The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (9 page)

No one mentioned anyone else being present. Vangie sent a panicked glance to Aunt Adélaide who offered a wan smile but shrugged her shoulders. She doesn’t know either?

“Thank you, Lady Fitzgibbons,” Uncle Gideon said.

For pity’s sake. She still had the name wrong.

Uncle Gideon took her by the arm and escorted her through the wide open double doors. Was he afraid she might bolt?

Too late for that now.

She would do this. She must do this. She squeezed the spray of flowers she held so tightly, the stems nearly snapped.

Lord, how could she do this?

From across the room, Vangie’s eyes met Lord Warrick’s. Had he been watching the door? She trembled when his cool gaze slowly traveled over her. A tingling followed the route of his eyes, settling in her bosom when his gaze lingered there, before rising to meet hers once more. With a sardonic twist of his lips, he turned to speak to the cleric.

She glanced down at her gown. It was the same silver confection she’d worn to that inauspicious ball. She’d refused to purchase a new gown.

“It would be a sorry waste of funds,” she’d told Aunt Adélaid.

From the pile of flowers Yvette toted into her room this morning, a lovely bridal bouquet and hair wreath of peach-tinted roses, orange blossoms, and ivy, had been created. One of the lady’s maids—Dora? Cora? Flora? Vangie had no idea what her name was—had spent an entire hour arranging her hair into an elaborate Grecian coiffure with the wreath carefully pinned atop.

Vangie wore a pearl and diamond pendant with matching drop earrings; her wedding gift from Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid. As her aunt draped the necklace round her neck Vangie asked, “Don’t pearls signify tears?”

“Ah, yes, but it’s good luck for a bride to cry on her wedding day and. . .” Aunt Adélaid dangled one of the earrings to catch the sunlight, “diamonds mean affection.”

Vangie fingered the large pearl resting against her chest. She’d wager there were more tears than affection as a result of this union. Uncle Gideon guided her to Lord Warrick’s side. Her traitorous feet obeyed his gentle urging. The whole while her mind screamed for her to turn and run.

Standing before the reverend, a squat, sallow fellow, smelling of garlic and brandy, Vangie almost smiled at the irony. It was somehow fitting this offensive man, whose dour countenance suggested that anything remotely resembling joy or happiness should be considered blasphemous, presided over the ceremony.

From the corner of her eye, she peeked at Yvette standing beside her, resplendent in a pale apricot gown. The false smile her cousin had pasted on her lovely face didn’t diminish the unhappiness reflected in Yvette’s eyes. Vangie looked away lest she give in to the despair simmering beneath the surface of her own carefully constructed poise.

A striking man Vangie didn’t know stood next to Lord Warrick. His turquoise eyes—she’d never seen eyes that color before—were riveted on Yvette, though her cousin didn’t seem to notice. Vangie cast a hesitant glance at Lord Warrick. His stern profile was marred by another large scrape on his jaw.

Whatever had he been about this time?

She presumed the other guests in attendance, no more than a score total, consisted of the powerful nobility who’d been called upon to dispel the gossip surrounding the hasty wedding.

Her gaze downcast, Vangie stood beside Lord Warrick, quietly reciting the vows. The icy contempt in his eyes earlier had turned her blood cold.

To the assembled guests, she supposed her downcast eyes bespoke modesty. But for her, a most reluctant bride, it was the means to keep the burgeoning tears from spilling onto her cheeks. Once they started, she’d become a blubbering fool. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her lips from trembling. Sniveling females exasperated her, though she greatly feared she was becoming one herself.

Only once during the ceremony did her gaze lift to meet Lord Warrick’s. The rector intoned, “To love, honor, and cherish, until death do you part.”

The cleric’s monotone rendering of the vows mirrored the desolation in Vangie’s heart and most likely, the black fury in Lord Warrick’s. Would he say, “
I do
,” or would he spare them from this catastrophe? Albeit, the humiliation should he do so, would be insufferable.

Which was worse, a forced marriage or being jilted?

Or bearing the label of a demi-rep?

Lord Warrick’s silver-eyed gaze, brimming with cynicism, held hers captive. “I do.”

Even as he uttered the words, his piercing gaze shifted ever-so-subtly. Possessiveness and a hint of a promise she didn’t understand reflected in their arresting depths. A slight tremor shook her. His lips twitched and slanted, inching upward, promising something she didn’t recognize—didn’t understand.

Surely, it wasn’t relief she felt. That and some other peculiar emotion she couldn’t identify tumbled round her middle, muddling her thoughts. They left her feeling strange and woozy, as if she’d not eaten in days.

Would casting up her accounts save her from the marriage bed?

Chapter 10

“You didn’t eat much,
wife
.”

They were alone on the dance floor. Ian deftly twirled Vangie around his aunt’s smallish ballroom, mindful of the interested gazes watching them.

Stealing a glance at the smiling and nodding onlookers, he suppressed a frown. He felt like a curiosity on display at Bullock’s Museum. He wished others would take to the floor, so he could dispense with the devoted bridegroom facade.

The twelve courses at dinner had been torturous. His wife hadn’t taken more than a dozen bites nor said as many words. He’d tried to eat the succulent foods Aunt Edith had gone to such efforts to have prepared, but his anger made everything dry as chalk and every bit as tasteless.

“I’d not much appetite, my lord.”

He chuckled. “Don’t you think you might address me by my given name,
wife
?”

“Why?” she asked pertly. “I’ve known you but four days, certainly not long enough to be so familiar with you.”

He lowered his head, breathing in her ear, very aware every eye in the room was trained on them. He’d give them something to gossip about. “Because I want you to,
wife
, and you did promise to obey.”

He nipped her ear.

She jumped and a tiny yelp of surprise escaped before she clamped her lips together. Her eyes were shooting sparks again; only this time they were directed at him.

“What’s my name,
wife
?”

“Please, don’t call me that. I too have a name, as you well know.”

Drawing her closer, her breasts pressing against the breadth of his chest and cresting the edge of her bodice, he murmured, “Indeed, but Evangeline sounds . . . angelic, and we both know you’re no such thing.”

“Pardon?” She stiffened, trying to shove away from him. “I don’t under—”

His head descended again. “Say it, or I’ll trace your ear with my tongue.”

He grinned as her breath hissed from between clenched teeth. She stumbled, her fingers digging into his shoulder and hand. A very becoming flush swept across her face.

“Will you cease?” Her worried gaze careened around the room. “We’re being watched.”

Voice husky, he said, “Say my name, sweeting.”

Giving her a gentle squeeze, he started to dip his head, caressing her elegant neck with his hot breath.

“Ian, your name is Ian,” she gasped breathlessly, twisting her head away.

Did she know how sultry her voice sounded? A chuckle rumbled through his chest. He’d no doubt his smile reflected his satisfaction.

“
Bostaris
,” she mumbled beneath her breath. She tried to wrench away again.

Bostaris
? He was sure that wasn’t a compliment. His smile widened. He splayed his hand across the gentle slope of her spine, holding her firmly against him. His wife was a sensual thing. He’d but breathed in her ear, and she’d nearly melted onto the floor.

Vangie tilted her head upward. “Please, you’re holding me too tight. I can’t breathe.”

Ian immediately relaxed his embrace. Her gaze was fixed on his jaw.

“My equipage lost a wheel yesterday.”

She met his gaze for a moment before hers skittered away. “You are unharmed?”

“Except for this scratch.” He angled his scraped jawbone at her. And a nasty bruise on his thigh where he’d slammed into the side of the livery wagon. Never thought he’d be grateful for a pile of manure and straw. Convenient too, to drop a wheel in front of the livery. They tended to his horse, while the blacksmith next door repaired the wheel.

The music ended, and Stapleton claimed Vangie for the next set. Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, and Ian’s close friend, made his bow to Yvette. They too made their way onto the floor. Soon the room was full of happy couples, stepping and turning to the lilting music.

Leaning against a marble fireplace mantle, Ian watched his bride. Tonight, there was no gay smile on her pink lips while she danced. His mouth skewed into a humorless smirk. He’d kept his vow all right. He shook his head, at the incongruity of it.

Vangie would dally no longer. He’d not tolerate fast behavior from his wife. God only knew how many others had enjoyed her favors, but he’d make it perfectly clear where her affections better lay from this point forward. He’d be claiming no by-blow as his.

His gaze never straying from her, Ian permitted himself a moment of cynical musing. It was outside of enough. He’d gotten shackled with that Jezebel, because he’d suffered a lapse in judgment, allowed a moment’s tenderheartedness.

When had he become such a cod’s head?

But her lips were blue
.

Yes, and look at where that landed him? Forced to marry the chit whose undoing he’d intended. Was God laughing? For the devil certainly was.

It was fortunate she was pleasing to look upon, quite exquisite if he were wholly forthright. Her figure was nicely rounded in the appropriate places. His new wife was a passionate woman too. He sensed it, though it galled him to think how many men had already explored her luscious curves.

After that tantalizing dance, Ian
was keenly anticipating their wedding night. Theirs would not be a marriage of convenience. It would be consummated. He needed an heir. Why the continuation of his family line was suddenly of such importance to him remained a puzzle. One he didn’t want to explore, let alone solve at present.

How to keep his bride from sharing her favors was easy to remedy. Closet her at Somersfield with strict directives as to her mobility and the company she’d be permitted to keep. Once she’d produced heirs,
his heirs,
he didn’t give a fig what she did.

He cast a glance to the mantle clock. Not yet.

From beneath half-closed eyes, he studied her as she floated by in her uncle’s arms. He rescinded his last thought. He might be inclined to indulge himself and sample her charms for an extended duration. She did quicken his blood, though he attributed his arousal to lust. He’d long been without a woman. What other explanation was there for the nagging ache in his innards?

Aunt Edith approached, a knowing smile teasing her lips. “Can’t keep your eyes off your beautiful bride I see.”

He had no intention of discussing his wife and pointedly changed the subject. Surveying the decorated room, he angled his head. “Thank you for this.”

She smiled. “I did it as much for her as you. She needed a pretty wedding. Her life’s not been easy.”

Unlike her virtue.

Laying a bejeweled hand on his arm, Aunt Edith searched his face. “I’m pleased you decided to give her your mother’s ring. Does she know?”

“No.”

She stared at him for an intense moment. “I’ve always admired your commitment to honor and justice. The least you can do is to extend the same courtesy to your new wife, Ian.”

Her gaze shifted to Vangie before she admonished him. “Give her a chance. She deserves that much from you.”

“My wife has gotten precisely what she deserves.”

“Balderdash!” Aunt Edith drew her brows together in disapproval.

“You’re not the only one who was forced into marriage, nephew,” she snapped. “It’s much more difficult for a woman than a man. Believe me—
I know
.”

She slapped him on the arm with her damnable fan. “Stop being such an arrogant cork-brain.”

With that declaration, she proudly lifted her head and swept from his side, nodding as she passed Lord Sethwick making his way to Ian.

Feeling like a chastised schoolboy, he turned his gaze to Sethwick.

“Warrick, I’m afraid I’m off. I’ve been delivered a communiqué. Night Hawk left an urgent missive at the War Office.” He smiled and shook Ian’s hand. “Congratulations, old chap.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t think you’d be leg-shackled at twenty and seven.” Sethwick turned to look at Vangie, though his aqua gaze lingered far longer on her cousin. He grinned at Ian. “Your bride’s a beauty.”

Ian’s gaze roamed over Vangie. “Indeed.”

Vangie had been observing her new husband while she danced. Lord War—Ian looked anything but happy while conversing with Lady Fitzgibbons and Lord . . . what-ever-his-name was. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t understand why he’d gone through with it. The marriage benefited her far more than he.

She mentally ticked off his attributes.

He was handsome, a Corinthian, titled, and fairly well-heeled. And, she’d gleaned from the accounts everyone was eager to fill her ears with, a decent man, though known for his temper, dark moods, and obstinacy. He was fond of horseflesh, a top sawyer in fact, and his pugilist and firearm skills were renowned.

She turned and dipped, stepped forward and backward in time to the music. It was rumored he was somewhat of an intellect as well. He didn’t gamble, womanize, or drink overly much. Or so she’d been assured by Aunt Adélaid who’d been trying to reassure her, the match wasn’t a complete tragedy.

Her dear aunt had failed in her attempt to comfort Vangie. She was tempted to indulge in another sulk. No, she mentally chastised herself. Roma were made of sterner stuff. As if lifted upright by an invisible hand, she raised her chin and straightened her spine.

There
must
be something advantageous about this union.

Another turn, a hop and skip.

She could paint until her heart was content.
One.

There would be darling children—eventually.
Two.

Poverty and deprivation wouldn’t be her constant companions. She’d no longer be treated as a servant. And perhaps as a titled lady, she could help the Roma.
Three, four and five.

There she’d done it. There were a goodly number of things this marriage brought her, besides a most reticent groom. Puffing out a little breath, Vangie forced her lips upward and nodded at something Uncle Gideon asked her. To be honest, she’d not a clue what it was. He could’ve been speaking about flying monkeys or singing kidney pie, and she’d be none the wiser.

But what could Ian find positive pertaining to their marriage? She supposed there was a marriage settlement involved. Uncle Gideon would have insisted upon it, despite her adamant protests. It was mortifying to be bartered into marriage. Any man could be purchased if the inducement was large enough.

Skipping the length of the line of dancers, she cast a glance at her glowering groom. Mayhap the marriage settlement influenced his decision to proceed with the marriage. Or, perchance he was as chivalrous as she hoped, and his selfless act was indeed to protect her honor.

And pigs ride camels.

Peering at him over her uncle’s shoulder, she saw a shadow flicker across his harsh features. No, Ian wasn’t pleased to be wed. W
hy
had he gone through with it then?

Ma-sha-llah
. As God wills,
Puri Daj
would say. Could it be as simple as that? Not likely.

Vangie suppressed a sigh. Will this falderal never end? The pretense of portraying an ecstatic bride was trying. The day had been a whirlwind of activity. She was done over, emotionally and physically. After eating but a few mouthfuls of flavorless breakfast, and enjoying a long soak in lily of the valley scented bathwater, she’d been preened and groomed for hours.

Then there had been a most embarrassing discussion with Aunt Adélaid regarding wifely duties.

“Vangie, the union of a man and woman is a beautiful thing. There’s pain the first time of course, but a considerate husband will do his best to lessen it and introduce you to pleasure.”

Vangie wanted to die of chagrin. Worrisome thoughts she’d shoved to a remote corner of her mind consumed her. Faith, surely Ian wouldn’t want to consummate the wedding tonight. They scarcely knew each other. Perhaps he could be persuaded to postpone the event for a few weeks.
Or months—

He was staring at her, with those brooding, slate eyes of his. She felt his gaze on her as surely as if he reached and trailed a finger over her cheek. He wanted her to look at him. She sensed it.

No, she wouldn’t.

He’d not find her easy to manipulate. Her gaze flitted about the room, landing here and there, hovering like a bee over a flower before darting on.

She would not look at him. Drat the man. Stop staring.

Her gaze strayed in Ian’s direction. She caught herself and pointedly turned her head pretending to be absorbed in the floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting a Grecian garden. She stumbled to a stop. Blast and bother.

It was as futile to resist his silent command as it had been to refuse to say his name earlier.
Or refuse to marry him.
He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

Vangie raised her reluctant gaze to his. Their glances meshed and held. She felt like prey caught in a snare, unable to look away. He was dangerous, like the panther she’d likened him to that first fateful night. Every inkling of self-preservation shouted for her to flee.

Angling himself upright, Ian smiled his disturbing smile. Never breaking his entrancing stare, he crossed to her. She stood rooted, mesmerized in the middle of the room, unable to tear her gaze from his.

Sweeping her into his arms, he guided her round the floor once more. She could feel his thighs brushing hers, her breasts, pushing against his coat, the buttons cutting into her tender flesh. He was holding her much too close for propriety. Why didn’t she mind too terribly much?

Her new husband’s arms were bands of steel, wrapping her in an impenetrable vise. His unusual eyes peered into hers, probing, seeking—what she knew not. They roamed across her face, lingering for a disquieting moment on her parted lips, before lowering to the mounds swelling from her bodice.

Vangie felt the heat of his smoldering gaze, as surely as if he’d caressed her. It was as if they were alone, no one else in the room, their bodies speaking an ancient language only lovers know. Ian’s breathing quickened. A low, sensual sound escaped him when his hand caressed her bare shoulder. She released a slight hiccupping gasp.