The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Quote
Copyright
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Other Collette Cameron Books
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
About the Author
From the Desk of Collette Cameron
Enjoy the first chapter of HIGHLANDER’S HOPE
The Earl’s Enticement
THE VISCOUNT’S VOW
Enhanced Second Edition
Castle Brides, Book One
By
COLLETTE CAMERON
Blue Rose Romance®
Portland, Oregon
Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®
“I love you,” he whispered. “I care not where I live, as long as I’m with you.
Even if you’re never able to forgive me or can never love me in return.”
THE VISCOUNTS VOW
Enhance Second Edition
Castle Brides
Copyright © 2019 Collette Cameron®
Cover Design by Darlene Albert
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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The Honorable Rogues™
A Kiss for a Rogue
A Bride for a Rogue
A Rogue’s Scandalous Wish
To Capture a Rogue’s Heart
The Rogue and the Wallflower
A Rose for a Rogue
Castle Brides Series
The Viscount’s Vow
Highlander’s Hope
The Earl’s Enticement
Heart of a Highlander (prequel to Highlander’s Hope)
The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses Series
The Earl and the Spinster
The Marquis and the Vixen
The Lord and the Wallflower
The Buccaneer and the Bluestocking
The Lieutenant and the Lady
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series
Triumph and Treasure
Virtue and Valor
Heartbreak and Honor
Scandal’s Splendor
Passion and Plunder
Seductive Surrender
A Yuletide Highlander
Seductive Scoundrels Series
A Diamond for a Duke
Only a Duke Would Dare
A December with a Duke
What Would a Duke Do?
Coming soon in the series!
Won by a Wicked Duke
Never Dance with a Duke
To Lure a Duke’s Lady
Loved by a Devilish Duke
Wedding her Christmas Duke
When a Duke Loves a Lass
How to Win A Duke’s Heart
To Love an Irredeemable Duke
Wicked Earls’ Club
Earl of Wainthorpe
Earl of Scarborough
Heart of a Scot
To Love a Highland Laird
To Redeem a Highland Rogue
To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel
Coming soon in the series!
To Woo a Highland Warrior
To Enchant a Highland Earl
To Defy a Highland Duke
To Marry a Highland Marauder
To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer
Boxed Sets
Embraced by a Rogue
To Love a Reckless Lord
When a Lord Loves a Lady
Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3
The Blue Rose Regency Romances- The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5
This one’s for you, Jesse and Travess.
For the brave and daring heroes in your boyhood play:
dragon slayers, Navy Seals, professional athletes, safari hunters,
and jungle warriors. May you always conquer evil and fight for
everything that is honorable, righteous, truthful, and decent.
You will forever be the heroes in my mother’s heart.
xoxo
London, England
Late April, 1814
Vengeance isn’t sweet.
Ian Warrick tipped his champagne flute and took a lengthy swallow. He’d far prefer whisky or brandy. He eyed the pale amber liquid in his still half-full glass. The insipid wine masquerading as champagne did little to wash away the bitterness lingering in his soul.
A young woman partnered by a fusty old lord whirled by, and Ian’s gaze followed her.
Evangeline Caruthers.
After seeking her the better part of an hour, he’d finally found the chit. Or more on accurately, she’d been pointed out to him. A half-smile tugged his lips upward as he watched the aged poger attempt to steer her into a secluded alcove behind a wall of potted greenery. Ev
en across the ballroom, he couldn’t miss her tromping on the ancient fellow’s foot.
That had been no accident.
For a fleeting moment, his smile stretched into a grin of genuine amusement. It vanished just as quickly. He wasn’t here to be amused. Especially by her.
Lounging against the intricately-carved doorframe, he glanced around the opulent ballroom. Candlelight glistened off the crystal chandeliers and framed mirrors gilding the room’s far side. The glass reflected the dancers in a blur of pulsing colors.
This was the first social event he’d attended since resigning his commission in His Majesty’s army. The first since he’d assumed the duties of the seventh Viscount Warrick. The first since his father had succumbed to heart failure brought on by Geoff’s death.
Ian sought Miss Caruthers again, and his gaze lingered. His younger brother was dead. Because of her. Like a rapier between his ribs, pain stabbed him sharp and fierce, hitching the air in his lungs. He exhaled—a slow, deliberate breath. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the flute to his lips.
A lieutenant reeking of strong spirits staggered from the ballroom and plowed into him. Ian choked on the wine trickling down his throat. “Good—God—man,” he said between strangled coughs.
“’Scuse me, milord. Don’ feel well. Too hot.”
Swallowing against the stinging in his throat, Ian beckoned to a liveried servant. “Help that chap, please.”
He indicated the lieutenant weaving his way through the doorway and careening into any guest unfortunate enough to be in his path. The crimson-uniformed soldier traveled but a dozen more steps before casting up his accounts on the glossy marble floor. Gentlemen raised their voices in protest as ladies squawked their outrage and yanked their skirts aside.
Ian curved his lips again. Poor sot. He’d done it up brown—literally. The ballroom was much too warm; the crush of guests intolerable. He inhaled, and his nostrils twitched. The place stank of sweat, unwashed bodies, and an abundance of cloying perfume. He smirked. No doubt the ball would be touted a haut ton success despite the lieutenant’s messy mishap.
He cared little. Everything about this falderal left him cold. If the circumstances weren’t pressing, he wouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here with his brother dead and buried less than a month, his father scarcely a fortnight. Ian’s breech of mourning protocol bordered on ruinous—not that he gave a damn.
Miss Caruthers’ retribution could not wait.
Nor could the explanation Prinny demanded for Geoff’s role in the Duke of Paneswort’s death. Ian twisted his lips into a grimace. Paneswort, a royal pain in the arse, had been a particular favorite of the Prince Regent’s.
Lecherous cohorts.
At any rate, Prinny was irate. So, Ian had cast off propriety, abandoned the peace and quiet of Somersfield, his country house, and ventured into this fray despite the ton’s disapproval of his presence. He’d deal with Miss Caruthers, pacify His Majesty, and then return home.
He rested his shoulder against the wall, the deep saffron-colored wallpaper, a similar shade to the mess on the floor in the process of being cleared away by two footmen. With a jaundiced eye, he scrutinized the room once more. Lord, how he despised these garish affairs. The pretentiousness. The fake smiles. The gossip. The social climbing. All of it added to the bad taste in his mouth.
As he’d snooped around to determine who Miss Caruthers was, he’d felt an absolute fool. My God, he’d actually stooped to eavesdropping on the spinsterish misses gossiping along the dance floor’s periphery. When they’d turned their eager, expectant faces to him, he’d fled like a frightened dog with its tail between its legs.
He was the worst sort of knave, raising their pitiful hopes then dashing off without so much as a, “How do you do?” Had the toxic mixture of grief and ire addled him? His tightened his grip around the etched flute’s stem.
The idea wasn’t that far-fetched.
He’d resorted—without success until now—to asking acquaintances to identify Miss Caruthers. At his less than subtle probing, more than one male mouth had stretched into a rakish grin.
“Want a taste of that, eh, Warrick?”
“Prime mort, she is.”
Ian raised his glass to take a sip. Empty. The devil take it.
Searching the room for a servant bearing more spirits, he tried to ignore the tittering debutantes and their match-making mamas vying for his attention. He supposed he was ripe for the Marriage Mart now—rather like a piece of prime horseflesh at Tattersalls. Everyone present knew he recently came into his title.
More than one affronted dame glared at him. He’d bet his favorite hunting hound they were more vexed with him for ignoring their transparent attempts to parade their calf-eyed daughters before him than his blatant disregard for mourning customs.
He cared not. Not tonight, leastways.
This evening, Miss Caruthers commandeered his attention. Drawing his eyebrows together and flattening his lips, Ian considered her. Adorned in a shimmering white gown, with some sort of filmy silvery overskirt, she was—he grudgingly admitted—exquisite. A tiara entwined with a filigree circlet adorned her raven hair piled atop her head. The gems twinkled mischievously each time she moved.
She appeared angelic.
He knew better.
Her alluring eyes and seductive smile couldn’t gull him. Miss Caruthers might be a diamond of the first water, but he knew the truth concerning her. He was immune to her charms. His gaze sharp, he cocked his head. She appeared regal, poised, accepting dance request after dance request. A demure, almost shy, smile curved her rosy lips.
Did she rouge them?
He curled his lip in derision. Likely.
Arms folded, languidly holding his glass, he relaxed against the wall. The young bloods buzzing ’round her like bees to golden honey only confirmed what he’d been told.
His sister, Charlotte, eyes red-rimmed from crying, had wailed, “Miss Caruthers collects men like souvenirs.”
Ian grimaced again, his attention never straying from Miss Caruthers as she stepped and dipped to the music. Oh, yes, he knew her kind.
She epitomized the type of women he disdained. Fast women, who bewitched unsuspecting swains, like Geoff, and who stole beaus from innocents like Charlotte. Sirens who cast their admirers off with the same regard as a soiled serviette or used tea leaves. Seductresses ever intent on pursuing their new conquests, uncaring of the hearts they crushed or lives they left in ruins as a consequence of their Jezebel triumphs.
Jezebel triumphs.
A familiar twinge stung his heart—or mayhap it was only his pride. Amelia was such a woman, though he hadn’t known it until she’d tossed him aside for a bigger prize. Why settle for him, the heir to a mere viscountcy, when there was a duke to be seduced? Ironically, the same duke who now lay dead from the lead ball Geoff had planted in his chest.
Exchanging his empty glass for a full one offered by a passing servant, Ian suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to be here—loathed being here. He’d only come on his brother’s and sister’s behalf, to set things to right. In one quaff, he polished off the weak wine, barely suppressing a shudder.
Vile stuff, that.
Scowling as Miss Caruthers maneuvered the steps of the lively country-dance, he clamped his lips so hard, a muscle spasmed in his jaw. He trailed her movements, ever closer, across the sanded parquet floor. The dance steps brought her within a few feet of where he stood. Skipping past him, she laughed at something her partner said.
A jolt slammed into Ian’s gut.
God’s blood! She was laughing, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. His breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Under his breath he vowed, “By all that is holy, by evening’s end, I’ll put a stop to your dalliances—once and for all.”
Precisely how he would go about curbing her, he hadn’t yet determined.
Someone jabbed his shoulder.
“Nephew?”
He stiffened at the familiar fem
inine voice.
“Heard tell you were here. Didn’t believe it at first.” His aunt poked him again, harder this time. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
Dash it all, he had been.
He sucked in a calming breath before turning around and smiling down into the face of his maternal aunt, Lady Fitzgibbons. Barely reaching his shoulder, Aunt Edith was a formidable dowager in her own right. Tonight, she was attired in a vivid crimson dress. A colorful ostrich feather waved flirtatiously in her silver-streaked hair. Her familiar, cloying violet perfume wafted upward, tickling his nostrils.
Ian bowed over her outstretched hand. “Aunt Edith, you know I always delight in your company.”
“Pshaw. Don’t try your charming tricks on me, young scamp.” She cast a quick look around the room. “Gads, Ian, you’re in mourning. Whatever are you thinking, putting in an appearance here?”
He arched a brow, but remained silent.
“None of my business, eh?” She surveyed him with shrewd eyes. “How are you faring?” Then, only out of polite necessity he was sure, she inquired, “Lucinda and Charlotte?”
With a quirk of his lips, Ian said, “You don’t care a whit how my stepmother is doing. Or Charlotte either, for that matter.”
Aunt Edith inclined her noble head slightly and poked him with the tortoiseshell fan. Again. He was sorely tempted to snatch the accessory from her and toss it behind the greenery—after snapping it in half.
“You haven’t answered me. I know how much you cared for Geoff.” Worry shadowed her unique gray eyes. His mother’s eyes had been the same unusual shade.
His gaze lingered on her. She was a saucy old bird, but a dear through and through. “I’m fine, Aunt.”
As if compelled by an unseen force, his gaze was drawn to Miss Caruthers once more. A callow-faced youth escorted her to her seat where a line of eager pups stood ready to claim her for the next set.
What’s this?