Even as he uttered the words, his piercing eyes shifted ever-so-subtly. Possessiveness reflected in their arresting depths. A slight tremor shook her. His lips twitched and slanted, inching upward, promising something she didn’t recognize—didn’t understand.
Surely, it wasn’t relief she felt that he’d uttered the vow. That and some other peculiar emotion she couldn’t identify tumbled around her middle, muddling her thoughts. They left her feeling strange and woozy, as if she’d not eaten in days.
Would casting up her accounts save her from the marriage bed?
“You didn’t eat much, wife.”
Ian deftly twirled Vangie around his aunt’s smallish ballroom, mindful of the interested gazes watching them. They, alone danced. Stealing a glance at the smiling and nodding onlookers, he suppressed a frown. He felt like a curiosity on display at Bullock’s Museum. He wished others would take to the floor, so he could dispense with the devoted bridegroom facade.
The twelve-course dinner had been torturous. His bride hadn’t taken more than a dozen bites or said as many words. He’d tried to eat the succulent foods Aunt Edith had gone to such efforts to have prepared, but his anger made everything dry as chalk and every bit as tasteless.
“I hadn’t much appetite, my lord.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you think you might address me by my given name, wife?”
“Why?” she asked pertly. “I’ve known you but four days, certainly not long enough to be so familiar with you.”
He lowered his head, breathing in her ear, very aware every eye in the room was trained on them. He’d give them something to gossip about. “Because I want you to, wife, and you did promise to obey.” He nipped her ear.
She jumped and a tiny yelp of surprise escaped before she clamped her lips together. Her eyes shot sparks again; only this time she directed them at him.
“What’s my name, wife?”
“Please, don’t call me that. I, too, have a name, as you well know.”
Drawing her closer, her breasts pressing against the breadth of his chest and cresting the edge of her bodice, he murmured, “Indeed, but Evangeline sounds…angelic, and we both know you’re no such thing.”
“Pardon?” She stiffened, trying to shove away from him. “I don’t under—”
His head descended again. “Say it, or I’ll trace your ear with my tongue.” He grinned as her breath hissed from between clenched teeth.
She stumbled, her fingers digging into his shoulder and hand. A very becoming flush swept across her face. “Will you cease?” Her worried gaze careened around the room. “We’re being watched.”
Voice husky, he said, “Say my name, sweeting.” Giving her a gentle squeeze, he started to dip his head, caressing her elegant neck with his hot breath.
“Ian. Your name is Ian,” she gasped breathlessly, twisting her head away.
Did she know how sultry her voice sounded?
A chuckle rumbled through his chest. He’d no doubt his smile reflected his satisfaction.
“Bostaris,” she mumbled beneath her breath as she tried to wrench away again.
Bostaris? For certain that wasn’t a compliment. His smile widened. He splayed his hand across the gentle slope of her spine, holding her firmly against him. His wife was a sensual thing. He’d but breathed in her ear, and she’d nearly melted onto the floor.
Vangie tilted her head upward. “Please, you’re holding me too tight. I cannot breathe.”
He immediately relaxed his embrace.
Her gaze fixed on his jaw, a silent question in her eyes.
“My equipage lost a wheel yesterday,” he offered shortly.
She met his gaze for a moment before hers skittered away. “You’re unharmed?”
“Except for this scratch.” He angled his scraped jawbone at her. And a nasty bruise on his thigh where he’d slammed into the side of the livery wagon. He never thought he’d be grateful for a pile of manure and straw. Convenient too, to drop a wheel in front of the livery. The owner tended to his horse, while the blacksmith next door repaired the wheel.
The music ended, and Stapleton claimed Vangie for the next set. Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, and Ian’s closest friend, made his bow to Yvette. They too made their way onto the floor. Soon the room was full of happy couples, stepping and turning to the lilting music.
Leaning against a marble fireplace mantle, Ian regarded his bride. No gay smile graced her pink lips while she danced tonight. His skewed his mouth into a humorless smirk. He’d kept his vow all right, to make sure she dallied no longer. He shook his head at the incongruity of it.
He’d not tolerate fast behavior from his wife. God only knew how many others had enjoyed her favors, but he’d make it perfectly clear where her affections better lie from this point forward. He’d be claiming no by-blow as his. His gaze never straying from her, Ian permitted himself a moment of cynical musing. It was outside of enough. He’d been shackled with that Jezebel, because he’d suffered a lapse in judgment and allowed a moment’s tenderheartedness.
When had he become such a cod’s head?
But her lips were blue.
Yes, and look at where that concern had landed him. Forced to marry the chit whose undoing he’d intended. Was God laughing? For the devil certainly was.
Fortunate for him, not only was she pleasing to look upon—quite exquisite if he were wholly forthright—her figure rounded nicely in the appropriate places. His new wife was a passionate woman too. He sensed it, though it galled him to think how many men had already explored her luscious curves.
After that tantalizing dance, Ian keenly anticipated their wedding night. Theirs would not be a marriage of convenience. It would be consummated. He required an heir. Why the continuation of his family line was suddenly of such importance to him remained a puzzle. One he didn’t want to explore, let alone solve at present.
How to keep his bride from sharing her favors was easy to remedy. Closet her at Somersfield with strict directives as to her mobility and the company she’d be permitted to keep. Once she’d produced two or three heirs, his heirs, he didn’t give a fig what she did.
He cast a glance to the mantle clock. Not yet.
From half-closed eyes, he studied her as she floated by in her uncle’s arms. He rescinded that last thought about giving a fig. He might very well be inclined to indulge himself and sample her charms for an extended duration. She did quicken his blood, though he attributed his arousal to lust. He’d long been without a woman. What other explanation was there for the nagging ache in his innards?
Aunt Edith approached, a knowing smile teasing her lips. “Can’t keep your eyes off your beautiful bride, I see.”
He had no intention of discussing his wife and pointedly changed the subject. Surveying the decorated room, he angled his head. “Thank you, for this.”
She smiled and nodded. “I did it as much for her as you. She needed a pretty wedding. Her life’s not been easy.”
Unlike her virtue.
Laying a bejeweled hand on his arm, Aunt Edith searched his face. “I’m pleased you decided to give her your mother’s ring. Does she know?”
“No.”
She stared at him for an intense, lengthy, and ever increasingly uncomfortable moment. “I’ve always admired your commitment to honor and justice, Ian. The least you can do is to extend the same courtesy to your new wife.” Her gaze shifted to Vangie before she admonished. “Give her a chance. She deserves that much from you.”
“My wife has received precisely what she deserves.”
“Balderdash!” Aunt Edith jerked her eyebrows 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 aristocratic, arrogant cork-brain.”
With that declaration, she proudly lifted her head and swept from his side, nodding as she passed Sethwick making his way to Ian.<
br />
Feeling like a chastised schoolboy, he shifted his attention to his friend.
“Warrick, I’m afraid I’m off. I’ve been delivered a communiqué. Night Hawk left an urgent missive at the Home Office.” He smiled and shook Ian’s hand heartily. “Congratulations, old chap.”
“Thank you.”
“Didn’t think you’d be leg-shackled at twenty and seven.” Sethwick angled to look at Vangie, though his aqua gaze lingered far longer on her cousin. He grinned. “Your bride’s a beauty.”
Ian’s roamed his gaze over Vangie, the familiar quickening he’d come to expect tunneling through his veins whenever he allowed himself the luxury. “Indeed.”
Vangie covertly observed 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 eagerly filled 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 pugilistic and firearm skills were renowned.
She turned and dipped, stepped forward and backward in time to the music. Rumor had it he was somewhat of an intellectual as well. He didn’t gamble, womanize, or drink overly much. Or so she’d been assured by Aunt Adélaid who’d attempted to placate her into believing the match wasn’t a complete tragedy.
Her dear aunt had failed in her effort to comfort Vangie. Indulging in another sulk tempted. No. 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.
I can paint until my heart is content. One.
There would be darling children—eventually. Two.
Poverty and deprivation won’t be my constant companions. I will no longer be treated as a servant. And perhaps as a titled lady, I can help the Roma. Three, four and five.
There she’d done it. Found something positive from the union.
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. 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 have been none the wiser.
But what could Ian find positive pertaining to their marriage? She supposed there was a marriage settlement involved. Uncle Gideon would’ve 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. Would this falderal never end? The pretense of portraying an ecstatic bride bordered on torturous. The day had been a whirlwind of activity, and 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.”
She’d wanted to die of chagrin. Worrisome thoughts she’d shoved to a remote corner of her mind consumed her. Surely Ian wouldn’t want to consummate their 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. 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.
She wouldn’t.
He’d not find her easy to manipulate. Her attention 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 attention strayed in Ian’s direction. She caught herself and pointedly turned her head pretending absorption in the floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting a Grecian garden. 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, he smiled his disturbing smile. Never breaking his entrancing stare, he crossed to her. She stood rooted and mesmerized in the middle of the room, unable to tear her gaze from his.
Sweeping her into his arms, he guided her around the floor once more. His thighs brushed hers, and her breasts pushed against his coat, the silver 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 knew. His breathing quickened, and a low, sensual sound escaped him as he caressed her bare shoulder.
She released a slight hiccupping gasp. Her breath caught and hitched in her lungs.
“I think it’s time we gave 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.”
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.
The carriage started to pull away from the mansion, and 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 had nothing to do with it. Your aunt did.”
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 stared at her with a steady, assessing gaze. He did indeed remind her of a large cat, and she was his quarry.
Despite the mild evening and the light shawl over her shoulders, a shiver stole through her. 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 she. Considering his last rude remark, she was most grateful for the small consideration.
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 had 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.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 9
