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

by Collette Cameron

  Her head lolling against his shoulder, Ian shifted Miss Caruthers upright a bit, and with a might more force than was necessary, he jerked the gown again. It finally popped loose, leaving a shred of lace stuck to the stays.

  He darted another worried look to the door. All he needed was a dame to enter the retiring room and catch him undressing Miss Caruthers. That unwelcome thought spurred him on. Turning her onto her stomach, he made quick work of unlacing her stays. The moment they loosened, she sucked in a shuddering breath. At once, he rotated her onto her back and seized the gaping bodice, pulling the fabric over her breasts.

  In his haste his fingers brushed the smooth mounds. At the involuntary tightening in his breeches, he swore. “Hellfire.”

  Head cocked, he surveyed his handwork. She appeared to have been ravished. He attempted to slide her arms back into their sleeves, but the gown, pulled nearly to her neck now, was too tight. Ian unceremoniously hauled the bodice down, slid her arms into the sleeves, and then once again, covered her breasts. He hadn’t accomplished the task with a great deal of finesse, but at least her breathing had eased somewhat.

  He wiped his upper lip before standing then grimacing. Her rumpled gown sagged off her shoulders. He adjusted the fabric into some semblance of decency and smoothed her skirts. She still did not rouse, and his concern increased ten-fold. Charlotte never remained unaware for this long.

  Miss Caruthers needed a physician.

  Now.

  Striding to the room’s entrance, he breathed a grateful sigh that he’d not been interrupted in his ministrations. Christ. He could well imagine what the gossipmongers would make of it. Glancing at Miss Caruthers, he smoothed his hair. He’d reached to button his coat once more when a gaggle of twittering women piled into the room. Eyes wide and mouths agape, they pulled up short, stumbling pell-mell into one-another.

  Bloody, maggoty hell.

  Ian finished securing his coat, addressing the lady’s maid who’d finally made an appearance. “Miss Caruthers is seriously ill.” The servant skittered around the edge of the ladies to gape at Miss Caruthers splayed on the divan. He gritted his teeth to smother the stream of oaths throttling up his throat. “Please find her cousin, Miss Stapleton, and request she come at once.”

  “Yes, milord.” Bobbing a hasty curtsy, the pudgy girl tore from the room as if the hounds of hell nipped her heels. More likely, she was already planning the juicy details she would use to embellish her rendition of what she’d seen.

  A warning pealed in his head, and he cursed Fate for playing this cruel trick.

  Sputtering in indignation, the rotund Duchess of Beacock drew herself up. “Viscount Warrick, whatever are you doing in here?” Upon peering past his shoulders, her bulgy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And why is Miss Caruthers unconscious and half-clothed?”

  “Half-clothed indeed, sir,” Lady Pendelbury—a skinny pinched-faced widow—parroted. “Surely, you’ve a plausible explanation.” Her voice rang with self-righteousness, clearly insinuating the improbability of any such thing.

  A few women sidled near the divan, ogling Miss Caruthers and whispering in what was obviously feline satisfaction at her appearance. One of the cackling harpies referred to her as a heathen, gypsy trollop.

  Rage, hot and furious roiled in his gut, and he swallowed another vulgar curse.

  Sharp-clawed, envious hellcats, all. And these were the créme-de-la-créme of the ton from which he was expected to select his viscountess. Not bloody, sodding likely. Cocking up his toes was preferable to becoming leg-shackled to one of these mean-spirited banshees.

  Drawing a steading breath, he rocked back onto his heels and clasped his hands behind his back. What maggot had crawled into his head and possessed him to stay and help Miss Caruthers?

  She couldn’t breathe, dolt.

  Sweeping the aristocratic snobs a contemptuous glance, Ian observed a conglomeration of emotions on their faces. More than a few averted yearning gazes from him, their attraction obvious as they blushed self-consciously. Others’ expressions reflected embarrassment, sympathy, accusation, condemnation—and yes—even malicious glee. Before the night ended, those biddies’ vicious tongues would be flapping all over town.

  If Ian had planned this debacle, it couldn’t have served his original purpose any better. Now however, he attempted to preserve Miss Caruthers’ reputation by assuring these rabid flibbertigibbets he hadn’t ravished her. “Miss Caruthers felt faint whilst we danced and asked for fresh air. She swooned on the terrace, so I brought her here to recover.” The story sounded preposterous to his ears even if every word was the absolute truth.

  A flurry of activity echoed outside the room.

  What now? More histrionics?

  The ladies turned eager faces to the door, and he eyed them, barely keeping his mouth from curling into a disgusted sneer. As if they needed more juicy tidbits to bandy about.

  Miss Stapleton charged into the room, bolting at once to her cousin’s side. A striking couple followed her. The aunt and uncle, he presumed.

  Their host and hostess, Lord and Lady Armstrong, rushed in behind the pair. Ian couldn’t but admire Lady Armstrong’s astuteness. With a quick, assessing glance, she comprehended the delicacy of the situation and took matters in hand.

  “Ladies, let us remove ourselves to one of the other sitting rooms.” Despite their protests, she firmly shepherded the titillated oglers out the door.

  Ian disregarded their furtive looks and snide whispers, more concerned that Miss Caruthers had yet to stir despite the ongoing commotion. He turned a carefully bland expression upon her uncle. Was he a hot-tempered sort? The type to jump to conclusions? The devil take it, would he demand satisfaction? By all that was holy, it mustn’t come to that.

  Firming his lips into a harsh, disapproving line, fire flared in Stapleton’s light blue eyes, but he remained silent.

  Good. A sensible man.

  Ian breathed a trifle—only a trifle—easier.

  Mrs. Stapleton joined their daughter, the women intent on reviving Miss Caruthers. After several moments, during which the men watched in tense silence, her eyelids fluttered open.

  “Dearest, are you all right?” Miss Stapleton cast an apprehensive glance in Ian’s direction. “What happened?”

  Furrowing her brow, Miss Caruthers lifted a shaky hand to her forehead. “I had one of my unfortunate episodes. I must’ve fainted.”

  For the longest duration any woman on earth ever had.

  Closing her eyes, she swallowed.

  Ian exhaled bit-by-bit, daring to feel the tiniest smidgen of relief. She had episodes. Surely her family would understand this was one of them, and he’d done the gentlemanly thing by assisting her.

  The aunt tsked comfortingly. “I’d so hoped you’d outgrow your headaches. The physician said you might. You’ve suffered from them so many years now—ever since your parents’ deaths...”

  Mrs. Stapleton stopped, her smile forced and strained. “Never mind that. Let’s see to your attire, shall we?”

  Discreetly positioning herself, she blocked his view as Miss Stapleton made quick work of securing Miss Caruthers’ stays and gown. After propping her cousin into a sitting position, Miss Stapleton lifted the dangling tiara and circlet from atop Miss Caruthers’ head. She attempted to straighten the mass of midnight curls cascading well-past her cousin’s shoulders.

  The chit did look like she’d engaged in a rousing romp. Despite the irregular circumstances, the notion fascinated. Far more than it ought to, in fact. His loins contracted again. Eight months is far too long.

  Mrs. Stapleton handed her niece a glass of water, receiving a weak smile in return.

  Miss Caruthers took a sip, her bewildered gaze searching the room over the rim.

  “How did you come to be here, chéri, and partially déshabillé?” Mrs. Stapleton asked.

  “She isn’t partially disrobed,” Ian disputed with calm irritation. She was, but not for the reason everyone likely assumed
. “I but loosened her stays, so she could breathe.”

  Mrs. Stapleton’s fair eyebrows rose in twin arcs of disbelief. “And you thought such a thing was appropriate?”

  “Her lips were turning blue.”

  The eyebrows rose higher.

  They were as likely to believe that excuse as pigs were to fly. Feeling a noose slip around his neck, Ian released an exasperated huff. “As I—”

  “I suggest you not speak at present, my lord,” Stapleton said spearing him with a scowl. He turned his intense gaze on his niece, his expression softening. “Vangie, what happened?”

  Miss Caruthers’ confused gaze swung to Ian. Voice husky, she murmured, “I…I don’t know, Uncle Gideon. I often cannot remember anything happening before or after I faint.” She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap.

  Ian fisted his hands. “Bloody hell,” he ground out between his teeth. This situation was becoming devilishly thorny. The noose tightened a fraction.

  “I say, Warrick, bad ton. There are ladies present.” Lord Armstrong delivered this admonition, cutting his baggy-eyed gaze toward the women.

  Ian angled his head. “Please, forgive—”

  Aunt Edith burst into the room, alarm etched across her refined features.

  “Lud, Ian, whatever has occurred? Everyone’s speaking of it. That chinwag Lady Pendelbury’s proclaiming you and Miss Caruthers were caught—” She caught herself, and cast a guarded glance toward Miss Caruthers. “Er…that is, in an unseemly situation.”

  The Stapleton women gasped, exchanging horrified glances. The rope tugged taut, and Ian ran a finger around his neckcloth.

  Miss Caruthers lounged on the divan, a bemused, nonplussed look in her beautiful blue eyes. Did she understand any of what was transpiring?

  “Armstrong, do you have a private study nearby?” Stapleton asked.

  “Yes, yes, o’ course.” Lord Armstrong nodded, one hand holding his lapel. “Just down the corridor.” He moved toward the door. “Gentlemen, let’s make our way there and allow the ladies to care for Miss Caruthers.”

  “I’ll join you as well,” Aunt Edith announced starchily, a fierce no-nonsense glint in her intelligent eyes.

  None dared deny her. She sailed to Ian’s side. Giving him a tense smile, she smoothed several errant strands of hair. “Lawks, Ian, you’ve made a merry mess of it. You should never have been here tonight. None of this would’ve occurred if you’d observed protocol.”

  He tugged at his cravat again, the imaginary rope burning his flesh.

  “Armstrong,” Stapleton said, “would you arrange for our landau to be brought around to the side entrance, please? I presume there’s a way to leave the premises through those doors.” He indicated the French windows with a slight inclination of his dark head.

  Lord Armstrong nodded, his bewhiskered jowls jiggling. “Course, o’ course.”

  “Adélaid, I’ll have your wraps brought here,” Stapleton said. “I’m confident Lady Armstrong will ensure you’re not disturbed. You and Yvette escort Vangie home. Leave by the side entrance, and speak to no one.”

  Meeting her husband’s eyes, Mrs. Stapleton inclined her head whilst draping an arm across Miss Caruthers’ shoulders.

  Ian observed the exchange with practiced detachment, something he’d learned to do as a child and then perfected while in the army. A nasty premonition niggled. One he wouldn’t allow himself to fully explore, or his temper would give way entirely.

  From a thick haze, Vangie listened to conversations around her. Without thinking, she answered the questions posed. Something untoward had occurred. Something scandalous. She could see it in Lord Armstrong’s embarrassed fidgeting, the troubled looks Aunt Adélaid and Yvette gave her, and the anger Uncle Gideon strictly controlled.

  But what, precisely, had happened?

  Searching her memory, she pulled her eyebrows together, trying to concentrate. Her head was muddled, and she felt disoriented. Oh, to be able to go home, crawl into her soft bed, and go to sleep. Slouching against the divan, she lifted her gaze to Lord Warrick then quickly averted it.

  He was in high dudgeon as well. Though he appeared self-possessed and unruffled, except for a few strands of dark chestnut hair sticking up at odd angles, he simmered with restrained fury. The hooded eyes he leveled on her revealed his rage was, at least in part, directed at her.

  But why?

  Somehow, she’d caused his anger. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she’d done; unless swooning while dancing aggravated him so. Vangie trembled, clasping her hands once more. Was he like Uncle Percival, given to fits of irrational rage without provocation? More than once she’d been on the receiving end of a vicious slap from her uncle.

  From beneath her lashes, she dared a peek at Lord Warrick. He looked every bit the untamed cat she’d likened him to earlier, right down to the wild, dangerous glint in his eyes. If he had a tail, it would be lashing back-and-forth in agitation.

  “Lady Fitzgibbons, gentlemen?” Lord Armstrong waited beside the closed door.

  Her ladyship and the men moved to quit the chamber. Viscount Warrick turned to give Vangie an indecipherable look, a steely stare, peering into her soul. His predatory panther gaze captured hers.

  Time stopped, held immobile for the scantest of moments. Even in her muddled state, she knew her world had been turned upside-down, irrevocably altered, for better or worse.

  Bloody, holy hell.

  Someone followed Ian, and he blamed his own carelessness. Could this confounded evening possibly worsen? Too furious to take the carriage home, he opted to walk instead, hoping the exercise would alleviate a degree of his ire.

  The effort had proved futile.

  He’d been ambushed once already this tonight, though the methods used by Stapleton and his entourage of powerful cronies were much more refined than this pair of grimy brutes. A dim streetlamp’s light cut a narrow path across the pavement. He quickly scanned the lane for other riffraff. Deserted, as well it should be this time of night.

  Lucky for these miscreants his dark thoughts had consumed him, and he hadn’t been as attentive as was typical. Unfortunately for them, however, they lacked good sense and selected him to spice. Eyeing the footpads creeping toward him from two different directions, Ian permitted a satisfied smile. Yes, indeed, a chance to expend his wrath might prove just the thing.

  Unbridled rage yet throttled through him, and these spawns of Satan would be on the receiving end of a month’s worth of ire magnified to the point of violence over the course of the past two hours. Two hours in which Stapleton effectively cornered and entrapped him.

  As he took a defensive stance, the smaller of the thieves swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his scrawny neck like a chicken pecking corn. Slanting a sidelong glance to his bulgier crony, he licked his lips. “Give us yer purse an’ we won’t ’urt ye.”

  The ugly-looking knife he wielded belied his words. Laughing uneasily, he revealed several missing teeth, his rancid breath wafting to Ian on the cool evening breeze. A cloud blew past revealing a quarter moon, but its meager light did little to illuminate the gloomy street corner.

  Ian smirked at the thief’s false bravado before switching his gaze to assess the larger man. The brute outweighed him by a good three or four stone, though Ian was several inches taller.

  “Aye, guvna.” He nodded his oafish head, his many chins disappearing in the sweaty folds of fat around his neck. “We only be after yer blunt.” His sly gaze danced to his partner’s, and he sniggered as if privy to a private joke.

  Shifting his blade menacingly from hand to hand, the short fellow cackled.

  “Gentlemen—and I do use the term loosely—I welcome the opportunity to have a bit of sport with you.” He unhurriedly removed his hat from his head and just as nonchalantly tossed the expensive top hat to the ground. Casually twirling the silver tipped cane he carried in his left hand, he unbuttoned his coat with the other. “It’s been far too long since I’
ve had an opportunity to practice my sparring.”

  The ruffians traded a fleeting, bewildered glance.

  Ian grinned at their growing alarm. As he’d anticipated, they both lunged for him at once. In one swift, fluid motion, he slammed his cane into the wrist of the scrounger brandishing the knife. The blade flew through the air, clattering onto the cobblestones and clanking along until it slid to a stop several feet away.

  He simultaneously plowed his foot into the other ruffian’s pudgy midsection. The kick knocked the bigger man onto his ample bum, and with a loud, pained grunt, he skidded backward on his arse.

  Clutching his damaged arm, the smaller robber swore. “Ye broke me wrist, ye bloody bug—”

  Discarding the cane, Ian let fly with an uppercut. The blow landed square on the man’s pockmarked jaw. The cur spun halfway around, wobbled unsteadily, and then toppled to the ground, bum upward and out cold.

  “That’s one.” Ian grinned, only a bit winded as he faced the other fellow. He beckoned with his hand, wiggling his fingers tauntingly. “Come on then. Let’s be about it, blubber guts.”

  The other blackguard lumbered to his feet, and bellowing his fury, charged forward like an inebriated bull.

  Ian ducked the first, ham-fisted punch. “Surely a great lummox like you can do better than that,” he mocked.

  The thief’s second swing connected soundly with his cheek. Damn. Too much wine tonight had slowed his reflexes.

  “’Ows ’bout that?” the brute puffed, sucking in great gulps of air. “I don’ see ye laughin’ now.”

  Taking a couple dancing steps beyond his opponent’s reach, Ian touched his face. “Ah, it seems I’ve underestimated your skills. I do apologize. It shan’t happen again.”

  “Come on, ye dandified twiddle poop.” The robber’s mouth curled sideways into a sneer.

  Ian laughed, swiping the hair off his forehead. He’d never been called a twiddle poop before. An image of Lord Pickering’s garish attire sprang to mind. He chuckled once more. Now there was a twiddle poop.