A firm knock rattled the chamber’s door, shattering the moment.
Ian bounded from the bed. “Breakfast, at last. I’m ravenous.”
Vangie scooted to a sitting position. She wore her threadbare nightgown. How? Ah, her ill-fated episode last evening. Heaven above, Ian must’ve undressed her. The flush sweeping her wasn’t entirely due to embarrassment.
Out of habit, she skimmed her thigh with her fingertips. Her dagger wasn’t there. She quickly scanned the room, searching for the knife. Except for when she bathed, she always wore it.
His back to the closed door, and holding a laden tray, Ian observed her. “Your blade is on the nightstand. Do you typically tie it to your leg?” His attention slid pointedly to her thigh.
Vangie nodded. “Almost always. Many Roma women do.”
She shifted her attention to the pillow beside her. A couple of strands of wavy chestnut hair lay atop it. She smiled. Had he slept here, in this room with her all night? She followed him with her gaze as he carried their breakfast to a small table. A jar filled with wildflowers stood atop its scratched surface. Nonetheless, the chamber possessed a rustic charm. Last night, she’d taken scant notice of it or anything else, for that matter.
Simple gingham curtains hung from the lone window, and braided rag rugs lay on either side of the bed. The table and two chairs occupied one corner of the chamber, a washstand and mirror the other. A nightstand, an oil lamp in its center, was the only other piece of furniture in the room.
Leaning closer, Vangie examined the hand-painted porcelain lampshade. An intricate bouquet of blue and white roses graced the surface. She curved her mouth in appreciation. Self-taught, she adored painting. She was quite good at it too, though the opportunities to indulge the pastime solely for pleasure were few.
“Are you hungry?” Ian placed the tray on the table. He peeked under the serviette and grinned.
“Yes. Very.” She nodded again as she slipped from the bed. Her night rail swished around her bare feet as she approached the table. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday. I’m famished.” As if to confirm her claim, her stomach rumbled loudly.
“So I can hear,” he quipped.
She put her hand on her middle. “Goodness.”
Glancing at her rail, Vangie hesitated. She couldn’t eat wearing nothing but her thin nightgown. Ian must have sensed her concern. He crossed to her open valise, and after digging around, removed her robe.
He settled the familiar folds over her shoulders, and Vangie smiled her gratitude. “Thank you.”
Lifting a warm scone, she bit into it with relish. “Mmm, scrumptious.”
Closing her eyes, she took another blissful bite. Several crumbs from the pastry stuck to her mouth. She traced her lips with her tongue, licking them clean. Hearing a strange sound, she opened her eyes. Had Ian groaned?
Looking abashed, he patted his stomach and said, “My stomach’s protesting in hunger too.”
His was the oddest hunger pang she’d ever heard. He took the chair opposite hers, then filled his plate. “We’ll reach Somersfield this afternoon.”
Something in his tone gave Vangie pause, and she searched his face. Wasn’t he pleased to be returning home? Or perhaps, explaining her presence to his family had caused the coolness in his voice.
Three hours later, Vangie’s childhood home loomed before the coach. She’d pressed her lips into a thin line the moment the house appeared on the horizon. Biddlethorpe Hall’s familiar golden-honey facade stirred complex emotions she’d rather leave unexamined.
An oversized stone cottage boasting five bedrooms, four chimneys crowned with terra-cotta stacks stood at attention atop the roof. An uneven ivy hedge blanketed a stone fence framing the lawn she’d seldom been permitted to play on. A curving flagstone footpath led the way through an open gate to a charming, arched wooden entrance.
She’d adored this house, the Caruthers’ ancestral home and grounds when her father was the baronet. Since his death and Great Uncle Percival had assumed the baronetcy, the place held little happiness for her and had ceased to truly be home. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she carefully schooled her features into blandness.
Dragging her gaze from Biddlethorpe, she briefly met Ian’s eyes, before shifting hers away. She clutched her hands in her lap, bunching her washed-out skirt. “I’ve but a few items to collect, Ian. You needn’t trouble yourself with alighting. I’m sure my aunt and uncle won’t object if you remain in the coach.” Please, don’t ask me why. She didn’t want him to know the reason. Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival were so miserly, they begrudged guests a spot of tea and a biscuit.
“Are you certain?” Three lines puckered his brow, the movement emphasizing the sharp angles of his striking face as his gaze poured over her. Did he see through her ruse?
Nodding, Vangie reassured him, a mite more enthusiastically than necessary, “Oh, yes, I’m quite sure.” She breathed a silent sigh of relief, having feared he’d object to remaining in the conveyance. She didn’t want anything to disrupt the amiable disposition he’d adopted, for she quite liked this charming rogue.
Studying him from beneath her lashes, she concluded he was relaxed, not the least disgruntled by her ill-mannered suggestion. Noticing her perusal, Ian’s lips tilted slowly, sensually upward, a clear invitation in his gray eyes.
Vangie’s stomach flip-flopped, at having been caught staring at him and from his seductive roguery. Blushing, she swiftly averted her gaze. He was the only person capable of causing her to turn cherry-cheeked with such regularity. A simple smile or an innocent look from him and she was aquiver.
He’d been all polite concern and solicitousness since last night. It seemed their misadventure with the highwaymen yester eve had wrought some benefits. Mayhap he harbored a morsel of tenderness for her after all.
Please, let it be so.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and anxiety gripped her. She purposefully relaxed her tense muscles and cast a glance at Ian. He smiled again, a gleam in his quick-silver eyes she couldn’t identify but which caused a whorl of emotions.
Yes, last night and this morning did indeed give her cause for optimism. Now, to brave the ordeal of informing Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival of her marriage, gathering her sparse belongings, and leaving her childhood home. She’d be in and out of Biddlethorpe in ten—mayhap fifteen minutes—at most. Knowing Ian waited in the coach gave her courage.
He opened the trap door in the roof. “Gifford, please assist her ladyship from the coach.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“I’ll be but a few minutes, no more than fifteen.” She laid her hand on his arm, searching his eyes. “You don’t mind waiting?”
Ian covered Vangie’s hand with his. She was reluctant to introduce him to her relatives. Why? Was she ashamed of him, their forced marriage, and the necessity of having to explain the hasty nuptials? Or was it something else?
He lowered his attention to her hands. Earlier she had clasped them together so tightly he could see the white tips of her fingers. Though married less than a week, he knew her well enough to know she clenched her hands when distraught.
Curious, and not a little intrigued, Ian angled his head. She was obviously apprehensive. Again, he asked himself why? He peered past her, taking in the attractive house and grounds. Not ostentatiously affluent but still well-kept, and certainly not poverty stricken as he’d been led to believe.
“Your aunt and uncle won’t be offended if I don’t come in and introduce myself?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.” Vangie shook her head. “They aren’t expecting me home just yet, and…” Her shoulders slumped, and she looked uncomfortable. “Ian,” she paused. “I’m not sure how to say this except plainly. They don’t like unexpected guests.”
His curiosity piqued further. “They shan’t be curious whose coach this is?”
“No.” Her faint smile barely tilted her lips and didn’t wipe the unease from her face. “They’ll assume it belo
ngs to Uncle Gideon. He has several.”
Something was definitely amiss. Squeezing her hand, Ian gave a nod toward the house. “Go along then. I don’t mind.”
She sent him a grateful smile, which only increased his determination to know exactly what was afoot.
Gifford opened the door and assisted her down the small step. As she made her way to the cottage, a black-haired bantling called to her. A brilliant smile illuminated her face. She obviously knew the child and held him in great affection. She bent and embraced the boy, wrapping her arms around his thin body and hugging him tight to her.
She likes children.
The realization pleased Ian enormously. His pulse quickened when he considered precisely what was necessary to impregnate her. He allowed himself the luxury of a moment of erotic daydreaming to further explore that particular pleasant musing.
Vangie and the urchin spoke briefly. The child withdrew something from his vest pocket and passed it to her. With a wave, the boy trotted off, his bare feet kicking up small poufs of dust in his wake.
She watched him for a few moments. Was that sadness shadowing her face? Did her shoulders droop slightly? Ian scooted forward, his regard traveling between her and the child. It settled on the slip of paper she held.
A note? From whom? A man?
Stop it, old chap.
Vangie flipped the smallish rectangle over, studying it for a second before opening her reticule and tucking it inside. After cinching the strings tight, she looped the bag around her wrist and turned in the direction of the cottage.
Shoulders squared and chin up, as if preparing to enter a battle rather than her home, she marched through the open gate. However, instead of entering through the front door, she skirted the house and disappeared around the corner.
To use the rear entrance? Uneasiness skittered down his spine.
There was only one way to find out.
Follow her.
Before trailing his wife inside, Ian gave his drivers instructions. His soldier’s instincts pealed in alarm. Without a qualm or a hint of repentance, he opened the back door, letting himself into a deserted kitchen. Fresh-baked bread and pies cooled on a long table, and something savory simmered atop the iron cookstove. He sniffed in appreciation as he pushed the door closed behind him.
Head tilted, listening for voices, he strode the length of one corridor then turned down another. Taking care to tread silently, he glanced into the rooms he passed. High quality, if somewhat older, furnishings graced each of them. This was far from a pauper’s residence.
A scowl pulled his eyebrows tight.
Then why did his wife wear little more than rags?
“What, did they send you packing?” A woman’s haughty, strident voice demanded.
Ah, here they were. He edged along the wall until just outside the room’s entrance. The door stood open, giving him an almost unobstructed view of the interior.
Dressed in the latest fashion, ruby earrings sparkling in her earlobes, a hatchet-faced woman reclined in an armchair and berated Vangie.
“I must say, I expected you’d be banished from Polite Society sooner. I told you, the haute ton wouldn’t tolerate a gypsy tainting their fancy drawing rooms and elitist assemblies.” A sneer distorting her face, she waved a beringed hand as if she shooed a smelly beggar from her presence. “Well, change your clothes, and be swift about it. You’ve weeks’ worth of chores to catch up on.”
The shrew pointed to a glistening window. “You can start with the windows, inside and out, and then polish the silver. Frieda hasn’t had the time, poor dear. Your gadding about London left her to complete your chores too. It was most inconsiderate of you.”
“But, Aunt Eugenia—”
“You’ll give us none of your jaw, Evangeline.” A reedy masculine voice interjected. The uncle? “I suppose you’ve returned empty-handed once more. No clothes, fallalls, jewels…coin?”
Greedy scrounger.
Ian crept a few inches closer. The rail-thin hog grubber lounged on the settee, picking at a pasty of some sort.
“I’ve brought nothing of value back with me, Uncle Percival.”
Ian smirked. Except a well-heeled, titled husband.
Glaring daggers at her, the aunt curled her mouth into a pout. “Surely you could’ve solicited Gideon for funds. After all, he’s your legal guardian and has such well-padded pockets, while we must make do with the bare necessities. It’s most unfair.”
Ian examined the well-appointed drawing room again. Bare necessities? Hardly.
The aunt huffed out an exaggerated sigh before continuing with her fustian monologue. “For over thirteen years, we’ve been burdened with your care.” Tapping her long nails on the chair arm, Lady Caruthers continued her harping. “The pittance your parents left in trust for you is long gone—”
“Wait! There was a trust? For me?” Vangie stared at her aunt in astonished outrage.
The harpy ignored her question. “The dolts made no provision for your care, and the meager work you do around here barely compensates for your food.”
“Some days I eat but one meal,” Vangie protested. “And there have been days, I’ve not eaten at all, except for fruits or vegetables I’ve scavenged from the garden.”
Her aunt sent Vangie another thinly-veiled hostile look. “What of your painting and crochet work? Have you any ready to sell? The funds for your time-wasting hobbies don’t appear out of thin air, gel.”
The pained expression on his wife’s face deepened. “The Stapletons’ gifted me with those supplies, as you well know.”
Gritting his teeth to keep silent, Ian glowered. Bloody harridan. Was the woman completely void of decency? My God, to think Vangie had endured this—them—for over a decade?
Standing, Lady Caruthers sliced a self-important glance to her fusty husband, gingerly licking a blob of clotted cream off his bony finger. He grimaced in distaste. “Percival, do pay attention,” she snapped, her piercing voice scraping like pointed claws along Ian’s nerves.
Ducking his head, Sir Percival whined, “Of course, my dove,” before daring one last, defiant slurp of his finger.
Henpecked.
Ian twisted his mouth, then eyes narrowed, scowled again, outrage bumping around in his chest. Behind his wife’s back, the bloody lecher ogled Vangie. She was his niece, for God’s sake, the perverse old podger.
Was Vangie aware? Poised, her face wan and fraught with tension, she sliced her uncle a swift, wary glance. She shuddered and promptly averted her gaze. Hell yes, she knew. Had the reprobate dared touch her?
Ian clenched his hands against the urge to throttle Caruthers.
She met her aunt’s glare straight on. “I’m sorry to have been an encumbrance to you for so many years, Aunt Eugenia.”
Ian detected a sharp shred of sarcasm lacing her words.
Vangie heaved what he determined to be a resigned sigh. “I do have several pieces of crocheted work completed and some cups and plates painted as well.”
“You do?” Greed lit her ladyship’s face. “Where are they?”
“In my room. I’ll fetch them.” Vangie turned halfway, but her aunt’s words froze her in place.
“Oh, well, as for those, er…” Lady Caruthers hedged before plowing on. “They’ve already been sold.”
Vangie whirled around to face her fully, disbelief etched on her beautiful face. “You went into my chamber, took my belongings, and sold them—again?”
Again? They’d done this before? Indignation rose in Ian, simmering dangerously near the surface, testing his self-control.
Rage contorting his face, Sir Percival lurched to his feet. “You don’t have any belongings except for those our Christian charity permits you.” He advanced until he was but inches from her.
Though quaking, Vangie stood her ground. Unflinching, she looked him straight in the eye. “Did you sell my mother’s china?”
Silence greeted her question.
Sucking in a great draught
of air, she whispered. “How could you? Those four cups were all I’d left of her.” She tilted her chin proudly. “You had no right.”
“Hold your tongue, you insolent chit.” Eyes enraged slits, he raised his hand, and she threw her arm upward to ward off his blow.
So, this wasn’t the first time the bloody sod had struck her. By God, it would be the last.
Ian stormed into the room. “Don’t you dare!” he roared.
Sir Percival froze. His pig eyes grew huge, and crimson dashed his gaunt face. No sound emerged from his flapping mouth.
Lady Caruthers seemed petrified too, rooted to the floor, staring bug-eyed at Ian.
His eyes skewered Sir Percival and dared her ladyship to utter so much as a peep. “If you lay a hand on my wife, it will be the last thing you ever do. I promise you.”
“Your wife?” Lady Caruthers said in a strangled voice. Her attention darted between Vangie and him, astonishment causing her beady rodent eyes to bulge.
“Wife?” squawked Sir Percival before a sly glint entered his calculating gaze.
Lowering her arm, Vangie retreated until she bumped into Ian. He wrapped an arm around her and spoke quietly into her ear. “Vangie, go gather whatever you need. You shan’t be returning here—ever.”
After one sharp nod, she edged past him. Then lifting her skirt, she tore from the room.
Vangie glanced up from packing as Ian bent to enter the tiny attic chamber that had served as her bedroom for thirteen years. It didn’t surprise her he’d found his way here. She raised her chin, refusing to be ashamed of her modest room. The roof slanted downward on both sides, and only in the middle could one stand upright. A single-paned, curtainless window at one end allowed a trickle of light inside.
“Aunt and Uncle?”
“Are graciously keeping Gifford and Malcolm entertained.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Meaning?”
Ian’s gaze roamed the chamber before meeting hers. “Meaning, I’ve bought them off and threatened them with legal action if they so much as mention your name again.” He shook his head. “What was your father thinking, appointing them to be your guardians? They spent your trust fund.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 15