He stood straighter. Had he imagined it, or had her steps faltered and her shoulders slumped, just the merest bit? Was her smile a little strained? Ian stared, searching her face.
No, she smiled as brightly as ever.
He’d imbibed too much wine—that was all. His faculties were affected, which was why he generally steered clear of the stuff. He fingered the cut crystal glass in his hand. How many had he downed since arriving? He shook his head. More than he ought. He would regret it come the morn. Tonight though, the liquor dulled his senses, his pain, his grief…his rage.
An observant servant offered him another full glass. Ian waved away the offer and handed over the empty flute.
“Ah, I see Miss Caruthers has caught your eye. She’s a delightful girl, has exceptional manners, and is quite an accomplished artist.”
He shot his aunt an astounded look. Thank God, she didn’t see it. She was too busy jabbering on about Miss Caruthers many charms.
“Soft spoken, intelligent, excellent dancer, decorous behavior...”
Ian smothered a contemptuous snort. Miss Caruthers was an accomplished actress, indeed, if Aunt Edith was unaware of her soiled feathers. No doubt she emulated chastity and virtue under the ton’s watchful eye while tossing up her skirts in the shrubberies after nightfall.
A flamboyantly-attired dandy elbowed his way to her side, and she snapped open her fan and began waving it before her face.
Aunt Edith chuckled, elbowing him in the side. “Gads, would you look at Pickering’s togs?” Her shoulders shook with mirth. “La, what a nincompoop. Whatever can he be thinking?”
Ian went rigid, darting his flabbergasted gaze to his aunt then flicking it to the man hovering near Miss Caruthers. “He’s the Earl of Pickering?” He blinked twice.
Charlotte’s beloved Reggie? The man whose affections Miss Caruthers stole?
Ian rolled his eyes at the absurdity. It was laughable. He quirked is mouth into a wry smile at the irony until the memory of Geoff’s grinning face intruded. Charlotte’s affection for Pickering might be ludicrous. Geoff’s and his father’s deaths were anything but. Miss Caruthers had much to atone for.
Crinkling her nose, Aunt Edith whispered, “He doesn’t favor bathing.” She paused, “I take it you’ve not been introduced to the earl?”
Ian sensed his aunt’s perusal. She knew him too well; precisely why he’d avoided her. Mindful of her probing stare, he schooled his features and shook his head. “I’ve not had the...ah...pleasure.”
“He just came into his title. Only because his unfortunate cousin expired without issue.” She cast Pickering a censored look. “He’s an obnoxious coxcomb.”
Ian silently agreed. The ridiculous ensemble Pickering wore pained the eye, clear down to his outdated cherry-red, high-heeled shoes. The shoes pitched his body forward when he walked causing his neck to bobble like the vibrant parrot he resembled.
A moment later Pickering guffawed. The whistling squawks passing for laughter confirmed Ian’s initial assessment of the fop. Miss Caruthers’ fan swished faster, and her eyes—were they blue?—searched the room. Did anxiety crease her otherwise smooth brow? The toes of one foot tapped nonstop. In vexation?
An idea took hold.
“Introduce me, Aunt Edith, won’t you?” Ian would’ve asked Prinny himself to do the honors if it meant making Miss Caruthers’ acquaintance. Only for the purpose of delivering her just dues, of course.
Aunt Edith cocked her head. “I seem to recall you prefer more, shall we say, practiced damsels. Miss Caruthers is far more gentle-bred than your usual choice of companion.” She retreated an arm’s length, assessing him with her too-astute gaze. “What are you really about?”
He couldn’t very well tell her Miss Caruthers was a promiscuous tart—that she was responsible for his father’s and Geoff’s deaths. Instead, forcing a smile, he winked. “Perchance, I’m in the market for a wife.” He couldn’t keep the heavy mockery from his tone.
His aunt snorted. “Rubbish and balderdash. You may be the last in your line, but you’re not that anxious to produce an heir.”
“You wound me, Aunt.” Crossing a hand over his heart, he released an exaggerated sigh.
“Tish tosh.” She wiggled her damned fan two inches under his nose. “Miss Caruthers is an orphan with barely two farthings to rub together, nephew.”
“She doesn’t appear destitute,” he said dryly.
“Lud, Ian, you of all people should know things aren’t always as they appear.” Aunt Edith angled her blasted fan in Miss Caruthers’ direction. “Her uncle, Gideon Stapleton, paid for her gown. Do you suppose he’ll also provide her a marriage settlement?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” An neither did he care a jot.
No settlement, not a sixpence to scratch with, and Miss Caruthers dispensed her favors like flour to a baker. If Stapleton didn’t dower the chit, her fate was certain: demimondaine or courtesan.
“She’s part Roma, you know.” One eyebrow lifted in speculation, Aunt Edith sent him a side-eyed glance.
“I was unaware,” Ian murmured extending his elbow in a broad hint.
That explained Miss Caruthers’ exotic appearance. He regarded her through hooded eyes. He’d heard Romani women were remarkably creative and responsive between the sheets. His groin tightened.
Damnation.
Aunt Edith slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “It’s said gypsy women can cast love spells. Think she knows any? Not that I believe any of that flim flam, mind you.” She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice to a covert whisper. “Ian?”
He bent his neck, and the blasted ostrich feather tickled his cheek.
“Perhaps that’s why you cannot take your eyes off her? She’s enchanted you?”
Now Aunt Edith was making a May game of him. He straightened, drawing his eyebrows together in an irritated scowl. Damn it. She thought him enamored of the chit. “I assure you, Aunt Edith, I am not under the influence of any incantation.”
She tilted her head upward, a mischievous glimmer in the center of her silver eyes. “Course with her looks and figure, she mightn’t need it. A marriage settlement, I mean.”
Ian’s gaze roamed over Miss Caruthers, then her bevy of suitors. Devil a bit, Aunt Edith might very well be right. Why that irritated him all the more, he couldn’t say.
She rapped his arm with her fan. “No, I don’t believe she’ll have need of a magic charm or a marriage settlement at all. No, indeed.” Nodding her head in Miss Caruthers’ direction, a devilish smile on her lips, she murmured, “Her kind marries for love.”
From her seat against the wall, Vangie risked a peek at the tall, striking man relaxing against the ballroom’s doorframe. He spoke to Lady Fitz... Fitz... She squeezed her eyes shut in concentration. Popping them open, she grinned. Fitzwilly. That was her name, Lady Fitzwilly.
Even from across the room, he oozed power—and something else; something difficult to define. What, precisely, was it? Danger? No, that wasn’t right.
Waving her ivory fan, Vangie peered over its silver lace edge.
Arrogance? Mmm, perhaps a mite.
Confidence? Oh, most assuredly.
But that still wasn’t quite accurate. She scrunched her eyebrows together.
What was it?
His gaze prowled the room, and Vangie’s breath caught. Her fan fluttered to a stop.
Anger. He exuded rigidly controlled fury.
She’d noticed him almost the moment he entered. Her partner was leading her to the other assembled dancers, and something compelled her to glance over her shoulder. There he loomed like a panther against the door: Sinewy body tense. Piercing eyes alert. Poised, ready to spring on his unsuspecting victim.
She’d shaken her head, and scolded herself. Stop your fanciful imaginations Evangeline Caruthers.
Boredom carved across the planes of his somber face, the panther had stood there several minutes now, burnished brown hair curled lazily over his ears and cravat. Except
for his pristine white shirt and neckcloth, he was attired in black without a jot of adornment. One might think he was in mourning. Still she decided with the merest angling of her head, the starkness suited him.
She didn’t recognize the man. However, she’d not been in London two full months yet. Though nearly twenty, this was her first—her only—Season. Her social circle wasn’t as extensive as other young women’s, and it wasn’t likely to increase. The simple truth was, she hadn’t taken during her Coming Out. The knowledge no longer caused her the twinge it had a few weeks ago.
She glanced at her gown, fingering the delicate overskirt embroidered with pearls and silver rosettes. Uncle Gideon, her step-aunt Adélaid, and dear younger cousin Yvette, had been most generous. Except for their benevolence, she’d have had no appropriate clothing or acceptable company to attend such extravagant gatherings.
Not that she cared overly much about such twaddle. Large crowds unnerved her, although she’d become adept at concealing her unease—much like she’d hidden her naive hope of acquiring a loving husband this Season. That dream had been soundly dashed. Though a Romani princess, the Beau Monde deemed her an undesirable.
No, I’ll not think of it.
Pressing her lips together, she straightened her spine. Romani were resourceful and resilient. She’d find a position as a governess; away from London, of course. She could always escape to her Roma relatives too. She rather preferred that idea.
Anything was better than returning to Great Uncle Percival and Great Aunt Eugenia’s household. Though they weren’t her legal guardians, the stipulations of her father’s will had required she live with them for the past thirteen intolerable years.
Vangie could endure their oppression no longer.
She swept her gaze over the teeming room then faltered. Oh, blast and bother. Snapping the fan shut, she clasped and unclasped her hands around its elaborately-carved handle. Disquiet tripped across her nerves. A gaudily-attired lord plodded in her direction, and she’d no doubt he intended to request the next dance.
She shuddered in revulsion. Last time they’d danced, she’d resorted to holding her breath and sucking in slight puffs of air. His stench rivaled a beggar’s. That gentleman—who was he again?—Lord Pickles something or other, was too bold by far in his attentions. When he wasn’t making suggestive innuendos or appalling propositions, he took advantage of the waltzes to slyly grope her.
Once more, Vangie drew her eyebrows together. At least Lord Pickles hadn’t been as forward as that awful duke. Who was he again? Lord Farnswort? No, his name started with a P. Didn’t it?
Parlington? Passenberry? Pippleworth?
Dash it all. Ever since she’d begun having headaches as a child, remembering names had challenged her. And in recent weeks, she’d been introduced to a multitude of new people. She couldn’t begin to recall even a fraction of their names. Meeting so many pretentious members of Society overwhelmed her, to say the least.
She might’ve forgotten the duke’s name, but she couldn’t forget his deplorable behavior. He’d pinned her against the terrace balustrade, planting disgusting, slobbery kisses over her face and neck, while pawing at her breasts. Why, if that young gentleman hadn’t come upon them, and demanded the duke release her, she’d have been forced to defend herself with the dagger she kept sheathed on her leg.
What a bumblebroth that would’ve caused. She slanted her lips upward at the thought then thinned them into a serious line when reality pricked her. Had she dared to use the blade on the duke, the outcome from such a coil was far from certain. Though the daughter of a baronet, her Romani blood would trump any blueblood running through her veins.
That flaw weighed heavily against her, and no doubt the scale would’ve tilted in the duke’s favor. How fortuitous for them both that his assault had been interrupted. Vangie had darted inside the moment she was freed, not even pausing to thank her rescuer.
Who was he? Had they ever been introduced?
Her gaze traveled around the crowded room once more. Neither he nor the duke appeared to be in attendance this evening. Come to think of it, she’d not seen either since that awful night, weeks ago. Blowing out a gusty sigh, she wished she dared to out the lecherous lords. Oafish pigs. As if she’d ever enter into an illicit arrangement, Roma blood or not.
Fear of social retribution prevented her from informing her hostesses of the boorish behavior of several gentlemen, including Lord Pickles and the nameless duke. Already more than one lady of quality had given her the cut-indirect, a few the cut-sublime. No doubt that, too, was a consequence of her heritage.
She gripped the fan tighter, pressing her fingers against its scalloped edges. She dreaded further snubbing, though her concern was not for herself. From the corner of her eye, she considered the noxious lord mincing his way to her. No, she cared not a groat what these people thought of her. But if Vangie exposed the powerful peers, the scandal would surely spoil Yvette’s first Season.
Unclenching her hands, Vangie smoothed the fragile fabric of her gown. She laid her fingers on the rigid length of the blade beneath her skirts. Since a girl of twelve, she’d worn the dagger tied to her thigh. Yvette thought it daring and romantic, and though at first, Aunt Adélaid had been thoroughly shocked, she had grown to understand Vangie’s need to wear the concealed weapon.
Truth be told, the fickleness of Polite Society troubled her. If these were London’s finest, she could do without them, their affected superiority, and their snobbery.
They’d made it perfectly clear how they felt about her. She’d also heard the spiteful whispers about Uncle Gideon acquiring his fortune through trade, and of the Stapleton’s smelling of the shop. The aristocrats spat the words as if they were offal. No, she quite preferred the sincerity of the gypsy travelers and the simplicity of country life. Though even there, her people were persecuted.
Lord Pickles slithered nearer, waving his podgy fingers at her. She pretended not to see him and snapped her fan open, wrinkling her nose behind it. Gracious, did the man never bathe? Glancing past the other preening lords, she spied Yvette—a flaxen-haired, sapphire-eyed vision, floating in a cloud of pink and white silk—headed her way.
Vangie smiled in relief. Thank goodness.
Though supper had yet to be served, she prayed Uncle Gideon was ready to leave. If they hurried, they could escape before the musicians resumed playing.
Lord Pickles sidled near her chair and reached for her hand, snuffling, “My dear Miss Caruthers.”
Angling her fan, Vangie fluttered it before her like an infuriated rooster flapping its wings. Lord Pickles was forced to retreat a step, else he find himself thwacked on his prominent nose. He started to make a leg, but she suddenly stood. Without looking at him, she continued waving her fan about as if warding off a pesky insect.
A large, annoying, smelly insect.
Lord Pickles stumbled backward.
“Please excuse me, my lord.” She moved past him to embrace Yvette. While they were entwined, Vangie murmured, “Are we leaving?”
Yvette chuckled and shook her head. “Not yet, dear cousin. It’s not yet half-past ten, and Father and Belle-mere are engaged in a game of loo. I fear it will not be ending anytime soon. Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” She peered around the small crowd encircling them.
Vangie hugged Yvette to her again and took several deliberate steps away from Lord Pickles, drawing Yvette with her. “Of course I am. I have a touch of a headache. That’s all.”
Her cousin must not know how much these affairs distressed her. Yvette had been so hopeful Vangie would make a match this Season, and she’d be horrified at the lewd propositions her cousin received almost nightly.
Yvette searched her face, before sweeping her gaze around the assembled beaus. Upon spying Lord Pickles, her eyes flexed wide in apparent comprehension. Looping her arm through Vangie’s, Yvette said, “Perhaps some ratafia and fresh air will help. Come along. Let’s find the refreshments.”
The
y turned as one. However, Vangie stopped short as the object of her prior musings approached with the dignified Lady Fitzwilly on his arm.
Faith, he’s even handsomer up close.
Startled at her thoughts, she bit her lip, a hot flush of awareness burning from her soles to the tiara atop her hair. She glimpsed his serious face before ducking her head. What a goosecap. Now she was blushing like a bumpkin.
Yvette sank into a curtsy. “Good evening, Lady Fitzgibbons, my lord.”
Fitzgibbons? Drat it all. Vangie had forgotten yet another name.
Momentarily incapable of speech, she kept her head lowered, hiding her rosy face. She sank into a reasonable semblance of a curtsy. At least she hoped it was reasonable. She hadn’t wobbled again, had she?
Be mindful of the solemn one, tikna.
Her Romani grandmother’s words intruded into her already muddled thoughts. Vangie had thought it odd advice at the time. Now, staring at the panther lord’s shiny black shoes while he towered over her, Puri Daj’s warning almost made sense.
Smiling, Lady Fitzgibbons lifted her hand from his arm. “Ian, may I present Miss Yvette Stapleton, and her cousin, Miss Evangeline Caruthers? Miss Stapleton, Miss Caruthers, please allow me to present my nephew, Ian, the Viscount Warrick.”
Yvette dimpled, offering her gloved hand. Lord Warrick bowed over it, a rakish grin on his lips. “Delighted, Miss Stapleton.”
He turned his gaze on Vangie. His full lips curved into a slow enigmatic smile, revealing a row of strong white teeth against his tanned face.
She inhaled sharply, the air lodging peculiarly in her lungs.
His eyes glinted silver-gray, the color of honed steel. There was no other way to describe them. Raising her hand to his mouth, she swore she felt his lips brush her fingertips. Twice. It was most inappropriate. Why wasn’t she shocked or annoyed? Perhaps because the warmth vibrating the length of her arm, when his firm mouth grazed her, still tingled.
“Enchanted, Miss Caruthers.”
The way he said her name, the timbre of his voice lowering to a rumbling purr, caused another prickle across her flesh.
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 2