“Enter.”
Her shoulders squared, she marched into the room prepared to do battle. Halting before his desk, she scanned her uncle’s face. A lone lamp sitting atop his desk lit the room. In the muted light, his expression appeared guarded, though warmth shown in his eyes. Encouraged, she relaxed her shoulders.
“You’ve need of something, Vangie?” He put the quill aside.
Wasting no time, she came directly to the point. “Uncle Gideon, please reconsider this union.” She couldn’t bring herself to say, my marriage. Searching his compassionate eyes, she played her trump card. “I want love in my marriage, Uncle. Love like my father and mother shared. Love like you and Aunt Adélaid feel for each other.”
He sighed, his mouth thinning the merest bit.
Filling her lungs, she challenged him. “Would you deny me that happiness?”
His lips curved in a poignant smile. “My dear, I’d like nothing better than for you to marry for love, but after the affair at the Armstrongs’, if you don’t marry Lord Warrick, it’s unlikely you’ll wed at all.” He looked away and straightened a short stack of papers. The shadows obscured his face, but he seemed tense. “The ton has a long arm, and a far longer reaching memory.”
“I don’t care about the haut ton. I can stay in the country. I’ll never venture to London again.” She gestured wildly. “I’ll…I’ll go away, perhaps live with the Roma. Or…or perhaps I’ll go to the colonies.”
He set the papers aside before meeting her gaze. Torment darkened his eyes and etched deep grooves into his forehead. He extended a hand, palm upward. “Vangie—”
“I’ve no desire to marry someone of a high station.” She heard the desperation in her voice, but she must make him understand. His next words doused the remnant of hope in her heart.
“Dear, the scandal combined with your heritage—”
Vangie’s jaw sagged. If he’d slapped her, she’d wouldn’t have been more hurt or taken aback. An icy blanket of shock engulfed her, and she grasped the edge of the desk to steady herself. “My heritage?” she whispered hoarsely.
Uncle Gideon closed his eyes, rubbing a hand across his forehead. He inhaled a deep breath as if struggling for control. “Forgive me. I oughtn’t to have said that.”
“But that’s the real issue isn’t it, Uncle Gideon?” She clung to the desk as the truth of his words hit home. “Because of my Romani blood, I’ve been labeled a lóoverni, a…a loose woman.” She searched his remorseful gaze with her own, reading the truth mirrored in their depths. Lord Warrick was right.
Uncle Gideon came around the desk and grasped one of her cold hands in his. “As your guardian, I must protect you. And while an arranged marriage isn’t ideal, many couples who enter into such unions have been happy.”
And many miserable their entire lives.
“Lord Warrick is a decent man, though at present, he’s angry at having his hand forced. Give him time, dear. He’ll come around.”
“Please. I…” Vangie swallowed the lump of anguish clogging her throat. “I don’t want to marry him,” she whispered.
“Vangie,” Uncle Gideon sighed, compassion and exasperation warring in his eyes. “It’s not only your honor at stake.”
Her breath caught as she stared at him, aghast. Even in the dim light the lines of strain on his face stood out starkly.
Faith, that was the true crux of the matter.
Who else’s then? His? Aunt Adélaid’s? Would her disgrace adversely affect his and Aunt Adélaid’s position in society as well as his business dealings?
Undoubtedly.
Yvette’s? Could the gossip destroy her chances of a brilliant match? Any match at all?
Possibly.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything Yvette, Aunt Adélaid, and Uncle Gideon had done for her. Then there was Lord Warrick. What would her refusal do to his honor? Was he the type of man who valued honor above all else? She lowered her trembling chin to her chest, struggling for control. Dash it all, he was, of course.
Uncle Gideon squeezed her hand and smiled reassuringly. “It’s a most suitable match for you, my dear.”
Scalding tears burned her eyes, but she nodded. “It’s a better match than I dared hope for,” she managed through the tightness constricting her throat. Yet, she’d settle for a haberdasher if he held some degree of affection for her. Instead, she was to wed a man whose only sentiment for her was scornful contempt. How could she bear it?
Her last encounter with Lord Warrick still stung. He hadn’t even bothered with the proposal Uncle Gideon expected. Without a proposal and acceptance, could there even be a betrothal? She’d not spoken of his rudeness to her uncle. The humiliation was crushing enough. If others were aware—well, she had endured all the pitying looks and tsking a body could tolerate.
Uncle Gideon grasped both her shoulders, bathing her in a loving look. “You’ve much of my sister in you, Vangie.” He kissed her on the forehead, then admonished gently, “The wedding will take place tomorrow. I’ll hear no more talk of it.”
Pouting and complaining would change nothing. She had her pride. She would not beg. Head bowed, lips compressed, she nodded again. If it were only her reputation at stake, she would refuse the match. The Roma would take her in. But her aunt, uncle, and Yvette had much to lose too. She could not—would not—bring censure upon them.
“That’s my girl.” Uncle Gideon folded her into a warm, what should’ve been comforting, hug. Instead, it felt like imprisonment.
Unshed tears blocked Vangie’s throat, and she couldn’t speak. On a sob, she jerked from his grasp and bolted to her bedchamber. Throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to her heartache and wept until sleep’s forgetfulness claimed her.
A bird’s chirps woke Vangie the next morning. She opened her eyes, curving her lips at the cheerful streams of sunshine slanting across the bedchamber’s rugs and wooden floor. What a glorious day. Stretching her arms overhead, she froze as an unpleasant memory shattered her happiness.
Today she’d wed.
She let her arms fall to her sides with a thump. The smile eased from her face, replaced by a frown of despair. She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. Her unbound hair circled about her shoulders. Resting her chin on her knees, she considered the pandemonium of the past couple of days. Everyone had been in a dither, rushing around, preparing for the nuptials.
Such silliness. Why bother with the falderal when neither party wanted to wed at all? Vangie had observed the fanfare with numb detachment, uttering short, monosyllabic replies when her aunt asked for her opinion.
“Peonies or roses?”
“Peonies.”
“The peach silk or the white muslin for Yvette?”
“Peach.”
“Bonnet or wreath?”
“Wreath.”
“Tongue or ham?”
Tongue or ham?
At last, she could take no more. Yesterday, she’d slipped into the wingback chair before her balcony window and rested her aching head against the smooth, silk back. “Aunt Adélaid,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you and Yvette do what you think best.” She’d raised a hand to her brow and closed her eyes against the nagging twinge. “I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”
“But, Vangie, don’t you want…?” Yvette began.
Vangie had lowered her hand and turned her head, resting her cheek against the soft, smooth fabric. She’d met Yvette’s, round, worried eyes. “I truly don’t care a whit what you decide.”
She’d known without being told the sparkle was gone from her eyes. She could have no more summoned a smile than she could have conjured a spell to prevent the travesty of a marriage to Lord Warrick. Turning her head to gaze out the window once more, she had breathed a small, silent, and altogether hopeless sigh.
Now, the dreaded day was upon her.
Vangie shoved off the heavy coverings and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before sliding to the floor. H
er gown was a wrinkled mess from having been slept in. Grabbing her shawl from a chair, she draped it around her shoulders and padded to the French windows on bare feet.
Throwing them open—for the last time—she stepped onto the balcony, disturbing a jay grooming itself on the rail. It scolded her soundly while flying away. A pinkish-brown feather floated slowly from the sky, swirling round and round to settle on the landing beside her foot. She retrieved the fallen feather, brushing her fingers along the crisp edge.
Lucky creature. It can fly away from its troubles.
For a fanciful moment after leaving Uncle Gideon’s study the day the marriage was announced, she too had contemplated flight—had actually intended to flee to her Romani relatives. He must have considered she might try to run away. For she hadn’t been alone, except when she slept, since. She suspected her uncle had her room watched at night too.
A cool breeze wafted by, and she wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The silk-fringed edge fluttered, and a stray curl caressed her cheek and tickled her nose until she tucked it behind her ear. She bent over the rail, breathing in the tangy air. Even though it had rained last night, the dank, noxious smells of the city lingered heavily this morning.
She missed the fresh, clean air of the country, and she missed her Romani clan. Heart heavy with yearning, she turned her focus toward home. A rainbow struggled to show itself amongst the myriad of ashen clouds gliding across the distant horizon. When the clouds finally passed by, the colorful arc would be free from its gloomy confines. At least the rainbow had some hope of reprieve.
She harbored none.
For a moment when she’d awoke, she’d forgotten the wretchedness she faced today. How she wished last night, the awful conversation with Uncle Gideon, had been a horrible dream. She’d cried herself to sleep hoping—praying—Lord Warrick would jilt her.
She peered at the sun-drenched courtyard below. Two robins hopped in the grass, tugging fat worms from the damp ground. There was yet time. A few hours remained before the wedding took place. Maybe he would cry off.
He is a man of honor.
With a longing so strong it rivaled physical pain, she wished her grandmother was here. Vangie adored Yvette; they were as close as sisters. But she needed her grandmother right now. Puri Daj would know what to do about this calamity.
She fingered the shawl’s fringe and permitted herself a skeptical twisting of her lips. Puri Daj must have known something of this nature was going to occur, hence the mystifying warning.
Grandmother had been mysterious during her last visit. More than once Vangie caught her grandmother studying her with an unnerving glint in her eye. Though a devout Christian, Puri Daj wouldn’t disavow her gypsy heritage. Or the inexplicable gifts she possessed because of her birthright.
“God made the Roma too,” the elder gypsy princess often said with a shrug of her shoulders.
Vangie felt herself fortunate to be as close to her unconventional Romani relatives as she was. Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival tolerating the twice-yearly visits was nothing short of astonishing, considering their low opinion of the Roma. They’d never once argued against the visitations, although their noses turned up and their eyes narrowed when Puri Daj came to call.
It was most convenient the Travelers always journeyed near Brunswick, typically for a short stay in early winter and an extended duration in the late spring or early summer. Vangie cherished the close relationship she shared with her father’s Roma family. Each year, she stayed in their encampment for a few weeks before they moved on.
Puri Daj had agreed to allow Vangie to live with the current baronet and his wife, as long as her visitations were honored. The arrangement was part of the complicated terms of Vangie’s father’s will. She had long suspected Uncle Gideon padded Uncle Percival and Aunt Eugenia’s pockets handsomely to ensure that particular stipulation was honored.
Vangie cocked her head. What was that commotion in the hallway? She ventured to the French windows.
Yvette, Aunt Adélaid, and a pair of lady’s maids bustled into the room, their arms overflowing. Yvette laid aside the flowers she carried, then embraced her. “We’ve brought you breakfast, dearest, and after you bathe, we’ll help you dress for your wedding.”
Despite her doldrums, Vangie gawked in slack-jawed astonishment as she stood in the grand entry of Lady…Fitsribbon’s? opulent mansion. At the dame’s insistence, the wedding ceremony was to commence at an unfashionable four o’clock in the afternoon in her ladyship’s drawing room.
Vangie would’ve rather it took place in Uncle Gideon’s study, or a prison, with none present but the cleric, her uncle, and the reluctant groom. She didn’t even want Aunt Adélaid or Yvette in attendance. In her mind, this wasn’t a joyous occasion in the least, but rather a sentencing. A life-long, irreversible imposition of punishment for two convicted of a crime they’d not committed.
The resplendent foyer, and what she could see of the rest of the manor, teemed with enormous bouquets of flowers and floral swags in every imaginable color. She half expected to hear bees buzzing as butterflies and birds fluttered from flower to flower.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet, perfumed air. Every hothouse in London must’ve relinquished its blooms for the occasion.
“There you are, my dears.”
Vangie turned to see Lady—blast, why couldn’t she remember the woman’s name?— emerging from an adjoining room.
“Do come along. Ian and the others are already assembled in the drawing room.” The matron gestured toward a room at the end of the magnificent hall.
Others? What others?
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. He took her arm and escorted her through the double doors. Was he afraid she might yet 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 can I do this?
From across the room, Vangie met Lord Warrick’s gaze. Had he been watching the door? She trembled when his cool assessment slowly traveled over her. A tingling followed the route of his eyes, settling in her bosom when his focus lingered there before rising to meet hers once more.
With a sardonic twist of his firm mouth, he turned to speak to the cleric.
She glanced at her gown. She wore 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.
A lovely bridal bouquet and hair wreath of peach-tinted roses, orange blossoms, and ivy, had been created from the pile of flowers Yvette had toted into her room this morning. 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, the wreath carefully pinned atop.
A pearl and diamond pendant graced her neck and matching drop earrings hung from her ears. The lovely set was her wedding gift from Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid. As her aunt draped the necklace around 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 far 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, but 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 cleric, 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 pasted on her lovely face didn’t diminish the unhappiness reflected in her eyes. Vangie looked away lest she give into the despair simmering beneath the surface of her own carefully-constructed poise.
A striking man she didn’t know stood next to Lord Warrick. His turquoise eyes—she’d never seen eyes that unique shade before—were riveted on Yvette, though her cousin didn’t seem to notice. Vangie cast a hesitant glance to 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 quietly recited her vows. The icy contempt in her future-husband’s eyes earlier had turned her blood cold.
To the assembled guests, she supposed, her lowered eyes bespoke modesty. But for her, a most reluctant bride, it was the means to stop the burgeoning tears from spilling onto her cheeks. Once they started, she’d become a blubbering fool. She bit the inside of her cheek prevent her lips from trembling. Sniveling females exasperated her, though she greatly feared she was becoming one herself.
Only once during the ceremony did she raise her gaze to meet Lord Warrick’s, as 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 her heart and most likely, the black fury in the viscount’s. Would he say, “I do,” or would he spare them both 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.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 8