She lay on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, and her ebony hair fanned across her pillow. Several silky curls curved across her ivory shoulder and back. The dark arc of her lashes was a startling contrast to the porcelain cheeks they caressed. Her lips, still rosy-red from his fervent kisses, were parted as she breathed softly in her sleep.
The sheet had slipped half-way to her waist when he’d risen, revealing the sumptuous curve of a breast. She shifted and the sheet dropped lower.
Ian sucked in a hissing breath. The loveliness of her breast was marred by a slight bruise. Had he done that to her? Blister it all. Tenderly draping the bedclothes over her, he vowed he’d make it up to her.
By God, his stepmother and sister had better have a good explanation for defaming Vangie’s character. And for sending him on a wild goose chase to snare a siren-turned-angel.
The clattering of china as Lynch prepared Ian’s tea interrupted his reverie. He glanced through the open door. Was Vangie awake yet? Two maids and a footman stood beyond the doorway, whispering. Catching Ian’s perusal, they ceased talking and scattered.
Returning his attention to the room, he frowned. What was afoot with the staff? He’d been met with a series of dark scowls and looks of reproach from his usually jovial servants the entire morning.
Lynch finished pouring Ian’s tea. He placed the cup and a plate of food before his master. He half-turned to the sideboard muttering, “I forgot the sugar—”
Ian studied Lynch. Something was awry. The man never forgot anything. Ever. And where was Mrs. Parker? Ian hadn’t seen her all morning. If anything was amiss, Lynch would be the first to know.
“Lynch?”
The butler faced him. “Sir?”
Crooking a brow, Ian met the butler’s indecipherable gaze. Ian took a bite of sausage. Did he detect the minutest bit of frost tingeing the single word? “Is something afoot?”
Lynch pursed his lips and looked down his rather long, hooked nose. Disapproval was etched across his haughty countenance.
“Perhaps, my lord,” he sniffed disdainfully, “you should make that inquiry of the new Lady Warrick.”
Ian paused, his kipper laden fork almost to his mouth. Frosty, to be sure, and no small measure of censure as well. “Lady Warrick?”
“Indeed,” intoned Lynch, his voice ringing with disapproval.
Lynch turned to the sideboard, muttering beneath his breath. Ian distinctly heard, “Inconsiderate . . . poor innocent . . . lout,” before the butler gathered the tea service, and with another loud sniff of disapproval, quit the room.
Placing his fork on the table, Ian wiped his mouth, before tossing his napkin onto his full plate. He shoved from the table, then strode from the breakfast room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made straightaway to Vangie’s chamber, entering without knocking.
Mrs. Parker and Emma were fussing over his bride. Upon spying him, Vangie dipped her head, lowering her gaze to the floor. The maid continued to twist and pin his wife’s raven hair.
Patting Vangie on the shoulder, Mrs. Parker gathered the bed and bath linens before heading for the door. Ian heard her mutter, “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you great oaf,” as she flounced from the room.
As if compelled by some unseen force, Ian gaze was drawn to the unmade bed. There in the center, like an unholy beacon, a blemish marred the mattress. Blast and damn.
He swung his gaze to Vangie, who continued to be obsessed with the dust particles floating near the floor. He looked to Emma. She glared at him, accusation and condemnation in her eyes. Pursing her lips, she dipped her gaze to her mistress’s hair once more. The unfamiliar heat of a flush stole across Ian’s face. It would seem the whole staff thought he was a monstrous beast.
A thought intruded. Fiend seize it.
Did they think he’d forced himself on Vangie? He couldn’t very well assemble the staff and explain otherwise. Humiliated at the notion, he ran a finger round the front of his neckcloth. He’d cleaned up the mess on the floor to still any gossip, but he hadn’t considered that. His gaze flicked to the bed. There was nothing for it then. Let them think what they will.
He caressed Vangie with his gaze. It was what she thought that mattered. “Emma, please go below, and ask Mrs. Plumperbuns to prepare a basket for our journey.”
“Yes, my lord. Just one more curl to pin.” Securing the last strand, Emma met Vangie’s eyes in the mirror. “You look lovely, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
Emma dipped a quick curtsy, mumbling, “My lord,” before she hurried from the room.
Feeling as awkward as a lad in short pants, instead of an experienced man of the world, Ian approached his wife. “Are you. . .? Did I. . .?”
Finally, heaving a frustrated sigh, he grasped her hands and drew her to her feet. “I’m sorry, sweeting. I tried to be gentle.”
Lifting her head, Vangie met his eyes. Undisguised melancholy lingered in hers. She attempted a smile, though her lower lip quivered the merest bit. “I’m fine. Please, don’t concern yourself. It’s the way of nature, as God intended.”
Ian’s chest thrummed with guilt. His sweet bride was reassuring him, again, when she was the injured party. He was only now beginning to realize how blessed, rather than cursed, he was at having taken her to wife.
So why had Lucinda and Charlotte done their utmost to tarnish Vangie’s character to him? Why had they been eager to see him depart for London to defend the family’s honor?
He pressed his lips together. What a twist of fate. Vangie wasn’t the villain in this marriage. He was.
Chapter 14
Three days later, Vangie thumped the inn’s lumpy pillow for the dozenth time. Giving up, she flopped onto her back. Sleep eluded her. She reached under her pillow, seeking her dagger. Her hand closed on the familiar silver handle, her ring clinking against the metal. Though physically exhausted, her mind refused to stop ruminating, replaying the past three days.
She muttered into the darkness, “Faith, three days of torturous travel.”
They stopped only long enough to switch the team and see to their personal needs. Ian even insisted they eat while on the move. She was exhausted from the grueling pace he’d set. More than once, she’d fallen asleep, and he had to waken her when the coach rolled into an inn’s dark and dusty courtyard. Vangie sought her bed each night right after supping.
She shifted on the bed, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Her backside was sore from the hours and hours of sitting and bouncing along in the couch-and-four. Her heart was far sorer. After their wedding night, Ian hadn’t sought her bed again. Each night her hopes were dashed anew when he procured separate rooms for them at the posting houses along their route.
Staring at the fingers of moonlight dancing across the ceiling’s beams, she played with an escaped curl. Except to hand her in and out of the carriage, he touched her not at all. Nor did he keep her company within the carriage’s boring confines. He rode his stallion during the day, only joining her after sunset.
His demeanor was coolly polite. More than once, she thought she saw a glimpse of what appeared to be remorse in his eyes. Was he regretting marrying her already? Had she so dissatisfied him on their wedding night he was now averse to touching her?
A nasty twinge gripped the region near her heart. She wrapped the strand of hair around her finger several times. She’d tried to show him she’d been willing, at least, until the awfulness occurred. Vangie toyed with the curl, perplexed. The things Ian had done to her before. . .
The way he made her feel had been utterly exquisite, beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Why had it ended so poorly? Why was he opposed to lying with her now?
Those delicious little quivers still fluttered along her senses when he looked at her. All it took was one touch from him, and
she was willing to throw herself into his arms once more, despite her misgivings about their initial union. She wasn’t immune to him. In fact, he . . . intrigued her. At least that’s what she was calling it.
Forgiving by nature, Vangie felt only compassion for him, that he should be encumbered with such a monstrous male disfigurement. She’d no more mock him for it than she’d tease someone with a prominent nose or great oafish feet.
One couldn’t help if they were born with oversized ears, or large protruding teeth. Ian’s acceptance of his irregularity spoke highly of his character. He’d not once apologized for its appearance. True, she found it uncomfortable when they’d been intimate, but she’d resolved to make the best of the situation.
She’d hoped to get a child from the marriage, someone to love, and who’d love her unconditionally in return. A difficult task, to be sure, when one’s husband declined to share one’s bed, even if the initial experience had been something short of ideal. Heat swept her face. It was demeaning to be spurned so early on.
Vangie would try to be a good wife to Ian, if he’d let her. She knew he was angry and disappointed at being forced into marriage. But hadn’t the settlement tempered his disenchantment? And she wasn’t wholly repugnant, else why would those gentlemen in London have been so attentive?
She grimaced. Albeit, usually inappropriately so.
Rolling onto her side, she dangled a foot off the mattress. She’d attempted to talk with Ian their first evening of traveling. He’d climbed into the coach, settling across from her, his legs stretched before him.
“It’s cooling rapidly this evening.” Oh, bother, she scolded herself. Couldn’t she invent something cleverer than that drivel? Talk of the temperature? Every featherheaded ninnyhammer in London babbled on about the temperature or the weather or their latest bonnet.
“Indeed.”
Polite. Cool. Reserved.
“Have we far to travel yet?” In the darkened carriage, Vangie rolled her eyes in self-disgust.
Simkin. Of course we do. We’ve but started the journey.
Vangie floundered a bit more, “Today, er, tonight, I mean.”
“A bit.”
“Your stallion, he’s Arabian, is he not?”
“Yes.”
That was it. She gave up. She was done over.
He obviously didn’t want to converse with her. She retreated into confused silence. Moments later, she heard the striking of flint as Ian lit the oil lamp. The revealing light wasn’t welcome.
Through lowered lashes, she watched him settle into the corner on his side of the carriage—without uttering a sound. The man certainly was a miser with his words.
Idly twisting a loose button on her emerald-green jacket, she frowned and looked downward. Best to stop before it came off. She had no other jacket with her. Yvette had pressed Vangie to take some of her clothes, but she’d refused. Her kind-hearted cousin didn’t understand how demoralizing it was to always be accepting charity. Besides, her aunt, uncle, and cousin had already been too generous by far.
Vangie turned her head to peer out the window. It was dark, so there was naught to look at. It was far more likely she’d see a shooting star than receive a morsel of kindness from her husband. A wistful sigh escaped, but she was quick to suppress it lest he hear. She wouldn’t wallow in self-pity.
She fingered the worn, faded cuffs of her spencer. She hadn’t many clothes. Those she did have were castoffs. She’d worn them for at least three years, and they showed signs of the constant wear. Tucking her scuffed half boots beneath her skirt, she lifted her hands to remove the plain straw bonnet atop her head. She’d no doubt she’d doze off again and couldn’t chance crushing the humble accessory. She only owned one other bonnet, and it was far too warm for springtime wear.
The clothing Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid purchased for her always remained with them when she departed. She’d taken to borrowing Yvette’s rather than have them go to the unnecessary expense of purchasing garments she’d only leave behind. The first few times she’d returned home with new clothing, Uncle Percival and Aunt Eugenia had confiscated them, selling the garments for her keep, as was their right, they claimed. They’d made it clear she’d been a burden to them all these years.
Greedy buggers. She earned her way, and she suspected Uncle Gideon continued to send them monies regularly. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Puri Daj hadn’t compensated them too.
Vangie allowed herself a naughty smile. Despite begrudging her every meal, Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival would not be pleased she’d wed. They quite liked the monies her presence afforded them. Placing the hat atop the reticule she’d crocheted herself, she turned her attention to the inglorious night once more.
She awoke to the bouncing of the coach as Ian hopped to the ground. After eating a quick meal, she’d bathed, and then gratefully crawled into bed.
And lain there for hours, wide awake, her mind churning.
Now, eyes gritty with fatigue, she stared at the dancing moonbeams cavorting across the rustic ceiling and walls. The moonlight, bright as day, taunted her, daring her to seek slumber’s peace and its welcoming forgetfulness.
Three nights ago Ian bedded her.
In her mind she replayed his tenderness, the regret and undisguised shame, the genuine remorse he’d expressed after discovering his error. She’d been absorbed in her own misery, and only now had it occurred to her, he must be suffering too. Every instinct told her he was a bari man, a good man, at heart, and Puri Daj always said, “God looks at the heart.”
Yawning, Vangie turned over, smiling into her bumpy pillow. She could sleep now. She had a plan.
Tomorrow . . .
Chapter 15
Ian watched the raindrops scampering after one another on the foggy carriage window. One night remained before they reached his home. Late this afternoon, the weather turned beastly, reflecting his dismal mood. A passing storm’s clouds drenched the travelers, forcing him to forsake the saddle he preferred, and seek the dry, lamp-lit interior of the luxurious coach.
He climbed in, dripping wet. Sitting, he lifted off his hat then removed his gloves, before he went to work unfastening his greatcoat. Once his sodden garments were lying beside him, he relaxed against the seat, arms folded.
Sitting across from Vangie, Ian saw her bewilderment. He recognized it in her soulful eyes and sad smile. He called himself a hundred kinds of fool. She’d not complained an iota, but instead had been amiable and sweet-tempered the entire journey.
He’d neglected her miserably, leaving her alone everyday in the coach-and-four. Truth to tell, he wanted her desperately and didn’t trust himself. One kind word, one soft touch or yearning look and he’d been undone, no doubt lifting her skirts and taking her right there in the coach.
On the floor. On the seat. In his lap—
Blast it all, cease man.
The thought of claiming her once more quickened his pulse. He shifted on the buttoned leather, rearranging his legs. He was careful to keep his face concealed in shadows where the lamp’s meager glow didn’t reach. He didn’t want her to see him studying her, afraid she’d see the desire he couldn’t conceal in his eyes.
Or bulging in his pantaloons.
He’d hurt Vangie once. He’d not do so again, not intentionally leastways. Retreating into the controlled, impersonal shell he adopted as a child, where he didn’t permit himself to feel anything, served his purpose well.
Only he did feel.
Something elusive, mystifying, and consuming.
Drivel.
Something haunting his increasingly distracted waking moments and his evermore restless nights.
Rubbish and balderdash.
His heart skipped a beat, and turned over in an unfamiliar prickly manner.
Dunder
headed dolt.
Ian heard Vangie’s muffled sigh and cursed inwardly. Through half-lowered lids he watched her. The lamp’s dim light cast moving patterns across her delicate, downcast features. He berated himself. His guilt created a great, gaping chasm between them.
His gaze roamed over her, taking in each feature, each rounded curve. He permitted his eyes what he denied his hands and mouth. He watched her tuck her worn boots a bit further beneath her faded skirt.
Ian frowned and scrunched his brows. She was embarrassed by her clothing. Why she wore scarcely more than rags when Stapleton was flush with funds was an enigma to him. Where was the fine quality clothing like the yellow morning frock and silvery gown he’d seen her in before?
She took off her bonnet, placing it on the seat beside her. Wedging it into the corner, she folded the ribbons into a neat pile.
“You’ll need a new wardrobe, of course,” he blurted.
Vangie stopped fussing with the ribbons and stared at him. What was she thinking? He picked a piece of imaginary lint off his sleeve.
“I’ll consult with my housekeeper, Mrs. Tannsen, and have her take your measurements.”
He wasn’t about to ask Lucinda or Charlotte for any favors. Charlotte was proving to be more like her spiteful mother everyday.
“You can order whatever you like. Gowns, under things, bonnets, boots, slippers, fallalls, fripperies—” He waved his hand in a circle. “And whatever other whatnots you women find necessary.”
In his mind’s eye, a vision of Vangie in a revealing pink confection floated by. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Several more of those tempting, filmy nightgowns too.
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