimming vision from sinking completely into the darkness. “I’m dying, Mum.”
“Bother that,” she snapped, her faded blue eyes filling with tears as she denied both their fears. “The fever has a strong hold on you, but you will fight it. Fight it for me.”
The light faded, winking out of existence as if it had never been. He heard voices in the distance. His grandmother’s? Maybe the surgeon called to attend him and his brother. Devlin. The elder son. The most precious heir. He had fallen ill two days before the fever had taken Rayne’s mind. Their mother had closed herself off from the household to pray at Devlin’s bedside. To Rayne’s knowledge, she had not visited her second son once.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rayne could almost taste the drizzle even though the air around him was stale. “Mum.” She did not answer him this time. He turned his head, wondering why they had closed the bed curtains. Did they not understand he was smothering? Couldn’t they hear him calling out? Fear had a taste, he decided. It was a combination of blood, the brine of sweat, and stale urine. Rayne swallowed; the blackness of the room pulsed with the contractions of the ravenous parasites that were slowly killing him.
“I want them off.”
Lightning struck the house. The concussion vibrated his body. He gasped, sounding like a strangling man taking his last breath. The lightning struck again, then again, again. The storm outside seemed to mimic the seething torment he felt within.
If he had the strength, he would have ripped those feasting creatures off his chest and smeared their bloated guts across the oak floorboards. Such musings burned in his pained head, until the voices disturbed him again.
“Our man wants his meat fresh,” the male voice warned.
“They don’t come fresher than this. I heard tell the chap died two days past.”
Died?Rayne’s mind turned over the words, trying to make sense of them. Had Devlin died? Was that the reason for everyone’s absence?
“Right shame, dying and not being able to tie it up proper, even at the end,” the mysterious male continued.
“Naw, he come from gentry. Saw the old lady meself, all dressed up and blubbering with all the other black carrion. Heard he was diseased. They just lost the older one this morning. Business like this could make me a rich man.”
“Diseased, eh?” The man paused, considering the ramifications. “I warrant our client knows our goods come damaged.”
Another crack of lightning shook the house. Rayne flinched as nature’s energy cracked open the roof. He could feel the rain beat down on his face, though he was too weak to do much more than lie there and allow it to wash away the sweat beading on his face.
“Move the glim closer, so we can have a look at him.” The man clucked his tongue. “Young. Fifteen if not a day. Our man said no smalls.”
“We’ll be getting two guineas for ’im. He’s more man than child.”
Helpless, Rayne felt cold hands on the side of his head. Twisting and tugging, they dragged him headfirst into the storm. Water clogged his mouth and nose when he tried to speak. His narrowed gaze caught a flash of light, and his mind dully registered that it was a knife. He felt his clothes being cut from his body.
“Aw, would you look at those wounds. Sucking leeches probably kilt him ’fore the fever done him in.”
He was dead. No, that was not quite right, he silently amended. These men thought he was dead. They had mentioned leeches, the fever. He was not in his bed. Devlin had not been the one to die. He had, or at least his family thought he had. Dear God, they had buried him alive!
“Give me a hand here. Bloody sack is soaked and I can’t cram him in it. I’ll hold him while you work it over his head.”
Despite the cold rain, and his nudity, a warmth stole into his body. Pain seeped into his muscles as he willed his useless body to move, to show some sort of life. A heavy sack was being worked over his body, over his face. He could smell rain on the man’s hands that hovered so close to his nose now. He could also smell earth, the earth that almost had swallowed him whole, not caring that he was alive.
His hands shot up, manacling the wrists of his savior. The man easily broke the contact as he and his companion stumbled backward in surprise. As Rayne jackknifed into a sitting position, his blue-tinted lips sucked in the much-needed air his body craved, ignoring the babbling of half-forgotten prayers his new companions evoked. He knew the sounds he made as his lungs ejected fluid and took in air made him seem more monster than human. He was too involved in bringing himself back to life to tell them he was harmless.
Later he would have time to be amused by the notion that two grave robbers, intent on stealing his corpse, had saved him from the hideous nightmare of being buried alive.
