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

by Collette Cameron

  The viscount was as much a victim as she was. The knowledge brought her no respite, however.

  Sighing, Uncle Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose. “He has agreed—”

  “Is that what you’re calling it?” Lord Warrick gave a sarcastic snort. “I’d prefer coercion. Extortion. Blackmail.”

  “Why?” Vangie interrupted. “Why are we to be forced into a union neither of us wants—marriage to a complete stranger?” Her throat clogged, and the tears she struggled to contain rendered her voice a rasping whisper. “This is unjust. Nothing—absolutely nothing—untoward occurred.” She fisted her hands in her lap in frustrated agitation. “Lord Warrick committed no offense. He acted the perfect gentleman.”

  Compassion simmered in Uncle Gideon’s eyes. “Be that as it may, dear, you shall wed.”

  Vangie stiffened. “And, what if I refuse?” She drew herself upward and squared her shoulders. She was no spiritless ninny. Unflinching, she met his gaze straight on and jutted her chin out in defiance. “I refuse to marry him.”

  Ian almost smiled, and he pressed his lips together, mashing his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep them from curving upward. Despite himself, he admired Miss Caruthers’ fiery spirit. Her eyes had narrowed and blue sparks had flown from them when she’d defied her uncle.

  Ludicrous though it was, her adamant refusal chafed. Not that he wanted to wed the uppity chit. He most assuredly did not. But did she think her prospects so great, she could reject a viscount? With her breeding, she wasn’t likely to receive a better offer.

  Why do I care?

  He didn’t of course. Odd too, that she’d not once mentioned her innocence, but had repeatedly declared his. He shifted to better view her, the movement causing another blinding explosion of pain in his head.

  Bloody hell.

  He closed his eyes until the agony passed. He really oughtn’t to have imbibed so freely last night. The consequences of his indulging only worsened his already disagreeable mood this morning. Or mayhap, it was last night’s facer causing the unrelenting pounding in his skull.

  Half opening his eyes, he considered Miss Caruthers. Even upset, she was inarguably stunning. He allowed his gaze to travel from her face to her heaving breasts. The flowery yellow frock with its rows of flounces became her. So did the ribbon tied at her nape.

  What would that ebony mass look like draped around her shoulders? Her rounded hips? What would it feel like to slip his hands through the silky midnight tresses?

  His attention drifted to her pale face, registering the rebellion and distress she made no attempt to conceal. With focused determination, Ian repressed his sensual musings and hardened his heart. Why wasn’t she screaming her innocence? Screeching about her virtue?

  Because she doesn’t have any to claim, that’s why.

  Miss Caruther’s innocent beauty concealed a wanton’s heart. Most likely, she was unwilling to curb her promiscuous ways quite so soon. Wasn’t prepared to settle for the confines of marriage yet, to limit her favors to her husband’s bed. Perhaps she was one of those women whose carnal appetites couldn’t be satisfied by one man.

  The notion brought an angry scowl to Ian’s face and a sickening jolt to his gut.

  Well, she’d best prepare herself. He’d have no strumpet to wife. He could do nothing about her immoral behavior before their marriage, but devil take it, he’d curtail her fast ways afterward. She’d not cuckold him. The moment they were wed, it was off to Somersfield with her—under lock and key if need be.

  At his frown, Miss Caruthers renewed her efforts. She shifted on the settee to face Stapleton. “I shan’t be forced into marriage. I truly shall refuse, Uncle.”

  “No, you shan’t,” Stapleton said firmly. “Already your name is being cast around—”

  “Oh, posh.” She waved a hand back and forth as if clearing cigar smoke from the air. “The gossips always have someone’s name on their poisonous tongues. Puri Daj says, an evildoer listens to wicked lips, and a liar gives ear to a mischievous tongue.”

  Who or what, in God’s holy name, was a Puri Daj?

  “Miss Caruthers…?” Ian wished to speedily put an end to further discourse.

  She sent him a surprised glance. Did the tiniest bit of curiosity shimmer in her sapphire-eyed gaze?

  “Though apt, that truth is of little help to us.” He strode to stand before her, forcing her to tilt her head to look at him. She shook her head and opened her mouth, no doubt to argue her point, but he hurried on, done with the niceties. Far past time she heard the vile truth her uncle hedged speaking. “The scandalmongers are spreading appalling falsehoods, grossly exaggerating the incident in the retiring room.”

  She pulled a face. “I’m not surprised, but neither do I care.”

  Flexing his injured hand, he ran the fingers of his other across the bruised knuckles before raising his eyes to meet hers. “Depending on whom you hear the account from, we’ve either been discovered in a licentious embrace, or caught naked-as-robins, openly copulating on one of the divans in full view of all.”

  Her jaw dropped open, and she slapped a palm across her mouth. Her eyes growing wide as saucers, the last vestige of color drained from her face.

  “I’m portrayed as a scoundrel, an unconscionable knave.” He wasn’t through, however. Rage and frustration propelled him onward. “While you, Miss Caruthers, have been relegated to the ranks of a lady-bird, a light o’ love.” His calculated finish was cruel and crude, “A common strumpet.”

  “That’s outside of enough, Warrick!” Stapleton thundered. “Stubble it, else I decide to withdraw my offer and my niece’s hand. I can find her a more suitable match.”

  For a fortune—to an ancient, lecherous podger.

  Ian had ruined her, albeit not intentionally. He’d only meant to curb her fast behavior, not destroy her reputation beyond repair.

  She’d likely never marry if he didn’t make things right—unless her uncle bought her a husband. Someone either desperate or decrepit, for no decent man would have her now. Sucking in a gusty breath, he fisted his hands until the nails cut into his palms. He met Stapleton’s furious glare far calmer than he felt. Ian wouldn’t escape the parson’s mousetrap, and they both knew it.

  His damnable sense of honor—even for a Cyprian as unworthy as Miss Caruthers— demanded he wed her. That, and the threats posed by Stapleton and his peers. They were a formidable lot. One he couldn’t, one he daren’t, oppose. Not if he didn’t want to face financial and social ruin.

  He couldn’t do that to Charlotte.

  Hell, with Prinny’s disapproval and retribution looming overhead, he was already halfway to ostracism. Stapleton could—would—destroy him if he didn’t make an honest woman of the chit. Her uncle had been brutally clear about that.

  Head canted, Ian considered his soon-to-be bride.

  Miss Caruthers struggled to retain her composure. Her eyes drifted closed, her thick lashes fanning the tops of her ivory cheeks. A plump tear slipped from the corner of her eye, trailing over her smooth face as she bit her trembling bottom lip.

  His chest tightened involuntarily. He hated it when women cried, loathed how helpless it made him feel. He much preferred they rail at him, most especially this woman. He didn’t want to pity her. He shot a sidelong glance at Stapleton.

  Her uncle glared daggers at him.

  Releasing a breath of air, Ian strove for gentleness he was far from feeling. “You understand why we must wed, Vangie? Why we’re permitted no other option?”

  Wounded sapphire eyes, framed by spiky lashes and pooled with tears, met his. He kept his expression carefully bland. If she even suspected he suffered as much as she, she’d use the knowledge against him the first opportunity she was given. Her kind always did.

  His wrath was another matter. It created a barrier few men, let alone women, dared cross. Even so, self-recrimination gnawed at him. He’d allowed his fury to rule his tongue. His rashness changed nothing, succeeding only in furth
er lowering Stapleton’s estimation of him—something he could ill-afford at present.

  Gripping his coat lapels, Ian resisted the urge to check his pocket for the ring he’d soon slip on Miss Caruthers’ hand. The vows were as good as spoken and spewing his frustration in a verbal tirade served no purpose. It mattered not that she acted like a flirtatious, loose-moraled demi-rep. He daren’t voice his contempt in front of her uncle. Even he had limits.

  Needing to put distance between them, he crossing to the hearth and kicked a stray coal into the glowing fire. Resting an arm atop the cherrywood mantel, he stared into the flames. They merrily chased one another, over and around the crackling wood, like impish pixies, as if they hadn’t any cares in the world.

  “It does no good to protest, to proclaim our innocence,” he said, his voice taking on a harsh edge. “In the eyes of the ton, you’re ruined. Disgraced. And only I can rescue you from a life of degradation.”

  “No!” Devastation etched her beautiful face. She mouthed, “No” again, shaking her head in denial. A raven curl slid free of the sunny ribbon confining it.

  Laying the blame solely on her was unfair. Yet being coerced into a loveless marriage, something he vowed he’d never do, galled bitterly. Unlike his father, he’d intended to have a degree of fondness for his viscountess. To support his debauched lifestyle, his sire had married three times with deliberate intent; to increase his coffers and expand his holdings. And he chose wealthy, evermore dowdy and desperate women well past the first bloom of youth, to meet that end.

  Two of his wives, including Ian’s mother, had died in childbirth as Roger strove to produce more heirs for the family lineage. Lucinda, his third wife, escaped that fate by barring his father permanently from her bed the instant she became pregnant. Only three—no it was but two now—of the eight offspring his father had sired yet lived. With Geoff’s death, Ian became the last remaining male in his line. The very last.

  Confound it all to hell.

  He leveled Miss Caruthers a fuming glare. He’d have to beget an heir on her. A woman he could barely conceal his disdain for. The physical act wasn’t what he objected to. No, she was a tempting morsel and even as furious as he was, he could appreciate her many attributes. He sank his gaze to her full bosom. A very tempting morsel. He’d no complaints there—none at all.

  Nonetheless, he held her responsible for his father’s and brother’s deaths, to say nothing of the on dit concerning her previous indecorous behavior. If even partially true, she might as well be a member of the muslin company, particularly given her Romani heritage. Lest he curl his lip into a snarl, he forced his attention to the crackling fire and stifled his emotions.

  He was a trained soldier, by God. This marriage was simply another battle—another campaign he would win with strategy and logic.

  A log fell, sending a flurry of sparks spiraling up the chimney in wild disarray. A few struggled, sputtering out before being sucked up the flue. Their end was predetermined, as was his.

  Bit by bit, he released a pent-up breath. He hadn’t expected love in his marriage, but mutual respect and admiration would’ve been sufficient. He doubted he was capable of truly loving. That emotion left one too vulnerable. He’d never experienced anything beyond a warm regard for a feminine companion, even Amelia. Mayhap, he was incapable of feeling the much-touted sentiment.

  Just as well. He’d seen what love did to sensible men. It turned them into sentimental chuckle-heads with more hair than wit. He supposed the same could be said of honor. Men did any number of ridiculous things in the name of honor. Geoff had. And Ian, more the fool, was no exception.

  Turning away from the frolicking flames, he faced her. Linking his hands behind him, he welcomed the piercing heat of the blaze. It matched the fire searing his soul. He repeated, “Miss Caruthers, we’ve no choice but to wed.”

  The bitterness weighting Lord Warrick’s voice caused Vangie’s breath to hitch, his raw pain ripping at her heart. Her mind numb with shocked dismay and justified anger, she stopped protesting. An unholy ache gnawed in her stomach, and with each in-drawn breath, a fresh stab of pain lanced her heart. Clutching her middle, she swallowed against the nausea tickling her throat.

  Was she never to be allowed any happiness? Never permitted her own choices? Would she always have to submit to the will and whims of others?

  Sighing a trembling breath, she fixed her gaze on her slipper toe, avoiding Lord Warrick’s withering glare. He was right of course. She’d known what the outcome would be, must be, but she’d hoped—no prayed—otherwise.

  “This is grossly unfair,” she whispered, more to herself than the men in the room. How could she bear this?

  Toying with the soft fringe edging the silk pillow scrunched beside her, Vangie stifled a ragged sob. Her throat ached from the effort. She swallowed hard against the sting, then swallowed again as a cry of protest welled up, trying to force its way past her compressed lips. She clasped her hands together in a silent prayer. Surely God wouldn’t allow this injustice to take place.

  Lord Warrick could walk away from the alleged indiscretion, couldn’t he? Rakehells who cared nothing for their honor did so quite often, in fact. Her reputation, however, was tarnished beyond repair. To all intents and purposes, she’d been despoiled, at least verbally. Without an immediate marriage, she’d no hope for anything but a lifetime of condemnation and malevolent gossip.

  If she were a woman of means, she’d refuse the match. She’d travel, paint, do…do whatever she wished. Be free at last. But as things stood, she was a penniless orphan. Hands gripped tight, she closed her eyes against the anguish tearing at her heart and mind.

  Lord Warrick sacrificed himself for her; a woman he didn’t know. It spoke of his character, of his decency and honor. She should feel gratitude—supposed somewhere in the recesses of her heart she did. Nevertheless, the only emotions she could summon at present were desolation and despair, tempered with a good deal of horror. She sucked in an unsteady breath. He would never forgive her for being forced into marriage. Not like this. How could he?

  Would she be able to forgive Uncle Gideon? Perhaps, but not anytime soon.

  Marriage without love. There are worse fates. Not for a woman with Romani blood running through their veins. A woman who, from girlhood, prayed she would make a love-match.

  Uncle Gideon stood, offering a smile somewhere between sorrow and encouragement. “I hope someday you’ll understand why I insist on this course, Vangie, and be able to forgive me.” He shifted his attention to Lord Warrick, including him in the request as well.

  The viscount met her uncle’s gaze squarely, though no answering warmth lit his eyes. Instead, his mouth curved into a contemptuous arc. Despite the roaring fire, she shivered and sank deeper into the settee’s cushions.

  Uncle Gideon strode to the door. He grasped the brass handle before he turned around. His solemn gaze shifted between her and his lordship for a disquieting moment. “Lord Warrick, please, do proceed with the proposal. Vangie, you will accept his offer.” He opened the door. “I’ll allow you privacy.” He slipped from the room, closing the door behind him with a firm, final-sounding thunk.

  Vangie sat stunned. Run, everything in her cried. Escape. Flee. Why then did she remain inexplicably fixed and mute as her uncle exited the room, leaving her to the viscount’s mercy. Or lack thereof?

  Except for the purple finches’ muted scolding in the lilac bush beside the sunlit window, the room remained tomb-silent. Death had indeed visited today. With the decree she must marry Lord Warrick, her dreams had died. The demise of her heart’s desire left a bitter stench in her nostrils, and she twitched her nose, mashing her lips together.

  She refused to lift her gaze from her clenched hands. A single unkind look or word from him and the last vestige of her self-control would crumble. She felt his gaze upon her, and it unnerved her to no end. The man truly should acquire some decorum. Holding her breath to calm her stampeding heart, she listened to the viscou
nt’s steady breathing.

  He rustled about, and she started when he sat beside her on the settee. His cologne, crisp and woodsy, wafted past her nostrils. Without a word, he reached over and pried her icy, clenched hands apart. He slid a heavy ring onto her third finger. He must’ve had it in his pocket.

  She stared at the jeweled band. The sign of his ownership. Smaller and prettier than iron shackles, nevertheless, the circle signified imprisonment. “It’s warm,” she muttered. So was his hand cradling hers.

  His fingers, the nails neatly trimmed, were sun-darkened, and a bit calloused too. Her regard lingered on his injured hand. From beneath her lashes, she stole a covert glance at the door. No, Uncle Gideon wasn’t unscrupulous. He wouldn’t have hired thugs— “Those cuts and bruises weren’t there last night. Whatever occurred after we parted company?”

  Eyes downcast and a muscle ticking in his jaw, he didn’t answer.

  “Have you engaged in fisticuffs?” Vangie winced inwardly. She sounded like a harping wife already.

  He remained silent, though he retained his hold on her hand.

  Vangie raised her eyes until she met his disquieting gaze. She tried to read his mind. Did he attempt to read hers as well?

  He abruptly released her hand and stood. He spun on his heels and left the room without uttering a word.

  She remained immobile a long while after he’d gone, gazing blankly through the beveled window panes framed by heavy scarlet and ivory pleated coverings. The morning sun’s golden rays illuminated tiny dust bits floating about the room.

  In a small courtyard beyond the window, a spot of vivid emerald grass celebrated spring. The lush blossoms of pink and peach peonies burst forth in glorious color. Beneath them, jeweled-colored petunias and geraniums teased and tickled their neighbor’s leggy stems.

  She appreciated none of it. Her mind reeled, silently protesting in disbelief and wounded rebellion. “I’m to be married—in three days.” She spoke the words aloud, trying to convince herself of the awful reality.