The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  The filthy man confronting Ian crouched low, his oversized hands circling about, beating the air. Thick rivulets of sweat trickled down his blotchy face, and his stubby tongue repeatedly darted out to lick the moisture off his thick upper lip.

  Best to make short work of it.

  “Do forgive me for ending our match swiftly, but I’ve important matters to attend to.” Lunging forward, Ian planted a facer upside his surprised assailant’s crooked nose.

  His guttural groan muffled the crunch of breaking bones as blood spurted from his broken nose.

  Another well-placed punch to his opponent’s flabby stomach bent the man over, and Ian kicked the rotter on his broad rear, sending him face-first to the ground.

  He rolled onto his back, his hands lifted upward. “No more, guvna,” he pleaded, pressing a grubby sleeve to his bloody face.

  “Go!” Breathing heavily, fists still raised in defense, Ian stepped backward. He jerked his head toward the unlit street. Wheezing and gasping, the hefty villain lumbered to his feet. Cupping his streaming nose, he tore off without a backward glance, deserting his insensate accomplice.

  Bending over to retrieve his hat and cane, Ian winced. His shoulder complained no small amount at the exertion. Scarce a week had passed since his stallion threw him toe over top. Only agile reflexes and quick thinking prevented him from cracking his skull. His aching shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall. He rubbed the bruised muscles with his spare hand.

  Pericles had never thrown him before, but Ian blamed himself. He’d been riding the horse, neck or nothing, and when he shifted his weight to leap a hedgerow, he’d been unceremoniously tossed to the ground. At the time, he attributed the fall to Pericles’ refusal to take the hedge. But in truth, his foul temper could be blamed for the horse’s balking. Incensed and grief-stricken over his brother’s and father’s recent deaths, Ian had been too enthusiastic with his boot-spurs to Pericles’ sides.

  Geoff, my beloved brother.

  Sorrow pierced his chest, fierce and unrelenting, and he closed his eyes against the pain. Covering his heart with his hand, Ian recalled the last time he and Geoff had raced their horses across that very meadow. The lavender dots of heather now speckling the field and lending their subtle fragrance to the crisp morning air hadn’t been blooming that day.

  Ian remained motionless until the spasm of grief passed. His cheerful, gullible brother would laugh no more, and Miss Caruthers was to blame. That in itself was a crime far greater than the deplorable state his father had left Somerfield’s ledgers and tenants.

  Miss Caruthers.

  A wave of fresh anger rolling over him, Ian clenched his fist. Pain ripped through his hand. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d broken a knuckle or two. He flexed his fingers and grimaced. The answering twinge confirmed his assessment. Running his uninjured hand over his cheek and jaw, he gingerly opened and closed his mouth. His face throbbed where he’d taken the blow from the ham-handed lout.

  He’d have a colorful bruise come morning.

  Settling his hat atop his head, he twisted his mouth into a cynical smile. A black-and-blue face paired with his battered pride. Somehow, it seemed fitting and, truth be known, a far more brilliant match than the union proposed to him an hour ago.

  “Wake up!”

  Why was Yvette trying to wake her so early?

  “Please, no.” Vangie groaned and pressed her face into the downy softness of her pillow. Sleep curled around her consciousness again.

  Yvette gently shook her shoulder, repeating urgently, “Wake up, Vangie.”

  “Chérie, you must rise and dress at once,” Aunt Adélaid said, her voice muffled.

  Vangie drowsily opened her eyes.

  Her aunt poked about inside the wardrobe, rifling through Vangie’s borrowed gowns.

  She frowned and covered a yawn.

  Yvette lifted a fresh chemise and stockings from the bureau. She brought the garments to the bed, dangling them from her fingertips. “Here, I’ll help you. You must make haste.” Her expression troubled, her voice trembled the merest bit.

  Why were her aunt and cousin here to assist her instead of her abigail? Most peculiar. Vangie studied Yvette’s pale face. “Where’s Mary?”

  “She’s…” Yvette sent her stepmother a helpless glance.

  “Occupied, at present,” Aunt Adélaid finished.

  Sitting up, Vangie brushed hair away from her face. It hung loose, in heavy waves around her shoulders and back. “Whatever is going on? Is someone ill?”

  “Lord Warrick has…” Yvette sent another quick, uncertain glance to Aunt Adélaid. “That is, he…uhm…he’s come to call.”

  “At this ungodly hour?” Vangie looked to the French windows opening onto a private balcony. Muted, early morning light shimmered through the panes, crisscrossing the hand-hooked, blue and pink cabbage rose rug. Taking a sideways peek at her bedside table clock, she widened her eyes. “It isn’t even eight straight-up!”

  Far too early for a social visit. Downright rude, in fact.

  She plucked at the satin coverlet. “Can’t Uncle Gideon address any urgent matters with Lord Warrick?”

  Her aunt shook her head, lines of worry creasing her face. “No, dear. His lordship specifically asked for you, and your uncle asked us to make haste with your toilette.” She sighed, her gaze swinging between the two gowns she held in either hand. She selected the yellow and flung the green across the back of a chair. “Mary may not have been the best choice of a lady’s maid for you. She’s a dear, but she dawdles terribly.”

  “I don’t understand the rush for me to dress, or why Uncle Gideon has accepted a caller so unfashionably early.” Bewildered, Vangie idly twirled a curl, her gaze shifting from Yvette to Aunt Adélaid. Tension radiated sharp and severe across their attractive features.

  She stopped twisting her hair. “Is something wrong?”

  They exchanged anxious glances, and unease quickened through her again.

  “Darling…” Aunt Adélaid drew in a deep breath, “I think it best to let Gideon explain. Now come, we must hurry. Your uncle is impatient this morning.”

  Vangie slipped from the bed, and with another wide yawn, pulled off her nightgown. “Did something happen last evening?” She slipped her arms into the filmy chemise Yvette held for her. Her question met with pained silence. “I remember feeling unwell, and Lord Warrick assisting me from the ballroom.”

  A pair of embroidered stockings came next. “I cannot recall most of what happened after I swooned.” When Aunt Adélaid made to assist her into the French stays, she shook her head. “Not after last night, Aunt. I cannot breathe properly in that contraption. I’ll wear my short stays.”

  Her aunt shrugged, tossing the offending undergarment on the rumpled bed. She retrieved Vangie’s well-worn stays and quickly laced them.

  Vangie raised her arms above her, and Yvette’s yellow chintz gown was lowered over her head. “I have a vague memory of a conversation about a tete-a-tete, but I don’t recall the details or individuals involved,” she admitted.

  The gown settled around her ankles, and Aunt Adélaid smoothed the mussed ruffles bordering the collar and sleeves.

  “Was it someone we know?” After twisting her hair into a simple knot, Vangie tied a sunny ribbon across the crown of her head. She scrunched her brow, deep in thought. She tried to remember the ride home. It was a muddled memory. As were her preparations for bed. “Dash it to ribbons, it’s no use. I cannot remember—not a single thing.”

  There was nothing for it then, but to go below and set things straight. How she was to do so with only minimal memory of last evening, she had no idea. What if she’d seen something illicit, and she and Lord Warrick were to be called as witnesses?

  Had someone’s honor been sullied?

  Had there been a duel?

  Good God. Had someone been killed?

  Flanked on either side by Yvette and Aunt Adélaid, Vangie entered the study and stopped just inside the doorway. Yve
tte’s spaniels trotted over to greet her, and she idly petted their mottled heads.

  His back to the room, Lord Warrick stared out the bay window. Uncle Gideon sat at his mammoth mahogany desk, drumming his fingers atop a short stack of papers. He stared at his lordship. The stern expression marring his usually pleasant features gave her pause.

  Something unpleasant was afoot. Her heart skipped then fluttered uncomfortably. Uncle Gideon was rarely out of sorts and never with her. Skirting the dogs and a table displaying carved jade figurines, she approached his desk.

  Hands clasped before her, she said softly, “You wished to see me, Uncle Gideon?”

  She cast a nervous glance in Lord Warrick’s direction. When she’d spoken, he’d stiffened visibly, his shoulders going rigid. He didn’t turn around but remained obsessed with the scene beyond the beveled window, seemingly ignoring her.

  Fitted out in the first stare of fashion, he was undeniably a handsome spectacle. His hunter-green cutaway stretched across his broad shoulders, and those coffee-colored curls she noticed last evening teased the starched edge of his neckcloth once more. Buff-colored pantaloons, emphasizing his long legs and narrow hips, disappeared into gleaming Hessian boots.

  He was a startling attractive man.

  His fingers, knuckles newly bruised, curled around the rim of the hat he held. He tapped it against his muscular thigh every now and again, as if he’d a great need to release restrained energy.

  “Please have a seat, Vangie.” With a casual wave of his hand, Uncle Gideon indicated the striped maroon settee before the fireplace.

  Her gaze never leaving her uncle’s much too serious countenance, she did so. Only after sitting and arranging her skirts did she turn to look at Yvette and Aunt Adélaid, still hovering near the entrance. Why hadn’t they taken a seat too? Apprehension gripped her. Were they waiting for permission to stay? “Aunt Adélaid, Yvette?”

  Their gazes remained fixed on Uncle Gideon. She flicked a quick glance at her uncle. A nearly imperceptible shaking of his head denied her aunt’s and cousin’s silent request.

  Giving Vangie a reassuring smile, Aunt Adélaid stepped forward and patted her on the shoulder. “All will be well, chérie. Trust your uncle.”

  Uneasiness pummeled her. If only she could remember what happened last night.

  “Come along, dearest.” Aunt Adélaid slipped an arm around Yvette’s waist and led her from the room, the dogs following at their mistress’ heels.

  Vangie’s sense of foreboding increased, and she shivered, despite the warmth of the cheery fire. She fisted her hands in her gown, taking slow, deep breaths. She thought she heard Lord Warrick heave a gusty huff, but after darting him another fleeting look, decided she’d imagined it. He still faced the window, although he now rested a shoulder against the sill.

  Was he to never turn around, the boorish lout? Thwap went the hat against his leg.

  Waiting for her uncle to speak, she shifted her gaze between Uncle Gideon and Lord Warrick. Her uncle’s dark eyebrows were drawn together into a severe line as he studied the viscount. This was not good, no indeed, not good at all. Within the folds of her skirts, she clenched her hands until the tips of her fingers grew numb.

  A frown flitted across Uncle Gideon’s face before he stood and gave her a kind smile. He spoke plainly. “Vangie, you and Lord Warrick will wed in three days.”

  “Pardon?” Rounding her eyes in shock, she choked on a gasp. Her attention flew to the viscount.

  He’d turned and now lounged against the window sill, his ankles and arms casually crossed. However, he was anything but relaxed. He stared at her, his eyes hooded, his striking features blank. His hat remained in his hand, only now it rested on his folded arm. A shadowy discoloration marred his lordship’s cheek, near his eye.

  That hadn’t been there last night.

  The sunlight behind him speared his shadow the length of the room. The distorted silhouette was oddly disturbing. Almost ominous.

  She shuddered and rubbed her hands the length of her arms wishing she’d donned her cashmere shawl. Her gaze meshed with his, and she recognized an answering spark of anguish. And anger. That had been there last night.

  His tail’s lashing.

  She suppressed the hysterical laugh bubbling from her throat at the absurd thought. Her mind refused to believe what she heard. “I’m sorry, Uncle Gideon. I must have misheard you. Would you please repeat what you said?”

  “You heard me, Vangie” he gently said.

  He cannot be serious. She peered at him, seeking even a nuance of humor. “Surely you jest, although I don’t find this the least amusing, I assure you.”

  When his expression remained unchanged, a shrieking alarm sounded in Vangie’s brain. Throwing caution and manners aside, she cried, “Lord Warrick couldn’t have agreed to such a match. We only met yester eve. We’re complete strangers.”

  Lord Warrick spoke then. “It’s no jest. We shall wed—two days after the morrow.” His modulated tone couldn’t conceal his scorching fury.

  She swung her head around to gape at him.

  No. No. This is a cruel joke.

  He’d lowered his arms and slapped his hat against his thigh again.

  Vangie’s focus dipped to his hand. His white-knuckled fist crushed the hat’s brim. He must have noticed her gawking. He tossed the ruined accessory onto a nearby armchair and curled his lips into a mocking sneer.

  Faith, but he was in a foul temper today. Or was that his typical attitude? Had last night’s courteous behavior been the anomaly? Dragging her gaze from Lord Warrick, she sought Uncle Gideon’s eyes. Did sympathy shimmer there? And mayhap compassion? To be sure, but she also glimpsed something more foreboding in their depths.

  “Uncle Gideon?” She heard the panic in her shaky voice. Hated herself for sounding weak, but the truth was, she was utterly terrified.

  He frowned and rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “What do you remember of last evening. After you became ill?” He rested his hip on the polished front of his desk.

  She licked dry lips before sneaking a peek at Lord Warrick. He remained statue-like, his face devoid of emotion, except for his hostile pewter eyes. “Not much, I fear. I felt unwell, and Lord Warrick assisted me from the ballroom. I fainted then awoke in the lady’s retiring room.”

  Blowing out a lengthy sigh, Uncle Gideon eyed Lord Warrick. “You’re quite sure you won’t have a seat?”

  “Quite.”

  Abrupt. Cold. Final.

  Uncle Gideon crossed the carpet to sit beside her. Holding himself stiffly erect, he cleared his throat. “Vangie, you and the viscount were discovered in, ah…an indiscrete circumstance.” His contemplative gaze swept his lordship once more. “Though after questioning him, I am inclined to believe the entire incident was most innocent.”

  Lord Warrick raised his chestnut eyebrows, his mouth slanting into a jeering grin. “I’m grateful for your confidence, sir, I’m sure.”

  Uncle Gideon ignored him. Vangie could not. Her heart quickened in a peculiar mixture of consternation and relief. Consternation caused by Lord Warrick’s dark temper, and relief that the situation wasn’t dire after all.

  “That’s what this is about? My fainting and Lord Warrick helping me?” A heavy yoke lifted from her shoulders. “Faith, it’s all a simple misunderstanding, thank goodness.” Laughter bubbled to the surface again, but she only allowed her lips to tilt upward a smidgeon. It wouldn’t do to skip around the room in celebration, grinning like a jingle-brained ninny. “Surely, there’s no need for matrimony if we,” she met each of their gazes in turn, “agree nothing unseemly occurred.”

  “I concur,” the viscount said frostily, a scowl pulling his mouth downward.

  Vangie’s smile broadened.

  Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.

  “No indeed. No need at all.” Her relief was heady, and not even Lord Warrick’s dour expression could wipe the smile from her lips. Gracious, but the man was Friday-fac
ed most of the time. She’d nothing but pity for the unfortunate woman who did eventually find herself his viscountess, poor wretch.

  “Nonetheless,” Uncle Gideon said, his voice oddly strangled, as if he couldn’t bear to say the words. “I’m afraid several peeresses saw you in a partially unclothed state, and as deplorable as it is, my dear, they are spreading the most contemptible tales.”

  Lifting her chin, she shrugged. “Let them gossip. I know the truth.”

  He gave her hand a small squeeze. “Vangie, I promised your mother I’d protect you should anything happen to her.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He raised his hand, cutting off her objection. “To salvage your reputation, I must insist this wedding take place.” He slid a cursory glance over Lord Warrick. “By God, if there was any other way, I vow I’d take it.”

  At Uncle Gideon’s words, her smile waned, and her head swam dizzily. Lord Warrick’s face blurred as a short, sharp pain speared her temple. Raising her hand, she rubbed the spot. Oh dear, not another one. For a moment dread gripped her.

  No, no buzzing in her ears or zig zagging aura plagued her. It had only been a nasty pang.

  “But nothing happened.” Her gaze riveted on Uncle Gideon, she blindly reached over to grope the carved arm of the settee. “I’m sure Lord Warrick in no way acted inappropriately. He didn’t do anything. He wouldn’t.” She dared a sidelong peep at his lordship. One dark eyebrow hied upward, mocking and condemning, and she quickly averted her eyes at his stony, unsettling stare. “He’s not the type of gentleman who’d…” She trailed off in embarrassment.

  Uncle Gideon shook his head, kindness and regret crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It matters not. The damage is already done.”

  “Lord Warrick did not molest me while I was unconscious.” Vangie twisted to look fully at the viscount. She knew beyond a doubt what she said was absolute truth.

  His eyes warmed the merest bit. “Thank you, for that.”

  Ignoring the heat sweeping across her face, she pointed a trembling finger at him while looking at her uncle. “He is as outraged and opposed to this union as I am.”