Page 11 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
“My observations were merely that of a man. No more, no less, Devona Lyr Bedegrayne.”
Her name was a purring caress from his lips. The sounds stroked her, making her feel hot and restless. He was dressed as fitting his station this afternoon, she noted, thinking back to all his claims that he was not a true gentleman. What was troubling to her was that she almost preferred him the way she had first met him, half-dressed and barely civil. This teasing, playfully sensual side of him made her feel that each of her nineteen years had not prepared her for a man like him. Lord Tipton was indeed a wicked man.
He held up a hand, stalling her from retorting. “All right, enough. Let’s continue. You were explaining how you are at fault.”
Since the subject was a safer course for her, she gathered her thoughts. “He never gave up on the idea of having me. While trying to prove to my father his worthiness, he fell in with a criminal element. He was arrested three weeks ago for his participation in a coining ring.”
“For most that is an automatic death sentence.”
“It is for Doran. His father has disowned him. Who would vouch for him if he cannot call upon his own family? He has no money, no friends—he will hang.”
“You feel responsible.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks. She was going to cry after all. “He did it for me. If he had not felt like he had to be more than he was, he would have never been driven to this crime.” She listened for a second to the people, laughing and chatting around them. “I have to do something to save him.”
“Where do I come into this scheme of yours? If you expect me to break him out, you are—”
Devona shook her head. “No. I would not ask that of you. I want you to resurrect him after they cut him down from the gallows.”
Whatever Lord Tipton had expected, it was clearly not this. Rubbing his face, he looked away. “Do you know what you are asking?”
She grabbed his hands and squeezed. “You are Le Chirurgien de la Mort. They say you have made it your life’s ambition to cheat death. You are a highly regarded surgeon; if anyone could resurrect Doran, you are the one.”
“Christ, Devona!” Rayne jerked his hands from hers, tension knotting them into fists. “You have spent too much time listening to legends in the ballroom. I may not attend those affairs, but I know what I’m called. The Refined Corpse, Death’s Surgeon, and a few other less savory sobriquets. Names. Just meaningless names made up by small-minded people for things they do not understand.”
Was she so wrong? Despair intertwined with grief, choking her. “But your work… the people you have helped. I know.”
He took her face in his hands, willing her to understand. “You are asking for a miracle. If this were fifty years ago before they started using the automatic drop, I would say his chances of surviving would have been about even. Think! His neck is going to have to support the weight of his body for fifteen minutes. I can’t help you.”
Her tears flowed over his fingers. “I will be responsible. I do not know if I can live with that.”
A horn blew in the distance. Their gazes locked, a silent battle of wills. They ignored the entertainment that was stirring up the crowd around them. He was not going to help her, she thought, her desperateness as wild as the rumble she heard in the distance, warning of the approaching storm.
Screams, surging over the landscape like a tidal wave, filled the air. Everything slowed at a time when Devona would have expected speed. Their heads turned in the direction of the commotion. The crowd cleaved for a runaway chaise driven in their direction by four thundering horses. Before the danger and the horror could fully register on her face, Rayne blocked her horrific view by tackling her. The ground spun as he rolled them out of the path of those killing hooves, wood, and metal.
Time returned to its normal tempo as the horses and chaise raced over the blanket, flattening the food hamper. Devona lay tangled in Rayne’s arms, the warmth of his body barely keeping the chill she felt at bay. His hat was gone, the neat queue mussed so that one side was free, his long hair tickling her face. Both of them were breathing hard, and she could not decide if the pounding heartbeat she was feeling against her chest was his or her own.
“When I saw the horses and chaise charging toward us, I could not seem to think or move,” she whispered, her voice raspy from dust and dawning realization that the viscount’s quick reflexes had spared them from a painful death. “You saved us.”
Panting, he stared down at her, his eyes fierce and his body still battle tense. Rayne looked every bit the hardened warrior who had protected her body with his own. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him she was fine, but she could do nothing more than lie caged under him and tremble. Her lips parted to thank him and the warrior in him seized the invitation. Warm lips settled over her cool ones. Reverently, he used his mouth to reassure them both that they were alive. The first kiss was divine! Her body suffused with heat as she became keenly aware of the weight and strength of the gentleman who covered her. Devona knew she should demand that he cease the wicked liberties he was taking, but how could she resist him while his mouth coaxed and nibbled? His tongue brazenly stroked her lips, and she wanted more. She tightened her hold when she felt the ground whirl around her again.
“Release her, you bastard!”
Having nothing to do with pleasure, Devona closed her eyes and groaned into Rayne’s mouth. Abruptly he was yanked off her body. She watched him shrug off the two men who held him, his stance one of defiance and challenging confidence.
“I’m going to kill you for touching her!”
She knew that voice. Brock, finished exploring the heavens, had plummeted to earth like some arrogant golden god prepared to smite the mortal who dared to touch his little sister.
Sitting up, she threaded her fingers through her hair and pulled out a small stick. The gravity of her and Rayne’s situation was starting to hit her as she realized their near-death experience had drawn an audience. Wynne approached her, placing a shawl around her to conceal her torn sleeve. Why had she not noticed how terrible she looked? Her dress was torn, her bonnet gone, and her hair was unbound. Having been thoroughly kissed, she was certain she looked quite brazen. Wynne gave her a sympathetic hug.
Not liking the expression on her brother’s face, Devona stood. “Brock, there is no need for this.”
He did not acknowledge that he had heard her. His glare promised death and it was focused on Lord Tipton. “I demand justice for my sister.”
“A duel for a kiss?” Rayne smirked. “Can I help it if your sister keeps throwing herself at me, Bedegrayne?”
Devona heard a collective gasp from several ladies. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer. Brock was not the only one feeling provoked and someone was going to pay. A scuffle broke out between the two men. Her brother swung and clipped Rayne in the chin. She winced as she heard his neck bones crack. Rayne repaid in kind by delivering a painful blow to Brock’s kidneys. Men came forward and grabbed both budding pugilists before they could do any more damage.
Her brother struggled against the restraining embrace. “Name your choice of weapon and seconds, you devil’s piss.”
Devona jumped between them, silencing Rayne’s taunting retort with a glare. “Stop it, both of you!” She grabbed her brother by the front of his ruined coat. “You will not challenge him. In fact, you will apologize—”
“Apologize!” he exploded.
“Yes! He was not attacking me, you simpleton. He saved my life. I would have been under the wheels of a runaway chaise if he had not rolled me away from their path. What was he supposed to do, ask your permission?”
Brock was still far from appeased. “And what was he doing with your mouth, Devona? Reminding you to breathe?” He renewed his struggle, pinning Rayne with a glare. “You are a dead man.”
Rayne’s face lost the answering fury, becoming carefully blank. “You tell me nothing new, Bedegrayne.” Disgusted with all of them, he walked away.
