Page 52 of The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton
TWELVE
By the time they were three miles from Foxenclover, Devona had managed to tidy up her appearance. The bonnet he had plucked from her head was firmly in place. If her cheeks were slightly flushed, she could always blame the confinement of the closed coach.
“No one will ever suspect you were ravished,” Rayne assured her, growing more amused by her fussy behavior. “I told you, my mother is the one who must please you. Not the other way around.”
Devona wrinkled her nose in exasperation. “She is your mother, Tipton.” As if that explained everything.
“I mean it, Devona. If my mother or sister says anything upsetting, you are to tell me immediately.”
She stilled. “You have a sister? You never mention her.”
“You make it sound like I have been hiding a mistress from you.” He did not understand why a man had to dissect his life for all to behold.
“Do you?”
“What?”
Devona licked her lower lip. The automatic habit had him wishing they had more time alone. He could still taste her on his lips. “A mistress, you dense man!” she said, her words barely audible over the roar of the blood in his ears.
“I would not worry about me stashing a greedy light-skirt or two.”
“Two!”
He went on as if she had not screeched at him. “If all I was after was a quick tumble, I would not have gone to the trouble of luring you into marriage. No,” he continued, privately glad she had not thought to plant her foot into his vitals, “I can see that keeping you satisfied will expend all my energies.”
She looked far from pleased by his admission. “You should have mentioned your sister.”
“Why? She is a child. It is not unusual for an older sibling to be disinterested. How close are you to—what’s the name of your other brother? The one traveling.” He did not bother to remind her that her family had tried and failed to protect her when Le Cadavre Raffiné had set his sights on her. It was better for him if she believed that she had had a choice in the matter.
Her expression grew more insolent. “Nyle. My brothers are grown men. When they are abroad they still remember us by sending letters. Can you say the same?”
He could not, so he disregarded the question. “Do not concern yourself with my relationship with my sister. I don’t.” Sensing that Devona was sizing up his sister’s plight as that of another Doran Claeg in need of liberation, he sought to distract her. “Look out the window. Foxenclover should be coming up on your left.”
The search quieted her arguments as he had hoped it would. Her enthusiasm, sometimes childlike, but nonetheless honest, stirred a discontented humor within him. He could not remember having such naïve feelings, even when he was a child. Still, watching her practically hanging out the window, he wondered if the lack had been bred or drilled into him.
“Rayne, this must be your Foxenclover.” She glanced back at him, her eyes bright with animation and excitement. “It looks old.”
Giving in to the urgency to hold her, he pulled her into his lap. His hand splayed across her abdomen, holding her in place while he gestured to the window. “See there.” He pointed to a wall and part of the foundation. “That’s all that remains of the original house. It burned to the ground around 1697. My grandmother said that it was in protest to William and Mary’s clever window tax.”
“What do you believe?”
“That my infamous ancestor was mad.” He toyed with the swinging earring in her right lobe. “I hope I have not given you reason to fear having my children. Most likely the Wymans have bred out that tainted blood by now.” His hand tightened on her abdomen. She could be carrying his heir at this very moment. The fierce elation made him feel light-headed.
“Oh, if your ancestor was responsible, I am certain he had a very good reason.”
Already, her loyalty was switching to him. The unidentified emotion twisting his heart lessened. “Maybe he hated the house. The tax was just an excuse to get rid of it. I doubt the family will ever know.” He shrugged, not particularly caring to probe his ancestor’s dark secrets. “Whatever his incentive, he was caught up in the Palladian fever that overtook the time. I cannot recall the fellow’s name, but he was a disciple of Burlington’s.”
The coach slowed, finally halting in the yard. Only one man approached the new arrivals to see to the horses. Rayne opened the door himself and climbed down. Scanning the yard, he compared the Foxenclover in his mind to the neglected estate he saw before him. This had been what he wanted. The fifteen-year-old who had walked away from his family had wanted to see the lands fall to ruin. He waited for the rush of satisfaction to wash over him. He felt nothing. Nothing at all.
“Tipton. A hand, if you please.” Devona’s voice startled him from his frozen musings. He turned to help her down from the coach.
“I rarely visit here.” The flash of shame came out of nowhere. Exposing Devona to this ugliness was like showing her the deformity of his soul. The downfall of Foxenclover was his revenge and his mother’s prison. Rayne wondered what his optimistic wife would do if she understood the full extent of his hatred. Maybe the madness pumped through his veins after all.
“Hello!” a cheerful feminine voice called out. The approaching woman, who, judging from her appearance, was most likely the housekeeper, waved. “Where are you folks from?”
Before Devona could reply, Rayne crisply replied, “I am Tipton. Kindly inform my mother of my arrival.”
The housekeeper halted her stride so suddenly that she skidded a few inches. “Ah, sir, Lord Tipton. It is a pleasure to have you visit.” She cast a worried glance at Devona. “I will tell Her Ladyship of your presence.” She all but ran into the house.
