The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (11 page)

Chapter 12

Jaw slack, Vangie stood gaping at Ian. Good Lord, she’d punched him. He was known for his vile temper. What would he do? Where was her dagger? She darted a quick look at the nightstand.

Not there.
Think.
Where had she laid it?

She wasn’t given to violence. Why had she hit him so hard? A welt, red and raw like a fresh branding, was clearly visible on his angled face. Standing before him, the intense, provocative glimmer in his eye sent a fresh dash of color across her cheeks.

“Ian. . .”

No, she would not apologize.
He deserved it, the brute
. Faith, why is he grinning? Was her new husband dicked in the nob? She frowned at him, inching her way backward. Perhaps he’s mad. Mayhap it wasn’t bad temperament plaguing the man at all, but lunacy. She sent a sidelong glance to the open wardrobe.

Where was her blasted dagger?

Clasping her hands before her, she warily watched him. A muscle flexed in his jaw. She gasped when he stole closer, his gait purely predatory. She sucked in another wheezing lungful of air.

It was most difficult to breathe, or think, when one was being stalked
.

Ian crept onward, step-by-step.

For every step he took forward, Vangie retreated until she was brought up short by the small bench she’d just vacated. She tried to skirt around it, not daring to take her eyes from him. Her hip grazed the dressing table, rattling the contents on top. Reaching beside her, her gaze fixated on him, she grasped wildly. Her hand closed on the handle of the silver hairbrush.

She sent it sailing at his head. He ducked, then laughed, a deep resounding echo in his chest. He was enjoying this, the cretin. She began tossing objects at him as fast as she could grab them.

Crystal perfume bottle. Engraved hand mirror. Jar of face cream. Jewel encrusted comb. Her wedding wreath. They all went careening past him.

He dodged each item, stealthy edging nearer. The floor was littered with broken glass, petals and leaves, globs of cream, and a puddle of perfume, which bathed the room with its citrusy scent.

In desperation, she tossed the last item, a filmy lace-edged handkerchief. A feral grin on his lips, he watched it flutter onto the rug, then raised mocking eyes to her.

The damned cur. He still laughed at her.

She frantically sought something else to throw at him. Ah, there it was. The jeweled dagger had been beneath the handkerchief the entire time. She snatched the blade, wielding it before her. He would gloat no more.

Ian’s gaze dipped to the knife. The lines of laughter on his face shifted into irritation. “Put down the blade.”

“No.”

“Vangie, give me the knife.”

She shook her head, daring to take a step forward, the blade tilted at a dangerous angle. The metal glinted in the candlelight. She knew how to use it.
Puri Daj
insisted upon it.

He retreated a cautious step, his dark gaze narrowed and trained on the knife.

“I won’t be called a
lóoverni
.”

Emboldened, she took another step his direction. No man, not even her husband, had the right to call her a whore.

His eyes slowly rose to meet hers, his expression unreadable. “Give it to me.”

His lips thinned, and he extended his hand, palm upward. “I won’t ask you again.”

A shaky laugh escaped her. “Not likely, my lord.” She angled the dagger in the direction of the adjoining door. “Now get out.”

It happened in an instant. With his foot, he gave a vicious yank to the rug she stood upon.

Vangie cried out, her arms flailing, desperately trying to stay on her feet. He lunged and seizing her wrist, wrenched the knife from her hand. He flung it across the room. Bouncing against the wall, it thudded to the floor, then skidded several feet before disappearing beneath the armoire.

She tottered and would’ve fallen had Ian not caught her in his strong embrace, pinning her arms to her sides. Without preamble, he scooped her up, then strode to the bed, holding her gaze and arms captive.

Now she’d done it. She’d threatened her husband with a knife on their wedding night. Panic, mixed with a good portion of rage engulfed her. “Let me go, you filthy
bostaris
!”

He smiled, a slow, taunting curling of his lips. “Not likely.”

Ian stared at Vangie, taking in her high color, her heaving breasts, the breathtaking body her nightclothes did little to hide, and he grinned. A grin of pure delight. Her eyes snapped blue fire. He rather liked this side of his wife. She possessed a feisty spirit. His gaze rested on the subtle shadows her gown hinted at.

“I’ll scream.”

He laughed then, with genuine amusement.

“No, you won’t. You would have done so by now.”

“I will too. I’ll screech like a banshee from hell.”

“The servants will only think me a skilled lover, sweeting, and that I have successfully introduced you to the pleasures of the flesh.”

Cheeks blooming with color, she broke eye contact. She bent her head and pleaded, her voice quivering. “Do not do this, Ian, I beg you.”

She pressed her head into his chest. Her warm breath caressed his naked flesh. The intuitive gesture roused Ian’s protective instinct. She’d not meant to seek comfort from him, had done so unawares, he was sure.

“Sweeting, look at me.”

Vangie shook her dark head, her silky hair swinging across his arms as he held her trembling form.

Shaking her gently, his voice a low rumble, he insisted, “Vangie, look at me.”

She lifted tormented eyes to his. He felt he was drowning. Her luminous sapphire pools were lost and uncertain. “Have you been ill-treated by the men you’ve taken to your bed thus far?”

Her eyes grew huge, and her mouth fell open, then snapped closed. Twice. Yet she said nothing. Perhaps that’s why she discarded men like used tea leaves. She’d become bitter—cynical. What a shame for one so young, and one who possessed such a passionate nature.

“I’ll not hurt you.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “What’s come before matters naught, I forgive you.”

Ian was amazed. Even as he uttered the words, he meant them. He should be furious. Instead, he was intrigued. Confound it all, when had she gotten beneath his skin? How had she managed to in such a short period of time?

Like a dimwit, Vangie gawked at Ian dumbfounded. He forgives me? Is he serious? For what?

He who covers and forgives an offense seeks love.

Faith, where
did that come from? This was not the time for
Puri Daj’s
misplaced wisdom. Vangie was sure she was about to be ravished by her husband.

His caressing voice brought her hurtling back to the present. “We’ll consummate this marriage tonight. I promise to be gentle. I’ll bring you pleasure, I give you my word.”

Eyeing her, Ian asked, apparently with sincere concern, “Were your other lovers rough and selfish? Is that why you’re so skittish?”

Did he think he was being noble, voicing concern over her past unpleasant experiences,
nonexistent experiences
, the addlepated lout? Incapable of speech, she gaped at him.

God, let me die right now, this instant.

This is outside of enough. It’s simply too much to bear. He was cork-brained. He was
.
She was married to a man who believed her to be a frustrated wanton.

In a move so swift, she’d no time to protest, Ian set her on her feet, then adroitly tugged her nightclothes off over her head. Mortified, eyes squeezed shut, she stood before him naked, desperately trying to cover her womanly places.

Any thought of reprieve was squelched. There wasn’t much help for it now. Her protests had been for naught. He would have his way with her, as was his husbandly right. She could only pray he’d be as gentle as he promised.

He swept her into his arms, laying her on the bed’s silky sheets. Lying nude on the turned-down, rose-scented bed, Vangie’s mind was in a jumble.   Shouldn’t she be screaming for all she was worth, doing everything within her power to escape?

It would be futile. As futile as the tide resisting the draw of the moon. There was no help for it; the end was inevitable. She was Ian’s wife. If she was completely honest, he’d stirred something in her since the first moment she’d seen him at the ball.

There was no sin in this, no shame, except the degradation she felt at having been called a strumpet by her new husband.

That hurt intolerably. The stinging words coiled around her heart, opening a deep, painful wound that wouldn’t soon heal. A flush of humiliation stole over her. She’d no doubt she was as pink as the rose petals that had recently lain upon these same sheets.

Hearing a slight rustle, she popped her eyes open, then snapped them shut again. Another blush warmed her entire body. He’d untied his banyan, letting it slip to the floor. Faith, she was no authority on the male form, but she was certain, the lean, well-muscled, naked man standing beside the bed was near perfection, except for . . .
it
.

The large member proudly protruding from his crisp dark loin hairs was what would join with her. She knew it beyond a doubt.

Oh dear and good God.

She opened her eyes a slit, peeping between her eyelashes. Surely his great size was an abnormality. She’d didn’t want to stare at his disfigurement, but Lord Almighty—

He will tear me asunder.

The breath slowly hissed from between Ian’s clenched teeth. He stood transfixed, unable to tear his gaze from the beauty of Vangie’s form. If eternity stood still, he’d not have time enough, nor have words eloquent enough, to describe what God had fashioned in such wondrous perfection. Was there anything as marvelous, as splendidly exquisite as the female body?

The curtain of her hair spilled across her sloping ivory shoulders to gently rounded hips. The blushing tips of her firm, round breasts peeked between the silky midnight strands. Her eyes were squeezed shut. She tried to shield the tempting curly triangle cradled between silky thighs, tapering to delicate calves, well-turned ankles, and finally, to her shapely feet.

His gaze roamed the turn of her derrière, her narrow waist and flat stomach, before traveling back and lingering on the luscious mounds flirting behind her hair. Unable to help himself, he parted the sheltering locks, sucking in another great gulp of air, as her perfect breasts were exposed. He trailed a finger across one satiny breast, watching in fascinated wonder as the rosy nipple puckered.

Vangie shivered, though whether from trepidation or passion, Ian couldn’t be certain. Her eyes opened then, resignation and the merest trace of cautious curiosity in their beautiful depths. She would experience pleasure with him like she had with no other, he vowed silently. He’d brand her as his for all time. Sweeping his gaze the length of his wife, an unfamiliar, fierce possessiveness seized his vitals.

She was his. No others—ever again.

Easing onto the bed, he drew her into his arms, letting her become accustomed to his touch.
“Relax, sweeting,” he urged, his voice a husky rasp.

He stroked her smooth skin with skilled fingers. A smile of smug satisfaction curved his mouth as he heard her sigh and felt her relax against him. “That’s it, love. Just enjoy this.”

He nibbled her neck and shoulders, his hands cupping and soothing a sensuous path over her full curves. Watching Vangie’s face, he trailed a finger across her cheek, then over her slender neck to the fullness of one breast. She arched into his hand. Though timid, she was enjoying his touch. Male pride surged through him. Leaning over her, he kissed her, running his tongue along the sweet seam of her lips.

She sighed again, unconsciously turning her head to allow him better access to her honeyed mouth. Ian wasted no time. He angled his head and deepened the kiss, until at his insistence her mouth opened to receive his tongue. He plunged into her inviting depths, reveling in her hesitant response.

Her tongue tentatively dueled with his.

Had no man taken the time to introduce her to the art of kissing? A growl rumbled deep in his chest.
Selfish bastards
.

He’d remedy that tonight.

What in the world was Ian doing to her? Vangie felt as if the world were tilting. The oddest sensations were flitting about in her most secret place. She wanted to push her aching breasts into his rough hand. When his tongue nudged its way inside her mouth, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven so exquisite was the sensation.

His hands caressing her body ignited desire she’d not known she possessed. She felt alive in a sensuous, urgent way she didn’t understand. His experienced hands demanded a response she was only too eager to give.

Turning to her side, she slipped an arm round Ian’s torso, wanting him closer, rejoicing in the bunching of his muscles at her inexperienced touch. She ran her hands across his firm flesh, delighting in the ridges beneath her tentative, exploring fingers. Nuzzling her nose into his neck, she inhaled his masculine scent.

Ian’s ministrations became bolder. He lowered his head, teasing one nipple, encircling it with his tongue. Groaning, Vangie arched into him, hungry for his touch. The sensation of his lips and tongue on her breast created a frenzy of pulsating need only he could satisfy.

“More. . .” she groaned.

He chuckled, seemingly happy to oblige her. He sucked the swollen flesh deep into his hot mouth. Gripping his arms, she moaned her pleasure aloud, too far gone to be shocked at the noises she was making. Her cries of pleasure seemed to fuel his desire.

Angling himself so he lay across her, his elbows bearing his weight, Ian sought her mouth once more. His fingers played across her ripe, ravenous body. She wriggled her hips beneath him, unmindfully asking him to complete the act. He groaned, deep and ragged, low in his throat. The primitive sound quickened her pulse. She opened her eyes.