Page 3 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
“Miss Bedegrayne, how do you know His Lordship will be this way?” Pearl whispered, close on Devona’s heels. She was determined not to be left behind.
“A simple deduction, really.” Devona tried a door, and peered within. Empty. She moved on to the next door. “This side of the house is lit up. Besides, the gargoyle went the other way.”
“Maybe the man went off to get his lord?” Pearl asked, growing more nervous with each step.
“Highly doubtful. He was about to throw a woman in pain out on the streets. We’ll be lucky if he actually went off to get a chamber pot. Ah-ha!” Devona froze when she noticed the shadow and light under this next door flicker. Anticipation bubbled in her blood. After all, it was not every day a lady introduced herself to a supposed demon.
“Gar,” she said, pitching her voice so the sound did not go beyond their small group, “you and Pearl return to the hall and await its guardian. Distract him if you must, for I will need time to speak with His Lordship.”
Devona watched the dance of light and shadows as it escaped from underneath the door. She had not explained to Gar and Pearl her reasons for seeking an audience with Lord Tipton, nor the dire outcome if she failed to secure his help. He would help her, would he not? She had never thought until this moment that she would fail. Sensing their concern, she glanced at her motionless companions. “All will be well, once I speak to Lord Tipton. Go ahead; I shall be fine.”
Without thought to the consequences, she quietly opened the door and blinked. What she saw within did not meet with her expectations. Why, the room was empty and… quite normal. It was not a large room, but it definitely was a male’s domain. The walls were a plain pea green; the only adornments were several landscapes depicting the changing seasons of country landscapes and a huge ornate gold-foiled mirror that was suspended over a chimneypiece of cream-colored marble. A welcoming fire beckoned her to enjoy its warmth. No dainty, fashionable furniture was displayed to impress the visitor. Everything from the old French upholstered rococo armchair, the oversized Hepplewhite library cases spanning the length of two walls, and on to the geometrically precise library table serviced its owner with efficiency and comfort.
Who was this Lord Tipton? She had gleaned every bit of gossip bandied about theton,and none of it added up if this elegant, private sanctuary reflected the man she had been desperately trying to meet. Her lower lip pouted a bit as she turned this latest intriguing tidbit in her mind. So lost in thought was Devona that she failed to notice that she was being assessed as well.
A prickling awareness jarred her from her musings. Rubbing her arms to ward off an imaginary chill, she pivoted. Her gaze scanned the room again. There, in one of the shadowed corners, her gaze sought out, then faltered when she realized she was not alone. The mysterious Lord Tipton. This was the man thetonsnidely called behind his back Le Cadavre Raffiné. The Refined Corpse. She doubted any of the fashionable would have repeated such an insult to the man’s face, if he had ever bothered to show himself.
She could tell even in the dim light that he was magnificent. Too fascinated to be wary, she took the branch of candles closest to her and brought the light to this man of shadows. He sat sprawled out in a corner chair, one leg propped up on a nearby chair while the other was bent close to his chest. His left arm rested casually across the surface of his knee. He held a smooth, flat stone between his fingers, which he slowly stroked with his thumb. Her attention caught the movement, and she stared at his long, elegant fingers. He had large hands. A long scar ran from his wrist to his thumb. He possessed the hands of a warrior, a man who had battled for everything he claimed, and won. The gentle stroking of the stone seemed contradictory and disturbed her on some level she could not define.
Lord Tipton cleared his throat. If it was her attention he wanted, he gained it. Her focus shifted to the thick column of his throat, then up to his face. What masculine beauty! It was a proud face, all chiseled angles that begged exploring. A day’s growth of beard peppered his jaw, and drew attention to his full, sensual lips. His hair, a blend of chestnut and honey, was unbound, and tangled over his shoulders. There was a distinct streak of blond or perhaps it was white that sprouted from his right temple. Someone had told her it was the mark ofle compagnon du diable,the devil’s companion.
Wariness stiffened her stance as she realized the man was half-dressed. He wore a linen shirt, its only adornment four linen buttons to connect the front opening. His breeches were well made and suede. His shoes were missing! She could feel the heat in her face as she stared at his feet sheathed in silk stockings. She had never seen her brothers without shoes or coats.
Each studied the other; a unique male-to-female alertness had electrified the space separating them. Neither had said a word, and yet Devona felt threatened. She gazed into eyes almost the color of pewter, and she almost could believe the rumors about him.
“For a housebreaker, you aren’t a very efficient one,” Rayne said, finally deciding it was time to end the staring contest with his bold intruder. “The last one who tried to make off with the bed linen had cleaned out one of the bedchambers before Speck tackled him in the front hall.”
She was not pouting anymore, a fact for which Rayne silently was grateful. His intruder had lips that were made for kissing. He could almost imagine how the soft resiliency of that bottom lip would feel if he playfully bit it and sucked it into his own mouth. He shifted slightly. Yes, better to have her gape at him like he was addled than to have her offer those sulky lips to him.
“Maybe it is disappointment that keeps you mute. Considering my reputation, I suppose you had expected to be greeted with disemboweling weapons and skeletons strewn about the room.”
The woman blinked at the bitterness he could not keep out of his tone. Her hand came up to her face to brush an errant curl from her cheek. Teasing curls of fire framed her face, while the rest of her tresses, he had observed when she had first entered the room, had been plaited in a coil and secured in the back. A half handkerchief of lilac silk was pinned across the back of her head, with the embroidered ends hanging down past her shoulders. If he were to guess, he would say that his intruder had attended a ball before she had decided to rob him.
“You are an annoyingly difficult man to see.”
Ah, so the woman had a tongue after all. Despite all her bravado, he could tell he scared her all the way down to her white kid slippers. Not particularly interested in giving up his advantage, he lowered his lids to a predatory slant. “Possibly only difficult to people I do not want to see.” He admired her more when she took another step forward, her cloak swinging around her as she placed the branch of candles on the table near him.
“I would not have sought you out in this manner if you had read my letters or permitted me an audience.” Now that she was closer, he could see that her eyes were more blue than green, a subtle battle that changed with her surging emotions.
Rayne considered her for a moment. “Bedegrayne. Miss Devona Bedegrayne.”
Her eyes lit up in delight, as if he were a pupil who had answered his governess’s question correctly. “Yes. Yes, I am—that’s me. I had feared your gargoyle—”
Amused, he interrupted. “Gargoyle?”
“Yes, that rude man who kept slamming the door on my footman.”
“I fear it is not entirely Speck’s fault. You see, I pay him to be rude and to slam the door.” Rayne’s statement hit its mark as he had intended, and to his delight he watched her face suffuse with color.
She glared at him, her gloved hands fisted at her sides. “See here, Lord Tipton. I am not normally so presumptuous. Do you think I do not know my reputation would be in shreds if word got out about this evening? However, you had refused all my appeals for your attention, and since there is so little time left…” Her voice faded off, her eyes clouded with the consequences that only she understood. “A gentleman would not make me beg.”
There was that pout again! Rayne sucked in his breath at the impact of his lust for her. He felt helpless against it, and he had yet to get his hands on her, or press his face against her scented skin. She could bisect his emotions for all to see with just a glance. That vulnerability made him attack.
“There lies our problem, Miss Bedegrayne. I am no gentleman. If you know anything about me, you should know that I do not acknowledge the title or the civility.”
He shot to his feet and took the remaining steps that brought her within arm’s length. He reached out, tugging on the strings that held her Spanish cloak of white lace in place. It slipped from her shoulders and fell on the carpet. She was female perfection in his eyes. Her stature was small; the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. The dress she had kept hidden beneath her cloak was meant to heat a man’s blood. It was made of lilac netting, with a white satin slip the only protection from his hungry gaze. The square neck was cut very low, as was the fashion, and framed a generous portion of her breasts, just begging a starving man to feast.
Rayne very much wanted to be that man.
