The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (12 page)

He rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Yes, oh, yes, Ian.”

A smile of pure male dominance crept across Ian’s angular face. She shifted restlessly beneath him. Her bent knee brushed his engorged manhood, and he gasped. Gritting his teeth, he buried his face against her shoulder.

He lifted his head, and she was ensnared by his molten, passion-filled eyes. Laughing in self-depreciation, he apologized. “I’m afraid I’ve been without a woman far too long to take this as slowly as I intended, sweeting. You’re such a temptress, I can’t wait any longer. I’ll make it up to you next time, I swear.”

He captured her mouth in a plundering kiss. Without warning, he cupped her buttocks, parted her legs, and surged into her with one fierce thrust.

A cry caught in Vangie’s throat. She went rigid beneath him, wrenching her mouth from his. Dear God. He was buried deep within in her. It was excruciating. Her insides were ablaze. He was immense, his length unbearable. He’d torn something inside her. She’d felt it give way.

Scrunching her face against the pain, she fisted her hands in the sheets. Where was the pleasure Aunt Adélaid spoke of— that Ian promised? Hot, salty tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. Surely there was no pleasure in this. Vangie couldn’t stifle her soft sobs. It hurt. Hurt most awfully. He was killing her with his great deformity.

“Shh, love. I’m so sorry, sweeting.” Deep regret laced Ian’s voice.

She continued to weep softly as his body moved in a slow, steady rhythm within her. Gradually the pain ebbed, replaced by a vague, fluttery tingle.

A few moments later, he stiffened, a low guttural moan, issuing from the depths of his throat. He collapsed atop her, his heavy breathing rasping against her shoulder. Something sticky trickled onto her thighs. Mind numb, she lay unmoving beneath him.
It
had been dreadful.

Well, truth to tell, not all of it. The beginning was marvelous, but the end—

Vangie shuddered in remembered pain.

Ian withdrew from Vangie, then rolled to his side, facing her. With her back to him, she curled into a protective ball, weeping softly. He traced a visual path from her shoulders to her thighs with his gaze, and then made the return journey. She’d a butterfly shaped birthmark on her right buttock. He reached to touch it. His hand hovered. He didn’t have the right to caress her—not now.

He’d made a grave miscalculation, not only as to her readiness to receive him, but as to her virtuousness.

She was,
had been
, an innocent.

God’s blood, what had he done?

When he’d felt her tight barrier tearing away, her strangled cry stabbed him to his core. Even then, he couldn’t stop. In her innocence, she’d taken him past the point of no return.
Never in his life had Ian felt as helpless, or as much self-condemnation and self-loathing as he did at this moment.  

Damnation.

He could still hear her pleas to wait to consummate their vows. She wasn’t being coy or denying him her bed. She was an innocent maid, frightened to bed a man she didn’t know. He felt her sobs, each shuddering sigh of her slender form, tearing into his gut like a knife twisting his vitals. He needed to console her every bit as much as she needed consoling.

Tenderly wrapping his arms around her, he tucked Vangie against his chest. She stiffened from head to toe but didn’t resist. Self-castigation thrummed through him. He’d treated her poorly. She’d not deserved the appalling things he’d said to her. Guilt shafted through him again.

She should have been introduced to passion with care and tenderness, not untamed lust while his cruel, hateful words echoed in her ears. He was a blind fool, a rogue of the worst sort.
Yes, an arrogant, ignorant ass.
He should be rejoicing over Vangie’s innocence. Instead, he felt like a man who had stolen someone’s sole, most treasured possession.

In truth, he had.

Running a soothing hand along her neck and arm, then over her delicate shoulder, Ian attempted to comfort her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know sweeting. I was told you—”

She went rigid against him.

Yielding to the scant degree of wisdom and good sense he yet possessed, he changed tactics. Brushing aside the tendrils of hair enveloping her shoulder, he kissed it. “Sleep now, love; all will be better in the morn.”

How, he didn’t know.

He nuzzled Vangie’s neck. “Forgive me.”

One thing was for certain, they’d leave for Somersfield first thing. He’d a need to sift fallacy from fact. Something was too smoky by far.

Chapter 13

Clamoring and banging woke Vangie. Through half-open eyes, she saw Emmy, no . . . it was Irma, attempting to light the coals in the grate. Vangie rolled onto her side. She rested her cheek on one hand, staring at the pillow beside hers. Though the indentation from Ian’s head remained, he was gone. She’d known he would be.

Her gaze shifted to the canopied top. A smile tempted the corners of her mouth. Garlands of pink roses hung from bedpost to bedpost. How could she have missed them last night?

Because she’d been otherwise engaged.

She’d heard his plea for forgiveness. She lay awake long after he’d fallen asleep, still cradling her in his arms. He’d not heard her whispered, “
Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del
. I forgive you, and may God forgive you as I do.”

She was no weak-willed, timid milksop. Roma made the best of whatever lot was cast their way. They found happiness where they could. She sat upright, then scooted against the fluffy pillows, tugging the bedcovering higher to hide her nakedness. Yawning behind her hand, she froze.

The floor. Her gaze flew to the other side of the room. No trace of last night’s debacle remained. Had Ian seen to the mess to prevent gossip? From the corner of her eye, she searched the dressing table. The ill-fated brush and comb sat neatly atop it. Everything else had disappeared.

Irma handed Vangie her faded green robe, behaving like it was the most ordinary thing in the world to wake a naked woman in the morn. Mayhap it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. The notion settled sickeningly in Vangie’s belly.

“Your bath water is heating, my lady, and I’ve brought you breakfast.” Irma drew the linen and lace curtains open. Bright morning light spilled into the room.

Vangie blinked against the sudden brilliance.

“You’re to leave for Somersfield as soon as you’ve dressed, and I’ve packed your belongings.”

Vangie slipped off the bed, then wrapped the robe around her. She padded to the table where Irma had arranged her breakfast. Securing the garment’s tie at her waist, Vangie gingerly took a seat.

“Somersfield?” She took a sip of savory tea before nibbling a hot, buttered muffin.

“His lordship’s country estate in Northumberland.”

“Irma, mightn’t I bathe straightaway?”

“It’s Emma, my lady.”

Oh bother, of course it was.

Making for the rumpled bed, she sent Vangie a quizzical glance. “Before you eat, your ladyship?”

Was that so preposterous? Ducking her head, Vangie nodded, her hair swirling around her hips.

Please, don’t ask why
.

Emma tossed back the bedding. “Of course, my—” She stopped short, unsuccessfully stifling a gasp. She spun around and scurried to the door.

“I’ll see to it at once.”

Teacup raised to her lips, Vangie’s gaze strayed to the bed. A large stain marred the surface. Her blood. Was that much blood normal? Ian was very . . . er . . .
well-endowed,
and his great size had torn her.

What would the servants think? For she was certain, even now, Emma was filling their ears.

Tea sloshed over the cup’s rim, and the china rattled noisily when Vangie clanked the cup onto the saucer with more force than intended. Standing, she moved to stare at the indisputable proof of her virginity. She’d not completely ceased bleeding to her immense mortification. Snatching the bedcoverings over the stain, a hot flush stole across her face.  

A few minutes later a knock rattled the chamber door. “My lady, it’s Mrs. Parker and the staff with your bath water,” came the housekeeper’s muffled voice through the thick wood. 

Vangie wrapped the robe tighter around her, clutching the neckline together with one hand. Moving to stand near the window, as far from the door as she could, she called, “Come in.”

Mrs. Parker and Emma, carrying an armful of towels, bustled into the room. They were followed by three under-footman, all toting large pails of water. The housekeeper directed the men to fill the copper tub in the corner, watching their every move with a practiced eye. Shooing the footman from the room the moment they’d completed their task, her gaze settled on the nearly untouched breakfast tray. “Have you finished with your meal, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m afraid I’ve not much of an appetite this morning.”

“Humph, it’s no wonder,” harrumphed the housekeeper, her gaze meeting Emma’s across the room.

They knew about her quarrel with Ian. Vangie wanted to melt into the floor. She clenched the comforting robe tighter.

Mrs. Parker took the towels from the maid. “Emma, please remove her ladyship’s tray, and retrieve the items I prepared below.”

Dipping a curtsy, the freckled-face maid hastily gathered the remnants of Vangie’s breakfast, then exited the room.

Standing beside the tub, Mrs. Parker removed a bottle from her starched apron pocket, then poured some liquid into the water. Slipping the bottle into the pocket from whence it came, she then bent over to swish the water with her hand. Drying her hand on the pristine apron she said, “My lady, your bath awaits.”

Smiling her appreciation, Vangie slipped off her robe, past the point of caring whether a complete stranger saw her unclothed. She settled into the warm, soothing water, sighing in pleasure. An aroma wafted past her nostrils.
Roses, naturally
. She strongly suspected Mrs. Parker held the penchant for both the color pink and roses.

The housekeeper made herself busy, tidying the room, tsking and clucking the whole while. Her movements stopped when she too spied the tell-tale mark upon the bedding while removing the linens. Vangie’s face burned with mortification. Wasn’t it normal to bleed? Aunt Adélaid had mentioned it. The pitying look Mrs. Parker sent Vangie had her sinking deeper into the bath water.

Several minutes later, Emma returned with a basket.

All brusque business, the housekeeper assisted Vangie from the tub, then wrapped her in an enormous linen towel. She handed Vangie a jar. “It’s an ointment. It will aid in the healing.”

Vangie removed the lid, sniffing the aromatic mixture
.
It reminded her of one of
Puri Daj’s
herbal concoctions. Mrs. Parker lifted some soft cloths from the basket. She hesitated, casting a glance in Emma’s direction. The maid was busy tending the hearth. Lowering her voice, Mrs. Parker said, “To catch the remnants of your torn maidenhead.”

Vangie averted her eyes. This was really beyond the pale. Did all the servants know? She clutched the towel tighter, like an enormous shield against the embarrassment oozing from every pore. Truly grateful, yet equally humiliated, she thanked the housekeeper. “You’re most kind.”

Mrs. Parker tsked comfortingly. “You’ll be mended in a day or two.”

She passed Vangie her threadbare shift and mended stockings. Shooting another look toward Emma, Mrs. Parker muttered for Vangie’s ears alone, “So long as your rutting husband leaves you be.”

After taking his usual chair at the breakfast table, Ian opened the newspaper folded neatly before him. He stared blindly at the headline. His body was replete—his mind anything but.

He’d fallen asleep with Vangie nestled securely in his arms. Dawn’s glow woke him this morning, prompting him to edge from the bed. The coals burned low. They offered little in the way of warmth, yet emitted enough frail light, that he could appreciate the vision of his slumbering wife.

She lay on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, and her ebony hair fanned across her pillow. Several silky curls curved across her ivory shoulder and back. The dark arc of her lashes was a startling contrast to the porcelain cheeks they caressed. Her lips, still rosy-red from his fervent kisses, were parted as she breathed softly in her sleep.

The sheet had slipped half-way to her waist when he’d risen, revealing the sumptuous curve of a breast. She shifted and the sheet dropped lower.

Ian sucked in a hissing breath. The loveliness of her breast was marred by a slight bruise.  Had he done that to her? Blister it all. Tenderly draping the bedclothes over her, he vowed he’d make it up to her.

By God, his stepmother and sister had better have a good explanation for defaming Vangie’s character. And for sending him on a wild goose chase to snare a siren-turned-angel.

The clattering of china as Lynch prepared Ian’s tea interrupted his reverie. He glanced through the open door. Was Vangie awake yet? Two maids and a footman stood beyond the doorway, whispering. Catching Ian’s perusal, they ceased talking and scattered.

Returning his attention to the room, he frowned. What was afoot with the staff? He’d been met with a series of dark scowls and looks of reproach from his usually jovial servants the entire morning.

Lynch finished pouring Ian’s tea. He placed the cup and a plate of food before his master. He half-turned to the sideboard muttering, “I forgot the sugar—”

Ian studied Lynch. Something was awry. The man never forgot anything.
Ever
. And where was Mrs. Parker? Ian hadn’t seen her all morning. If anything was amiss, Lynch would be the first to know.

“Lynch?”

The butler faced him. “Sir?”

Crooking a brow, Ian met the butler’s indecipherable gaze. Ian took a bite of sausage. Did he detect the minutest bit of frost tingeing the single word? “Is something afoot?”

Lynch pursed his lips and looked down his rather long, hooked nose. Disapproval was etched across his haughty countenance.

“Perhaps, my lord,” he sniffed disdainfully, “you should make that inquiry of the new
Lady Warrick.”

Ian paused, his kipper laden fork almost to his mouth. Frosty, to be sure, and no small measure of censure as well. “Lady Warrick?”

“Indeed,” intoned Lynch, his voice ringing with disapproval.

Lynch turned to the sideboard, muttering beneath his breath. Ian distinctly heard, “Inconsiderate . . . poor innocent . . . lout,” before the butler gathered the tea service, and with another loud sniff of disapproval, quit the room.

Placing his fork on the table, Ian wiped his mouth, before tossing his napkin onto his full plate. He shoved from the table, then strode from the breakfast room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made straightaway to Vangie’s chamber, entering without knocking.

Mrs. Parker and Emma were fussing over his bride. Upon spying him, Vangie dipped her head, lowering her gaze to the floor. The maid continued to twist and pin his wife’s raven hair.

Patting Vangie on the shoulder, Mrs. Parker gathered the bed and bath linens before heading for the door. Ian heard her mutter, “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you great oaf,” as she flounced from the room.

As if compelled by some unseen force, Ian gaze was drawn to the unmade bed. There in the center, like an unholy beacon, a blemish marred the mattress. Blast and damn.

He swung his gaze to Vangie, who continued to be obsessed with the dust particles floating near the floor. He looked to Emma. She glared at him, accusation and condemnation in her eyes. Pursing her lips, she dipped her gaze to her mistress’s hair once more. The unfamiliar heat of a flush stole across Ian’s face. It would seem the whole staff thought he was a monstrous beast.

A thought intruded. Fiend seize it.

Did they think he’d forced himself on Vangie? He couldn’t very well assemble the staff and explain otherwise. Humiliated at the notion, he ran a finger round the front of his neckcloth. He’d cleaned up the mess on the floor to still any gossip, but he hadn’t considered
that
. His gaze flicked to the bed. There was nothing for it then. Let them think what they will.

He caressed Vangie with his gaze. It was what she thought that mattered. “Emma, please go below, and ask Mrs. Plumperbuns to prepare a basket for our journey.”

“Yes, my lord. Just one more curl to pin.” Securing the last strand, Emma met Vangie’s eyes in the mirror. “You look lovely, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

Emma dipped a quick curtsy, mumbling, “My lord,” before she hurried from the room.

Feeling as awkward as a lad in short pants, instead of an experienced man of the world, Ian approached his wife. “Are you. . .? Did I. . .?”

Finally, heaving a frustrated sigh, he grasped her hands and drew her to her feet. “I’m sorry, sweeting. I tried to be gentle.”

Lifting her head, Vangie met his eyes. Undisguised melancholy lingered in hers.   She attempted a smile, though her lower lip quivered the merest bit. “I’m fine. Please, don’t concern yourself. It’s the way of nature, as God intended.”

Ian’s chest thrummed with guilt. His sweet bride was reassuring him,
again
, when she was the injured party. He was only now beginning to realize how blessed, rather than cursed, he was at having taken her to wife.

So why had Lucinda and Charlotte done their utmost to tarnish Vangie’s character to him? Why had they been eager to see him depart for London to defend the family’s honor?

He pressed his lips together. What a twist of fate. Vangie wasn’t the villain in this marriage. He was.