Page 33 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
“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.
“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.
“Very,” Wynne murmured, biting into a biscuit to keep from saying anything else.
“We have never been close, and I want that to change. Naturally, I understand if you cannot endure my company after all the terrible things your mother has said about me.” She thought of the shock she had seen in the young woman’s eyes and hoped she had not misread the distress.
Amara clutched the teacup so tightly she was likely to crack it. “I am not my mother. I know you were only trying to help Doran.” Her troubled gaze was fixed on her cooling tea. “You did not deserve the slap.”
“Perhaps not so publicly,” she said ruefully. “However, I still insist on helping Doran with or without your mother’s blessing. Will you help us?”
Stunned, Amara forgot all about her cup and openly gaped at Devona. “Me? What could I do to help my brother? Mama said only a miracle will save Doran from hanging. If Papa can barely meet the taxes on the country house, a miracle would surely beggar us.” She blinked back the sudden moisture on her lashes.
