The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (22 page)

The softest touch of his lips, the whisper of her sigh, and an onslaught bubbled from within her, breaking down each of her reservations. This was right. It was meant to be.

Every doubt fled on the wings of wonder when the velvet softness of his lips met hers. She rejoiced in his firm mouth on hers, invoking tantalizing sensations in the most interesting of places. Tilting her head, she allowed him better access. She parted her mouth, welcoming him, inviting him to explore its depths.

Faith, but the man knew how to kiss.

Groaning, Ian trapped Vangie within his arms. Her tentative response vanquished him, shook him, igniting his passion until he was consumed with her. When her slender arms clasped behind his neck, he was overcome. This kind-hearted, generous woman held no ill will, but forgave freely, giving of herself unreservedly. She felt something too. It was apparent in her fervent, if somewhat untried responses.

Holding her tight, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, he yielded to the pent-up emotion he’d buried deep inside. He conveyed his adoration with his mouth.

A distant sound intruded. With one final kiss, he lifted his head, then surveyed the perimeter. Two forms lurked under the trees, one on either end of the pond. The first, a swarthy complexioned man turned swiftly, and in one deft move, leapt onto his horse. He vanished into the trees bordering Somersfield.

Who was he
?

The other, a darkly clad form hovering in the shade was a woman. Icy fingers of unease clawed the length of Ian’s spine.

Lucinda. Even at this distance, he sensed her rage.

Chapter 24

Vangie awoke the next morning to her Ailsa warbling a ribald ballad. She lay watching the maid blundering around the chamber. She seemed determined to wake her. She kept slicing covert glances at the bed, as she flung the draperies open, banged about in the fire grate, and sang much too loudly for Vangie to possibly sleep.

Peeking at the servant through half-closed lids, and squinting at the torrent of sunshine now permeating the chamber, Vangie considered feigning sleep just to see her response.

“You’re awake at last.”

Oh dear, she was caught.   Vangie sat up, smiling good naturedly. “It was somewhat difficult to continue sleeping with you. . .”

“Oh, I know,” Ailsa interrupted, oblivious to her breach of decorum, “but I couldn’t wait to wake you.”

Clearly.

She pointed to a mound of garments piled atop a nearby chair. “Look.”

“Lord Warrick said I was to select some of Miss Charlotte’s dresses for you to wear until your new wardrobe arrives.”

Ailsa snatched a gauzy champagne colored gown and held it before her. “Isn’t it lovely?”

She tossed it aside, grabbing a filmy white and gold gown next. “Set your peepers on this one, will you? Coo, it shines like the stars, it does.”

Intrigued despite herself, Vangie allowed Ailsa to persuade her to try on a dozen of the gowns. “I’ve never owned more than two or three dresses at once.”

Vangie paused, as she lifted a green confection over her head. She eyed the gowns strewn on the chair and bed. How could she choose which one to wear? They were all lovely. At last, she selected a pale teal dress trimmed in primrose. Its cheery colors matched her mood.

She was taller than Charlotte, but overall, the gowns were a reasonably good fit. A trifle loose at the waist and snug at the bodice, but certainly a vast improvement over the rags she’d arrived in. The slippers were another matter. While Vangie’s feet weren’t overly large, Charlotte’s were as petite as a child’s. It didn’t seem right wearing the lovely gowns with her worn slippers, but there was no help for it.

The next ten days passed in idyllic peace. Vangie’s appetite improved, and the odd odors previously accompanying her meals disappeared. The dowager truly must have been feeding her food on the verge of spoiling. The knowledge didn’t surprise Vangie.

Her stomach continued to object on occasion to some of the delicacies cook prepared. Truth be told, Vangie wasn’t accustomed to such rich fare or so much of it. Aunt Eugenia had hoarded the most delectable foodstuffs for herself and Uncle Percival. Vangie smiled. To gaze upon his emaciated form, would cause one to wonder if the man ever consumed nourishment.

She was cautiously content in her new position as Lady Warrick. A few neighbors called to pay their respects. She found herself slipping into the role of lady of the manor with a great deal more ease than she’d anticipated.

She’d sent word to Roma relatives that she was well, and
Puri Daj
was to pay a visit this Saturday. Vangie wanted to ask Grandmother to concoct the medicine from the yews that eased rheumatism pain. Mrs. Tannsen suffered from the ailment.

Vangie wouldn’t attempt the mixture. One had to be extremely careful with yew. It could be deadly in the wrong dosage.

Of the Dowager Viscountess Warrick, Vangie saw nothing, for which she was eternally grateful. She never wanted to encounter that woman again.

Ian was doting and attentive. He didn’t make any husbandly demands, but he made no qualms regarding his desire for her either. Vangie wasn’t sure what to make of it. If he desired her, why didn’t he seek her bed?

She made no objections to his overtures. She quite liked his attentiveness. And he was, oh so, charming in his attempts to woo her. A tender, fleeting caress here. A skimming touch of his fingertips there. Multitudes of feather-light kisses dropped on the nape of her neck or shoulder while she was bent upon a task.

Yes, he pursued her with feline persistence and catlike patience. She never thought she’d enjoy being prey.

If only he would snare her.

Had he known how effective his attentions were, Vangie was sure he’d have been wallowing in masculine pride. She found herself often woolgathering, immersed in fanciful musing, of which her handsome husband was the cause. On more than one occasion, her daydreaming brought a bloom of color to her cheeks.

Faith, he had her at sixes and sevens, she admitted to herself after dinner two evenings later. She and Ian sat in the drawing room. He was reading silently while she crocheted a fichu.

She tried to concentrate on the stitches and loops. His close proximity, and the sheer maleness exuding from him caused her to tear out missed stitches several times. She paused, eyeing the piece. Drat, it was much too long on the end.

That’s what comes of trying to crochet while wondering whether one’s husband sleeps naked.

Vangie began counting the stitches, then stopped abruptly, her jaw sagging.

Dear Lord, she hadn’t.

Yes, she had.

No, she couldn’t have.

She peered at her work.
But she had
.

It was the length and generally the same shape as his . . .
disfigurement
. Gads. She began frantically unraveling it, wrapping the yarn around and around her hand.

“What are you crocheting, Vangie?”

She froze, scrunching the
thing
, in her fist. She looked up. When had he stopped reading, and how long had he been watching her? Good Lord, had he seen? She smiled. At least she thought she did. Her lips were turned upward, weren’t they?

“A fichu. Charlotte’s gowns are too revealing for my figure.”

Well, listen to that. She sounded quite normal.

Casually unwinding the yarn from around her hand, she noticed his gaze slide to the material stretched taut across her breasts. A generous portion of her flesh was exposed above the low décolletage.

Ian murmured throatily, “I like the fit.”

Startled at the timbre of his voice, Vangie’s gaze flashed to his. Spying the ravenous look in his eyes, her breath hitched, her mouth rounding into an O of surprise. His scorching gaze dropped to the mounds straining against the muslin. Her nipples hardened.

Dash it all, why must they always do that?

He closed his book and held it up. “I’ve read the same passage four times and have no greater knowledge now what the page contains than I did when I began reading.”

At least he hadn’t crocheted a . . .
willy
.

Ian set his book aside, then plucked the crocheting from Vangie’s hands. He edged closer, his thigh pressing intimately against hers, then wrapped one arm around her shoulders. Tilting her chin upward, his gaze lingered on her lips. The slow descent of his head allowed her ample opportunity to resist should she be so inclined.

She wasn’t in the least.

Vangie bent closer to him, one hand resting on his marble-like thigh, an inch from his maleness. When their lips met, passion crashed over her in undulating waves. Flooded with unfamiliar sensation, she could only float on the torrent of want Ian masterfully invoked.

His tongue toyed with her lips, licking the crease until she opened to his insistent entreaty. With his mouth, he taught her what she was eager to learn. Her hesitant responses became bolder as consuming desire swept her along.

She moaned low in her throat, protesting when Ian tore his mouth from her lips. He trailed feathery kisses down her neck, edging lower and lower, until they skimmed her breasts swelling above her bodice.

Tugging the tight fabric, he grinned in shameless delight as her breasts popped free, their taut tips beckoning him. When his wet mouth and lapping tongue closed over one jutting tip, Vangie collapsed against the settee. She was incapable of holding herself upright, so magnificent were the sensations pulsing through her breast and streaking to the rest of her body.

Moaning aloud, she pressed his dark head closer, burying her fingers in his hair, desperate for deeper contact. Obligingly, he drew the fullness of one breast further into his mouth, sucking and tugging at the swollen globe.

His teeth grazed the engorged nipple and Vangie sucked in a tremulous breath, gasping, “Yes, Ian, oh yes.”

She was mindless against the onslaught, of the quivers spreading through her body. She ran frantic hands across the muscular ridges and planes of his chest and torso. He shifted away.

“No. . .”

He smiled wickedly at her mew of protest.

Ian shrugged off his jacket, then his waistcoat, before quickly untying his cravat. He unbuttoned his shirt, then yanked the fabric from his waistband, letting it slide off his broad shoulders.

Her hair unpinned, both breasts fully exposed, she lay on the settee watching him. My but he was a finely built man.

Vangie reached out and flattened her palm against the smattering of dark hair covering his chest. The curls tapered to a seductive triangle before disappearing into his unfastened pantaloons. A tell-tale bulge proudly strained against the opening.

He reached for the hem of her gown, scrunched half-way up her thighs, and never breaking eye-contact, edged the material upward, inch by inch. Shimmering with the intensity of dozens of miniature stars, the flecks in his eyes held a promise.

Flicking her tongue out, she moistened her lips. Her small rasping gasps gently jiggled her breasts.

Brushing his calloused fingers over the flesh of her inner thigh, Ian continued to raise her gown, swirling his fingertips over her. At last, with the barest whisper of a touch, he found her woman’s center. She involuntarily clamped her legs against his exploring fingers.

“Ian—”

“Open for me, sweeting.”

He nudged her neck, his tongue twirling deliciously across her skin, before he whispered huskily, “Let me pleasure you.”

After a few more moments of exquisite torture, she groaned in ardent defeat, and let her legs fall apart. In complete abandonment, she arched her hips into his experienced hand, fully yielded to the erotic play of his fingers.

He chuckled, a purely primitive response. His voice was a gravelly purr as he praised her.

“That’s it, darling. You’re so ready.”

Reality fled, as Ian worked his magic, smothering her breasts and lips with adoration, urging her on with words of love and passion. His whiskers scraped her sensitized flesh. Every pore, every nerve ending, awakened in anticipation.

Vangie tossed her head on the settee cushion, striving for what she knew not. What was he doing to her? Her hands clutched his rigid forearms and his muscled shoulders. Overcome, she had no inclination to be self-conscious or ashamed of the passion invoked sounds she breathed.

She gasped, nearly incoherent, “Ian . . . please—”

Sensual fire coursed through her veins, a demanding, aching thrumming at the vortex of her dampened pelvic curls. She groaned, her hips undulating frantically.

“I can bear no more.”

“Yes, you can, love,” Ian whispered against her mouth.

“Let go, sweeting. Let me take you to heaven. Come for me.”

He plunged his tongue into her mouth as he rotated his hand, expertly flicking her woman’s bud.

She felt the first quivers of her release before she yanked her mouth free, and throwing her head back, keened her pleasure. A kaleidoscope of colors erupted behind her eyes as sensation after pulsating, effervescent, sensation rippled through her.

Ian glided into Vangie before she finished climaxing. He remained perfectly still, feeling her muscles constricting rhythmically around his length. He gritted his teeth against the exquisite pull, resisting the urge to pour himself into her.

She raised passion-drugged eyes to his. The muscles in his neck bunched as he struggled for control sheathed in the midst of her hot depths. She would enjoy the full measure of their union this time, though from the stunned look on her lovely face, she’d not as yet realized he possessed her.

Ian rocked ever-so-gently.

Her eyes widened in startled wonder.   And now she did.

“You’re inside me?”

Ian growled, “Me and no other, ever.” He flexed his hips again.

She groaned, arching her back, and pushing her hips flush to his.

“It doesn’t hurt,” she gasped.

Sliding his hands beneath her buttocks, he tilted her hips, relishing in her cries of renewed bliss. He bent to claim her lips once more, promising, “You’ve had a mere sampling of passion’s rapture this night, my love.”

He withdrew, his distended tip hovering at her womanhood. “Now, you’ll experience the wholeness of ecstasy.” 

Plunging into Vangie, Ian fulfilled his pledge. He wrapped his arms around her, and driving into her with searing, feverish strokes, strove faster and faster. She crested the pinnacle, her euphoric cry mingling with his moan of ecstasy. One stroke later, he toppled into the abyss of consummate bliss.

Several moments passed before he stirred, withdrawing from his satiated wife. She lay sprawled beneath him, making no attempt to put her dress aright or cover herself.

Lifting her hand, she traced the line of his jaw before placing a kiss on his lips. Her voice husky, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Overcome, Ian lifted his head and gazed into her sincere eyes. “It’s I who should be thanking you. I treated you appallingly. . .”

“Shh,” Vangie placed a finger over his lips. “That’s behind us. I much prefer what we just shared.”

She frowned then, the slightest furrowing of her smooth brow and downward tilting of her perfect mouth.  

“Except. . .”