“My wife has gotten precisely what she deserves.”
“Balderdash!” Aunt Edith drew her brows together in disapproval.
“You’re not the only one who was forced into marriage, nephew,” she snapped. “It’s much more difficult for a woman than a man. Believe me—I know.”
She slapped him on the arm with her damnable fan. “Stop being such an arrogant cork-brain.”
With that declaration, she proudly lifted her head and swept from his side, nodding as she passed Lord Sethwick making his way to Ian.
Feeling like a chastised schoolboy, he turned his gaze to Sethwick.
“Warrick, I’m afraid I’m off. I’ve been delivered a communiqué. Night Hawk left an urgent missive at the War Office.” He smiled and shook Ian’s hand. “Congratulations, old chap.”
“Thank you.”
“Didn’t think you’d be leg-shackled at twenty and seven.” Sethwick turned to look at Vangie, though his aqua gaze lingered far longer on her cousin. He grinned at Ian. “Your bride’s a beauty.”
Ian’s gaze roamed over Vangie. “Indeed.”
Vangie had been observing her new husband while she danced. Lord War—Ian looked anything but happy while conversing with Lady Fitzgibbons and Lord . . . what-ever-his-name was. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t understand why he’d gone through with it. The marriage benefited her far more than he.
She mentally ticked off his attributes.
He was handsome, a Corinthian, titled, and fairly well-heeled. And, she’d gleaned from the accounts everyone was eager to fill her ears with, a decent man, though known for his temper, dark moods, and obstinacy. He was fond of horseflesh, a top sawyer in fact, and his pugilist and firearm skills were renowned.
She turned and dipped, stepped forward and backward in time to the music. It was rumored he was somewhat of an intellect as well. He didn’t gamble, womanize, or drink overly much. Or so she’d been assured by Aunt Adélaid who’d been trying to reassure her, the match wasn’t a complete tragedy.
Her dear aunt had failed in her attempt to comfort Vangie. She was tempted to indulge in another sulk. No, she mentally chastised herself. Roma were made of sterner stuff. As if lifted upright by an invisible hand, she raised her chin and straightened her spine.
There must be something advantageous about this union.
Another turn, a hop and skip.
She could paint until her heart was content. One.
There would be darling children—eventually. Two.
Poverty and deprivation wouldn’t be her constant companions. She’d no longer be treated as a servant. And perhaps as a titled lady, she could help the Roma. Three, four and five.
There she’d done it. There were a goodly number of things this marriage brought her, besides a most reticent groom. Puffing out a little breath, Vangie forced her lips upward and nodded at something Uncle Gideon asked her. To be honest, she’d not a clue what it was. He could’ve been speaking about flying monkeys or singing kidney pie, and she’d be none the wiser.
But what could Ian find positive pertaining to their marriage? She supposed there was a marriage settlement involved. Uncle Gideon would have insisted upon it, despite her adamant protests. It was mortifying to be bartered into marriage. Any man could be purchased if the inducement was large enough.
Skipping the length of the line of dancers, she cast a glance at her glowering groom. Mayhap the marriage settlement influenced his decision to proceed with the marriage. Or, perchance he was as chivalrous as she hoped, and his selfless act was indeed to protect her honor.
And pigs ride camels.
Peering at him over her uncle’s shoulder, she saw a shadow flicker across his harsh features. No, Ian wasn’t pleased to be wed. Why had he gone through with it then?
Ma-sha-llah. As God wills, Puri Daj would say. Could it be as simple as that? Not likely.
Vangie suppressed a sigh. Will this falderal never end? The pretense of portraying an ecstatic bride was trying. The day had been a whirlwind of activity. She was done over, emotionally and physically. After eating but a few mouthfuls of flavorless breakfast, and enjoying a long soak in lily of the valley scented bathwater, she’d been preened and groomed for hours.
Then there had been a most embarrassing discussion with Aunt Adélaid regarding wifely duties.
“Vangie, the union of a man and woman is a beautiful thing. There’s pain the first time of course, but a considerate husband will do his best to lessen it and introduce you to pleasure.”
Vangie wanted to die of chagrin. Worrisome thoughts she’d shoved to a remote corner of her mind consumed her. Faith, surely Ian wouldn’t want to consummate the wedding tonight. They scarcely knew each other. Perhaps he could be persuaded to postpone the event for a few weeks. Or months—
He was staring at her, with those brooding, slate eyes of his. She felt his gaze on her as surely as if he reached and trailed a finger over her cheek. He wanted her to look at him. She sensed it.
No, she wouldn’t.
He’d not find her easy to manipulate. Her gaze flitted about the room, landing here and there, hovering like a bee over a flower before darting on.
She would not look at him. Drat the man. Stop staring.
Her gaze strayed in Ian’s direction. She caught herself and pointedly turned her head pretending to be absorbed in the floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting a Grecian garden. She stumbled to a stop. Blast and bother.
It was as futile to resist his silent command as it had been to refuse to say his name earlier. Or refuse to marry him. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.
Vangie raised her reluctant gaze to his. Their glances meshed and held. She felt like prey caught in a snare, unable to look away. He was dangerous, like the panther she’d likened him to that first fateful night. Every inkling of self-preservation shouted for her to flee.
Angling himself upright, Ian smiled his disturbing smile. Never breaking his entrancing stare, he crossed to her. She stood rooted, mesmerized in the middle of the room, unable to tear her gaze from his.
Sweeping her into his arms, he guided her round the floor once more. She could feel his thighs brushing hers, her breasts, pushing against his coat, the buttons cutting into her tender flesh. He was holding her much too close for propriety. Why didn’t she mind too terribly much?
Her new husband’s arms were bands of steel, wrapping her in an impenetrable vise. His unusual eyes peered into hers, probing, seeking—what she knew not. They roamed across her face, lingering for a disquieting moment on her parted lips, before lowering to the mounds swelling from her bodice.
Vangie felt the heat of his smoldering gaze, as surely as if he’d caressed her. It was as if they were alone, no one else in the room, their bodies speaking an ancient language only lovers know. Ian’s breathing quickened. A low, sensual sound escaped him when his hand caressed her bare shoulder. She released a slight hiccupping gasp.
Her breath caught and hitched in her lungs.
“I think it’s time we made our excuses and made for home, sweeting.” His voice was a husky, suggestive rumble.
Oh dear.
Shaken from the unnerving exchange, Vangie allowed him to lead her from the floor, though the dance had not yet ended. With her on his arm, he circled the room, accepting congratulations and thanking the guests for attending.
Faith, were they truly to leave? She sent a panicked look at Uncle Gideon. He was frowning again, his eyes trained on Ian.
His aunt offered her cheek for a compulsory kiss, then chided him. “Leaving so soon, Ian?”
Turning to Vangie, the dame embraced her. “I’m most pleased you deemed to marry this pup, my dear.”
The sincerity and playfulness of her tone did wonders to ease Vangie’s brittle nerves. “Thank you, Lady Fitz . . .”
“Pshaw, none of that. Please call me Aunt Edith, Evangeline.”
Vangie smiled with sincere warmth. “And you must call me Vangie.”
&nbs
p; More farewells and good wishes were exchanged before she was finally whisked into Ian’s waiting carriage. Her trunk wasn’t anywhere to be seen, not that she had too terribly much to take with her. All the clothes she’d worn while in London had been borrowed from Yvette.
The carriage started to pull away from the mansion. She blurted, “My trunk?”
“Was sent over during the ceremony.”
“Oh.” How thoughtful of him. “Thank you.”
He flicked his fingers dismissively. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it; your aunt did.”
Chapter 11
After Ian’s clipped retort, Vangie fell silent. With those few words he’d made his feelings all too clear.
He sat across from her, his sheer male essence permeating the coach. The sun had bid the day adieu, but dusk lent a faint glow to the plush interior of the comfortable conveyance. She knew without looking, he was staring at her with a steady, assessing gaze. He did indeed remind her of a large cat, and she was his quarry.
A shiver stole through her, despite the mild evening and the light shawl she wore. She daren’t look at him but kept her gaze firmly riveted on the dim, unimpressive view beyond the carriage window. He seemed as disinclined to converse as her. Considering his last rude remark, she was most grateful for that.
Clasping her hands in her lap, Vangie nibbled her lower lip. She was determined to ask Lord Warrick to wait to claim his conjugal rights. At least until they grew to know one another a mite more. Or better yet, a great deal more. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask, was it? She’d every intention of consummating the marriage, just not quite yet.
Wouldn’t his lordship be uncomfortable with such extreme intimacies with a stranger? Uncomfortable didn’t begin to express her feelings on the matter. It was preposterous. People simply didn’t engage in that with someone they didn’t know—
She fidgeted with her reticule strings, twisting the crocheted strands round, and round her fingers. Aunt Adélaid hadn’t been altogether specific about what that was, and Vangie tried very hard not to listen by reciting Romani phrases in her head the whole while her aunt was speaking.
“I must be honest. It is a smidgen embarrassing the first time.”
The droppings of the flying bird never fall twice on the same spot.
“Or he might prefer you completely unclothed.”
It is easier to milk a cow that stands still.
“Don’t be alarmed. A spot of blood is quite normal.”
You cannot walk straight when the road is bent.
“Joining can be wondrous.”
Beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon.
Vangie still heard more than she wanted to. It had something to do with being naked and joining. She wasn’t completely ignorant for pity’s sake. She’d seen the chickens and geese mating in the enclosure behind her cottage, and once as a child, she’d seen a mare being bred while in the Romani encampment.
She shuddered. What was the pecking and biting about? And the noises? The squawking and grunting? It appeared rather violent, and it seemed to her, the females found the whole of it rather trying. Faith, she couldn’t imagine people engaged in that sort of behavior. She furrowed her brow. Truth to tell, she expected it must be wholly different for men and women when they coupled.
She cast a surreptitious glance at her husband. As if alerted, he turned his gaze from perusing the passing scenery and caught her peeking at him. His firm lips quirked at both corners. Sensual. Mocking.
Heat swept up her cheeks. Dash it all, she was blushing again. His smile widened. He knew it too, wretched man. Lawks, did he wink? Fresh warmth skimmed to the roots of her hair. She’d blushed more in the past week than in her entire life. It was most annoying. And revealing.
Clenching her hands once more, she squeezed the ring Lord Warrick slipped onto her finger during the ceremony. The band felt foreign. Everything was strange now. This man who was her husband. Where she’d live. The people she’d share a home with. The company she’d now keep.
Exhausted as she was, the gentle rocking of the carriage lulled Vangie into drowsiness. She rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. A sudden disturbing thought trickled into her mind. Would Ian allow visits with her Romani relatives? Would he be among those who treated the Roma shabbily, as if they were an inferior people?
Did he know her heritage? Would he care?
The carriage rumbled to a stop. Her eyes flew open, and her stomach cavorted as a thousand dragonflies zipped around her ribs. The carriage door was opened, revealing a royal blue liveried footman and a modish townhouse in an opulent section of town.
Ian descended first. “Thank you, Lowell.”
He swiveled back to the carriage, then reached into the darkened vehicle. He grasped Vangie’s hand, assisting her to the ground.
Could he feel her trembling?
Propelling her along by the elbow, he escorted her into the brightly lit townhouse. In the foyer, the staff stood in a straight line, ready to greet their new mistress.
Vangie smiled and nodded, at least she thought she did, though she couldn’t remember any of their names except perhaps the butler, Flinch, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Porker.
Oh dear, that can’t be right. Mayhap it was Mrs. Perky.
The heat from Ian’s hand scorched her through the light fabric of her shawl. It was difficult to concentrate on anything except for his disturbing touch.
“Mrs. Parker will show you to your chamber, Lady Warrick.”
She glanced at him, surprised. It was the first time he’d addressed her thus. She risked sending him a hesitant smile. It quickly faded when he turned away from her. She watched him escape through a carved door across the entry.
“Yes, indeed, everything’s been made ready for your arrival,” the vivacious housekeeper declared, a smile on her jovial face.
“Wait ‘till you see—” Her smile widened until her plump cheeks resembled miniature candied apples. “We’ve quite outdone ourselves, we have.”
Appreciation surged through Vangie at the friendly welcome. Mrs. Parker’s chatelaine tinkled as she bustled across the entry. “If you’ll please follow me, my lady.”
Lady Warrick? Faith, she was a lady now. Vangie lifted her gown and followed the housekeeper up the stairs. She paused on the landing. Turning, she stared at the door Ian had disappeared through. A dim light glowed through the crack beneath it.
Would he come to her tonight?
Dash it all, she hoped not.
Two hours later, she sat at the dressing table in the sumptuous chamber appointed to her. The room was overwhelming. Everything was pink roses, from the silk rose-laced wallpaper to the draperies and bed curtains—even the rugs on the floor. Numerous vases of roses were placed throughout the room, their bold scent perfuming the air.
There had even been rose petals floating in her bathwater, and more petals were sprinkled atop the silken sheets. Why would anyone put rose petals on the bed? She’d scooped the petals from the copper tub before picking the others off the sheets. Standing in the middle of the chamber, she’d bitten her lip.
Where to put them? A chamber pot peeked from beneath the bed. She’d pulled it out and grinned. Pink roses smiled back at her.
Now brushing her hair with long, slow strokes, her emotions were in a whirl. Ian hadn’t made an appearance. Her relief was profound. Then why the queer, uncomfortable feeling inside? She mentally shook her head. Tosh, that other sentiment was not disappointment. It was embarrassment at being rejected on one’s wedding night—that was all. Her gaze stole to the connecting door once more.
Vangie dismissed, Irma, the girl assigned to act as her lady’s maid, after the girl helped Vangie from her gown. It was awkward having a stranger undress her. She’d refused the offer of assistance with her bath as well. She’d no personal servants in Brunswick and was accustomed to seeing to her own needs.
She wore a diaphanous nightgown and robe. They too, were tinted pink, and embroidered blue ros
es graced the neckline and sleeves. Thank goodness for something other than pink. She hoped Ian wasn’t the one overly fond of the color. She didn’t much care for it herself.
The set had been lying across the gargantuan bed dominating the room when she entered the bedchamber. She’d no doubt they were meant for her to wear tonight, and so, she dutifully donned them. She had nothing half as lovely of her own.
A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. She would like to see his lordship’s reaction if he ever saw her in her plain, serviceable nightdress. The gown was patched in numerous places. The hem and sleeves were ragged and frayed, and it boasted several tea and paints stains. She loved its well-used comfort.
Tilting her head, Vangie caught sight of the bed in the mirror. The sheer size of it gave her pause. How many people were meant to sleep in that monstrosity? Her hand froze mid-stroke.
Leaning forward, she peered into the mirror, seeing the shock on her face, before sinking her gaze to gape at her chest. The material of her night rail was much too fine, revealing far more than it concealed. One could see the dark tips of her breasts.
“Faith, this will never do.”
Dropping the brush on the table, she jumped from the bench. Her mouth fell open. The dark shadow of her womanhood was visible through the frail fabric as well.
“What could the modiste have been thinking, fashioning a gown of such transparent material? Why, it’s positively wicked.”
She darted to the wardrobe intent on donning her thick, well-worn night robe. Lord Warrick mightn’t make an appearance tonight, but should he, Vangie wanted to be prepared. Standing before him in an embroidered, lace covered ensemble, that left nothing to the imagination, wouldn’t lend itself to the purpose she’d set her mind to.
Yanking the wardrobe open, she removed the familiar garment. She lifted her arm to slip it into the comfortable, woolen arm. Lord Warrick’s deep voice halted her.
The Viscount's Vow Page 9