The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  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,” he murmured, the sincerity in his melodic baritone not quite reaching his quicksilver eyes.

  Determined? She gawked, open-mouthed, only 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 and hair tonic, 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. The pounding in her skull had increased steadily.

  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. She 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 is Pickering?

  Bold as brass, Lord Warrick tucked her gloved hand into the bend of his arm.

  Surprised and startled, she glanced upward.

  His mouth curved into a confident smile. “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,” Pickering whined.

  Arching an arrogant eyebrow, Lord Warrick smiled possessively, offering 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, releasing a waft of stale body odor with his movement. “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 done. She, however, wasn’t one of them. And Evangeline? Did the man have no sense of propriety? Faith, whatever was he thinking addressing her by her Christian 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,” Lord Warrick said, “taking liberties with a lady.”

  Vangie cast him a swift, puzzled glance. Did sarcasm tinge his voice?

  He returned her regard with an innocent smile.

  She must have imagined the mockery.

  “Miss Caruthers?” Scratching his bum, Lord Pickering 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, the fop stomped off, his face a mottled shade of red; an exact match to his garish, clattering footwear.

  “Needs his ears boxed, boorish jackanape.” Lady Fitzgibbons jabbed her fan in the direction of his retreating form. Nose wrinkled, she gave the air a delicate sniff. “And a bath, by God!”

  Vangie suppressed a smile. My sentiments exactly.

  Half-turning toward the card room, her ladyship spoke over her shoulder. “Enjoy your dance, dears. I’m off to challenge Lady Higgenbottom to a game of faro. She’s such a poor loser.” With a wink, and a naughty chuckle, she made for the exit.

  Lord Warrick tilted his dark head, indicating the other dancers. “Shall we?”

  Aware of the numerous pairs of eyes observing him escort Miss Caruthers onto the polished floor, a wry smile touched Ian’s lips. “I haven’t danced this evening. No doubt the rumormongers are hissing envious conjectures as to why I’ve asked you.”

  She shot him a startled look before glancing around the crowded ballroom. “Why did you?”

  “To see if what I’d heard about you was true.” He watched for her reaction to his provocative statement.

  She opened her pretty mouth then closed it, dropping her focus to his cravat. They waltzed around the dance floor for a few moments in silence. The string quartet was quite satisfactory, and Ian allowed the lilting strains to soothe his troubled spirit.

  “What…What did you hear?” Miss Caruthers’ hesitant question reminded him of his purpose.

  “That you are an excellent dancer.”

  It was true. She moved with a natural grace, following his lead, all the while holding herself in a most proper stance. He had to acknowledge she was a superb actress. Her gaze remained fixated on a spot above his left shoulder, except for one brief instance when she’d flicked her cobalt-blue gaze upward and unintentionally met his eyes.

  “Is that all?” she softly asked.

  He’d never seen eyes such a dark, arresting blue before. “All?”

  “You’ve heard nothing else about me?” Her eyes held the perfect combination of trust and innocent curiosity. So convincing was she, that when their gazes fused, a peculiar jolt stabbed the center of his being.

  What was that feeling?

  Something foreign, tantalizing, rousing from dormancy and flickering to awareness.

  Startled by his train of thought, Ian stiffened. Good God, now he waxed sentimental claptrap. Even so, he continued to stare into her seemingly guileless eyes. How could someone as jaded as she, appear so innocent? He couldn’t very well tell her what he knew, now could he?

  He searched her expressive eyes. “Is there something else you’d have me know?”

  “No. Why should there be?” Furrowing her smooth brow, she peered at him. Was that confusion in her gaze? She looked away first.

  That irked him.

  Man, control yourself. She’s not even flirting with you.

  He could better understand Geoff’s fascination now. Miss Caruthers was skilled in her art. Most skilled. Ian would have to guard himself well. He sensed her siren’s allure; the tentacles of desire winding their way about his reasoning, holding him in an imperceptible, yet impenetrable grip. It was almost as if she’d cast a spell, bewitching him.

  What utter drivel.

  Nonetheless, concentrating proved difficult. He was too aware of the voluptuous woman in his arms, their bodies moving as one to the music. No wonder the young blades lined up, waiting for the smallest morsel of attention from her. He could almost believe she was as diffident and unsure of herself as she pretended. Both qualities were designed and employed to stir the primitive male.

  He resolutely suppressed the protective response she roused in him with her seductress’ wiles. “You truly are an exceptionally graceful dancer,” he murmured near her ear.

  “Thank you...my lord,” she said, her voice a mere thread.

  He flared his nostrils at her intoxicating perfume. Tilting his head a bit closer, he drew in a deep breath, savoring her scent. Something citrusy. Maybe orange blossom? And lightly floral. Lily of the Valley. He recognized the aroma. A myriad of the graceful, nodding white flowers blanketed the grounds near Somersfield’s pond.

  Ian ignored good sense and drew Miss Caruthers’ lush form closer. Her décolletage and his height advantage gave him an excellent view of her ample cl
eavage where a diamond pendant nestled in the valley between her creamy breasts. It gently caressed the flawless, sloping mounds as she swayed in time to the music.

  He imagined his fingers doing the same. Blood rushed to his loins, and he cursed inwardly. He’d been too long without a woman. Not since Amelia...Damn, had it really been eight months? Aye, too long without the exquisite pleasure of a woman’s body. With his thumb, he caressed Miss Caruthers’ spine. One slow, provocative stroke.

  She shuddered. Was that a gasp? Perhaps she wasn’t as poised as she affected.

  Excellent.

  Much better to catch her off guard if he was to succeed with his plan. Why then, didn’t his vengeful scheme fill him with the same sense of satisfaction it had before meeting her?

  Vangie flicked a glance upward, her gaze colliding with Lord Warrick’s again. What unusual eyes he possessed. Light blue flecks colored the gray, and those dark eyelashes… She’d never seen eyelashes so thick on a man. Her focus dipped to his mouth, and his well-formed lips curved into a smile. She stumbled, though he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I’ve not seen you at other assemblies, my lord,” she blurted, as heat skimmed her face at her ineptitude.

  His lips slanted again. “I’ve just returned to London. My father and brother died recently.”

  Her breath caught. “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  Shouldn’t he be home, in the comforting presence of his family? Perhaps he didn’t have anyone else. At least she had Uncle Gideon, Aunt Adélaid, and Yvette. Had he anyone? “Have you any remaining family?” Faith, now she was blurting her thoughts and prying.

  “My stepmother and a sister, Charlotte.” Warmth infused his voice when he spoke of his sister.

  What possesses a man in mourning to leave his family and attend a ball? She barely finished the thought. That little niggling headache she’d mentioned earlier throbbed full on now, viciously and unmercifully. Lightheaded, her stomach churning, it took every bit of effort not to trip during the dancing.

  Why now?

  Her last megrim episode had been many months ago. It must be the excitement—and the corsets of course. She only wore short stays at home. Oh, why had she let Yvette talk her into trying one of her new back-laced French corsets? The garment didn’t fit properly and pressed against Vangie’s ribs, constricting her breathing.

  She sucked a meager puff of air into her cramped lungs. She could scarcely inhale, though whether from her ailment or the corset she couldn’t say for certain. She didn’t care what Yvette and Aunt Adélaid said. The blasted corded stays did interfere with her breathing. She detested the thing.

  “My lord?” Vangie swallowed against the waves of nausea assailing her as tiny black spots flashed before her eyes. She must leave the dance floor before she disgraced herself in front of everyone. “My lord, I…” Her steps faltered. She swayed, clutching at his hand and shoulder to keep her balance.

  Panic scuttled up her spine, and her vision narrowed, the familiar blackness closing in. As the pain throbbing in her temples crescendoed to an excruciating climax, the fuzzy ringing in her ears amplified. She struggled to remain standing, and as if sensing her battle, his lordship tightened his sturdy arm around her.

  “Miss Caruthers?” Concerned deepened his voice. “Are you quite well?”

  “No.” Not daring to shake her head, she swayed and gulped. “I fear…I need some air. Now.”

  Miss Caruther’s faint whisper and sudden pallor alarmed Ian.

  The terrace and the fresh air she needed were at the ballroom’s other end. After maneuvering her across the crowded floor, he assisted her through the open French windows then onto the veranda. She started to sag, and he slipped an arm around her slender waist.

  Turning her head, her hazy gaze met his. “Forgive me,” she whispered before slumping in his arms.

  This wasn’t a fit of the vapors. He’d seen his sister perform that stunt far too many times to be taken in by play-acting. No, Miss Caruthers was truly insensate. Scooping her into his embrace, Ian winced and swore beneath his breath as pain lanced through his shoulder. Should he carry her into the ballroom? Glancing downward, he stood undecided for a moment. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her ashen face.

  Her bout of faintness proved most convenient, providential even. She’d played straight into his hands. Only now, holding her slight form, he had second thoughts. Blast and damn, he didn’t want to feel compassion for her. She didn’t deserve any tender emotions, but a weeping or swooning woman had always stirred his protective nature.

  Guilt squeezed his chest as he turned in a wide arc. The garden? No doubt there was a bench… No, that wouldn’t do.

  A dim light glowed beyond the panes of another French window farther along the veranda. Decision made, Ian strode to the entrance. He discreetly peeked through the glass, glimpsing a retiring room set aside for the ladies.

  Empty.

  He heaved a frustrated sigh. The room held no primping peeresses to which he could transfer Miss Caruthers’ care. Ah, but luck was on his side. The doors were open, ever-so-slightly.

  His injured shoulder objected to her weight, and flinching, he shifted the bundle in his arms. He toed the door farther open then slipped into the deserted room. Lamps burned low on a carved fireplace mantle under which a fire cavorted brightly. A trio of divans formed a cozy u-shape, and across from the center couch sat two plush armchairs, a table between them. Another lamp glowed upon its surface.

  “I say, is anyone here?” he said in a low tone.

  Where was the servant who ought to be attending the chamber? Hopefully she wasn’t seeing to her personal needs behind one of the elaborately painted screens. Gads, he didn’t even want to think on that. Just in case, he called a bit louder, “Halloo?”

  No one answered. It would’ve been most helpful to have a female presence to assist him. His attention sank to her. Even indisposed and unconscious, Miss Caruthers was exquisite, her dark lashes a stark contrast against her porcelain cheeks.

  His left shoulder ached bloody awful from cradling her to his chest, and in four long strides, he made the closest divan. Once he’d laid her down, he shoved a tasseled pillow beneath her head and patted her cheek.

  Several of her beaded hairpins had slipped loose, and a few lay scattered upon the floor. Ian gathered the pins and, unsure where to put them, stuffed them into his pocket. Studying her, he shook his head and bent his lips into a wry smile. When had he gone from a ruthless rogue, prepared to give her the dressing-down she deserved, to caring for her welfare?

  Despite the cracked doorway, the room was stifling hot. He swiftly unbuttoned his coat before yanking off his gloves and wiping the moisture from his brow with the back of his hand. On another long table laden with needles, threads, hair pins, and other toiletries he discovered a stack of soft linen cloths. After dampening one, he bathed Miss Caruthers’ face.

  Still no response.

  He cast an exasperated glance around the chamber, fully aware his presence here was beyond acceptable boundaries. There’d be the devil to pay if he were discovered. Vengeance was one thing, but he stood the risk of irreparably not only ruining Miss Caruthers’ good standing but also his as well. That certainly had never been his intention.

  Tossing the cloth onto the marble-topped table behind the divan, he heaved a frustrated breath. She hadn’t stirred a jot but lay still-as-death and every bit as ashen. No, not quite. Her lips were blue-edged and her breathing labored.

  Where was the confounded servant?

  He needed help.

  Miss Caruthers needed help.

  God’s blood. What had he been thinking, toting her in here? Pushing a hand through his hair, he cocked his head and firmed his mouth. He dropped to one knee before tugging off her gloves and feeling for a pulse. The rise and fall of her well-endowed chest gave him pause.

  What kind of a base lecher was he, ogling an unconscious woman?

  His gaze traveled to
the door. Should he seek assistance? It would be better for their reputations, but dare he leave her alone in her current condition?

  “Miss Caruthers? Can you hear me? Wake up.” He patted her hand then gently shook her shoulders. She remained limp and unresponsive. Shutting his eyes, Ian tried to recall what Lucinda or the servants did when Charlotte keeled over.

  Smelling salts.

  Searching the tables for a smelling bottle, he found no trace of the salts. He glowered in disbelief as he strode back to her. All these damned fallalls, fripperies, and female whatnots, and not a single vial of smelling salts amongst them?

  “Blast it all,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on, man, think. Charlotte’s flopping around like a loose fish half the time. What else is done to help her?”

  He raked his fingers through his hair again, pushing it on end. Miss Caruthers’ chest barely rose now, her breaths even shallower. Would her breathing ease if he loosened her stays?

  Loosen her stays?

  His gaze ricocheted to the door and just as rapidly returned her. Were her lips the merest bit bluer? Did she struggle to breathe?

  “Why do women insist on wearing those blasted contraptions?”

  There was nothing for it.

  His jaw set against the heady scent of her perfume wafting upward, Ian slid her gauzy gown off one shoulder then the other. Bent over, his face inches from her tempting breasts, he shoved the gown to her waist. Behind her, the fabric caught and held. He gave a little jerk, and swearing again, gave a harder yank. The material didn’t budge, and he made an annoyed noise. It was bloody more difficult to undress an insensate woman than one eager to have her clothes removed.

  “Of all the damned predicaments.” Not more than a couple of minutes had passed since she’d swooned, but each crept by interminably.

  Raising her pliant form partway, he peered over her shoulder. A hook had caught on her stays. Sweat broke out across his brow and beaded his upper lip. It’s the heat of the room—nothing more. Her bountiful breasts crushed to his chest most certainly weren’t the cause.