The Viscount's Vow

by Collette Cameron

  An idea took hold.

  “Introduce me, Aunt Edith, won’t you?” Ian would have asked Prinny himself to do the honors if it meant making Miss Caruthers’s 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 gently-bred than your usual choice of companion.” She stepped backward 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 and Geoff’s deaths. Instead, Ian smiled at her and winked.

  “Perchance, I’m in the market for a wife.” He couldn’t keep the 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.”

  He released an exaggerated sigh, crossing his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Aunt.”

  “Tish tosh.” She wiggled her fan 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’s direction. “Her uncle, Gideon Stapleton, paid for her gown. Do you suppose he’ll provide her a marriage settlement?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” 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.”

  “I was unaware,” Ian murmured extending his elbow.

  That explained her exotic appearance. He regarded Miss Caruthers 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 drivel, mind you.”

  She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice to a covert whisper.

  “Ian?”

  He bent his head to hear her. The ostrich feather in her hair tickled his cheek.

  “Perhaps that’s why you can’t take your eyes off her. She’s enchanted you.”

  Now Aunt Edith was making a May game of him. He straightened and drew his brows together in a scowl. Damn it, she thought him enamored of the chit.

  “I assure you, 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. The devil take it, Aunt Edith might very well be right. Why that irritated him all the more he couldn’t say.

  She slapped his arm with her fan. “No, I don’t believe she’ll have need of a magic charm or a marriage settlement at all.”

  Nodding her head in Miss Caruthers’s direction, a devilish smile on her lips, she murmured, “Her kind marries for love.”

  Chapter 2

  From her seat against the wall, Vangie risked a peek at the tall, striking man relaxing against the ballroom’s gilded doorframe. He was talking 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 was it? Danger?

  No, that wasn’t right. Waving her ivory fan, Vangie peered over its silver lace edge.

  Arrogance? Perhaps a mite.

  Confidence? Most assuredly.

  But that still wasn’t right. She scrunched her brows together. What was it?

  His gaze prowled the room. Vangie’s breath caught. Her fan fluttered to a stop.

  Anger. He exuded anger.

  She’d noticed him almost the moment he entered. Her partner was leading her to the other assembled dancers, and she’d felt compelled 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.

  Stop your fanciful imaginations Evangeline Caruthers.

  The panther had been standing there several minutes now, boredom carved across the planes of his somber face. 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.

  The starkness suited the man. She didn’t recognize him, but she’d not been in London two full months. Though nearly twenty, this was her first, her only, Season. Her social circle wasn’t as extensive as other young women, and it wasn’t likely to increase. She hadn’t taken during her coming out. The knowledge no longer caused her the twinge it had a fortnight 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 no appropriate clothing or acceptable company to attend such extravagant gatherings.

  Not that she cared overly much. Large crowds unnerved her, though she was becoming adept at concealing it—much like she’d concealed 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, she’d 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 run away with her Roma relatives too. She rather liked that idea.

  Anything was better than Great Uncle Percival and Great Aunt Eugenia. Though they weren’t her legal guardians, the stipulations of her father’s will required that she live with them for the past thirteen intolerable years.

  Vangie could endure it no longer.

  Her gaze swept the room and halted. Oh, blast and bother.

  Snapping the fan shut, she clasped and unclasped her hands around its elaborately carved handle. Unease tripped across her nerves. A gaudy lord plodded in her direction, and she’d no doubt he intended to request the next dance.

  She shuddered in revulsion. Last time, she’d resorted to holding her breath and sucking in slight puffs of air. His stench was horrid. That gentleman—who was he again?—Lord Pickles something or other, was too bold in his attention by far. When he wasn’t making suggestive innuendos and appalling propositions, he took advantage of the waltzes to slyly grope her.

  Whyever had the wicked waltz become acceptable? Wasn’t it most improper to be embracing on the dance floor? Vangie drew her brows together again. At least Lord Pickles hadn’t been as forward as that duke. Who was he? 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 challenged her. But in recent weeks, she’d been introduced to a multitude of new people. She couldn’t begin to remember even a fraction of their names. Meeting so many pretentious members of society was overwhelming.

  Vangie might have forgotten the duke’s name, but she couldn’t forget His Grace’s 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 have 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 him, the outcome from such a coil was far from certain. Though the daughter of a baronet, her Romani blood would trump any blueblood she possessed. That weighed heavily against her.

  The scale would have tilted in the duke’s favor, no doubt.

  It was fortuitous for him, he’d been interrupted assaulting her. 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 of them since that 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, Romani blood or not.

  Fear of social retribution prevented her from informing her hostesses of the boorish behavior of several gentlemen, including Lord Pickle’s and the nameless duke. Already more than one lady of quality had given Vangie 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 feared further snubbing, though her concern was not for herself. From the corner of her eye, she eyed the lord making his way to her. No, she cared not a groat what these people thought of her. But, it was sure to spoil Yvette’s first Season if Vangie exposed the powerful peers.

  Unclenching her hands, she smoothed the fragile fabric of her gown. She laid her fingers on the rigid length of the blade beneath her skirts. Truth be told, the fickleness of polite society troubled her. If these were London’s finest, she could do without them and their snobbery.

  They’d made it perfectly clear how they felt about her. And she’d heard the spiteful whispers about Uncle Gideon acquiring his fortune through trade, and of the Stapleton’s smelling of 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 get 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.”

  She peered around the small crowd encircling them. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”

  Vangie hugged Yvette to her again. She took several deliberate steps away from Lord Pickles, drawing Yvette with her. “Of course I am. I have a touch of a headache.”

  Her cousin was not to know how much these affairs distressed her. Yvette had been so hopeful Vangie would make a match this Season. She’d be horrified at the lewd propositions Vangie received almost nightly.

  Yvette searched Vangie’s face, before sweeping her gaze around the assembled beaus. Upon spying Lord Pickles, her eyes widened 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.”

  They turned as one. 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 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 advice almost made sense.

  “Miss Stapleton, Miss Caruthers, please allow me to present my nephew, Viscount Warrick.”

  Smiling, Lady Fitzgibbons lifted her hand from his arm. “Ian, may I present Miss Stapleton, and her cousin, Miss Caruthers?”

  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 smile, revealing a row of strong white teeth against his tanned face. She inhaled sharply, the air lodging peculiarly in her lungs.

  His eyes were 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 Vangie’s flesh.

  She was wrong. He most definitely was dangerous.

  “I so desired an introduction, I cajoled my dear aunt into doing the honors. I was determined to make your acquaintance.”

  Determined? Vangie stared, open-mouthed, shutting it with a snap when Yvette nudged her none too gently in the ribs.

  The musicians struck a few discordant notes. An elderly lord, smelling of camphor, bowed before Yvette. “I believe you promised me this dance, my dear.”

  Yvette smiled. “Indeed I did, Uncle Gabriel.” She looked to Vangie. “Your headache?”

  “Is all but gone,” Vangie assured her. It wasn’t the truth.

  With a smile and a little wave, Yvette placed her other hand on her uncle’s arm and allowed him to lead her away.

  Vangie flinched as Lord Pickles rudely shoved his way past her cousin. Vangie was certain he thought to partner her for the next dance. For a number of weeks now, the loathsome bore had been trying to persuade her to venture into another, much less respectable, sort of liaison.

  With practiced efficiency, a pinched look about her nose and mouth, Lady Fitzgibbons introduced the viscount and earl. Breathing between her slightly parted lips, Vangie only half listened, the whole while silently rehearsing her excuse for declining to dance with Lord Pickles.

  Wait, did her ladyship say his name was Pickering?

  Bold as brass, Lord Warrick tucked her gloved hand into the bend of his arm. Surprised, she glanced up at him.

  He
smiled at her. “Miss Caruthers, do say you’ll do me the honor of partnering me for this dance.”

  She ought to object to his forwardness. Instead, she returned his smile, grateful to have been rescued from the awkwardness of refusing Lord Pickering. Now, perhaps he would scurry away and leave her be.

  “I say, Warrick, Miss Caruthers was to be my partner for this waltz.”

  Arching a brow, Lord Warrick smiled possessively. He offered what sounded like a half-sincere apology. “Sorry, Pickering, old chap. Miss Caruthers has graciously accepted my request.”

  Persistent to the point of boorishness, Lord Pickering insisted, “I heard no acceptance.” He turned his watery gaze on Vangie. “Do you wish to dance with the Viscount or myself, Evangeline?”

  The way he puffed out his padded chest indicated he’d every confidence she would favor an earl over a minor lord. Most impressionable misses would have. She wasn’t one of them.

  And Evangeline? Did the man have no sense of propriety? Faith, whatever was he thinking addressing her by her given name? She’d never given him permission to do so. His cock-sureness and indecorous behavior was embarrassing, not to mention off-putting.

  Lady Fitz . . . gibbles rounded on him, outraged. “Lord Pickering, you overstep the bounds! How dare you address Miss Caruthers in such a manner?”

  “Indeed, bad ton, Pickering . . . taking liberties with a lady,” said Lord Warrick.

  Vangie cast him a quick glance. Was that sarcasm in his voice? He returned her regard with an innocent smile. She must have imagined it.

  “Miss Caruthers?” Lord Pickering scratched his bum and looked at her expectantly.

  Gads, but he was gauche. Grateful to be spared his lascivious attention and malodorous company, she answered, “Lord Warrick did ask first, Lord Pickle— er, Pickering.”

  Sputtering in indignation, he minced off, his face a mottled shade of red; an exact match to his garish, clattering footwear.

  “Needs his ears boxed, boorish jackanape,” Lady Fitzgibbons said, jabbing her fan in the direction of his retreating form. She sniffed the air. “And a bath, by God!”