Beauty cannot be eaten with a spoon.
Vangie had still heard more than she wanted. The act had something to do with being naked and joining. She wasn’t completely ignorant for pity’s sake. She’d seen the chickens and geese mating in the enclosure behind her cottage, and once as a child, she’d seen a mare being bred while in the Romani encampment.
She shuddered. What was the pecking and biting about? And the noises? The squawking and grunting? It appeared rather violent, and it seemed to her, the females found the whole of it rather trying. Faith, she couldn’t imagine people engaged in that sort of behavior. She furrowed her brow. Truth to tell, she expected it must be wholly different for men and women when they coupled.
She cast a surreptitious glance at her husband. As if alerted, he turned his gaze from perusing the passing scenery and caught her peeking at him.
His firm lips quirked at the corners. Sensual. Mocking.
Heat swept up her cheeks. Dash it all, she was blushing again.
His smile widened. He knew it too, wretched man. Did he just wink?
Fresh warmth skimmed to the roots of her hair. She’d blushed more in the past week than in her entire life. It was most annoying. And revealing.
Clenching her hands once more, she squeezed the ring Lord Warrick slipped onto her finger during the ceremony. The band felt foreign. Everything was strange now. This man who was her husband. Where she’d live. The people she’d share a home with. The company she’d now keep.
Exhausted as she was, the gentle rocking of the carriage lulled Vangie into drowsiness. She rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. A sudden disturbing thought trickled into her mind. Would Ian allow visits with her Romani relatives? Would he be among those who treated the Roma shabbily, as if they were an inferior people?
Did he know her heritage? Would he care?
The carriage rumbled to a stop. Her eyes flew open, and her stomach cavorted as a thousand dragonflies zipped around her ribs. The carriage door opened, revealing a royal blue liveried footman and a modish townhouse in an opulent section of town.
Ian descended first. “Thank you, Lowell.” He swiveled back to the carriage then reached into the darkened vehicle. He grasped Vangie’s hand, assisting her to the ground.
Could he feel her trembling?
Propelling her along by the elbow, he escorted her into the brightly-lit townhouse. In the foyer, the staff stood in a straight line, ready to greet their new mistress.
Vangie smiled and nodded, at least she thought she did, though she couldn’t remember any of their names except perhaps the butler, Flinch, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Porker.
Oh dear, that cannot be right. Mayhap it’s Mrs. Perky.
The heat from Ian’s hand scorched her through the light fabric of her shawl. It was difficult to concentrate on anything except his disturbing touch.
“Mrs. Parker will show you to your chamber, Lady Warrick.”
She glanced at him. It was the first time he’d addressed by her new title. She risked sending him a hesitant smile. It quickly faded when he turned away from her and disappeared through a carved door across the entry.
“Yes, indeed, everything’s been made ready for your arrival,” the vivacious housekeeper declared, a smile on her jovial face. “Wait ’till you see.” Her smile widened until her plump cheeks resembled miniature candied apples. “We’ve quite outdone ourselves, we have.”
Appreciation surged through Vangie at the friendly welcome. Mrs. Parker’s chatelaine tinkled as she bustled across the entry. “If you’ll please follow me, my lady.”
Vangie lifted her gown and followed the housekeeper up the stairs. She paused on the landing to peer at the door Ian had vanished through. A dim light glowed through the crack beneath it.
Would he come to her tonight?
She sincerely hoped not.
Two hours later, she sat at the dressing table in the sumptuous chamber appointed to her. Everything was pink roses, from the silk rose-laced wallpaper to the draperies and bed curtains—even the rugs on the floor. Numerous vases of roses had been placed throughout the room, their bold scent perfuming the air.
There had even been rose petals floating in her bathwater, and more petals lay sprinkled atop the silken sheets. Why would anyone put rose petals on the bed? She’d scooped the petals from the copper tub before picking the others off the sheets. Standing in the middle of the chamber, she’d bitten her lip.
Where to put them? A chamber pot peeked from beneath the bed. She’d pulled it out and grinned. Pink roses smiled back at her. Someone, Mrs. Parker likely, had a fondness for pink roses.
She’d dismissed, Emma, the girl assigned to act as her lady’s maid, after the girl helped Vangie from her gown. It was awkward enough having a stranger assist in her undressing. She’d refused help bathing as well. She’d no personal servants in Brunswick and was accustomed to seeing to her own needs.
Now brushing her hair with long, slow strokes, her emotions whirled. Ian hadn’t made an appearance, and profound relief filled her. Then why the queer, uncomfortable feeling inside? She mentally shook her head. Tosh, that other sentiment was not disappointment. It was embarrassment at being rejected on one’s wedding night—that was all. But that was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Vangie perused the connecting door once more.
She fingered the diaphanous nightgown and robe she wore—pink as well, except for the embroidered blue roses gracing the neckline and sleeves. Thank goodness for something other than pink. Hopefully, Ian wasn’t the one overly fond of the color. Personally, she didn’t much care for it.
When she’d entered the bedchamber, the set had been lying across the gargantuan bed dominating the room. She’d no doubt they were meant for her to wear tonight, and so, owning nothing half as lovely, she dutifully donned them.
A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. She would like to see his lordship’s reaction if he ever saw her in her plain, serviceable nightdress. Patched in numerous places, the hem and sleeves ragged and frayed, it boasted several tea and paint stains. She adored its well-used comfort, and would’ve preferred to don it tonight.
Tilting her head, Vangie caught sight of the bed in the mirror. The sheer size of it gave her pause. How many people were meant to sleep in that monstrosity? Her hand froze mid-stroke.
Leaning forward, she peered into the mirror, seeing the shock on her face, before dropping her focus to gape at her chest. The material of her night rail was much too fine, revealing far more than it concealed, including the shadows of her nipples.
“Faith, this will never do.” Dropping the brush on the table, she jumped from the bench. Her mouth fell open. The dark shadow of her womanhood showed through the sheer fabric as well. “What could the modiste have been thinking, fashioning a gown of such transparent material? Why, it’s positively wicked.”
She darted to the wardrobe intent on donning her thick, well-worn night robe. Lord Warrick mightn’t make an appearance tonight, but should he, Vangie wanted to be prepared. Standing before him in an embroidered, lace covered ensemble, that left nothing to the imagination, wouldn’t lend itself to the purpose she’d set her mind to.
Yanking the wardrobe open, she removed the familiar garment. She lifted her arm to slip it into the comfortable, woolen arm.
Lord Warrick’s deep voice halted her. “Nay, sweeting, lay it aside.”
She stood transfixed, one hand clutching the robe, the other her throat. Her pulse beat a rapid cadence beneath her fingertips. She’d not heard him enter through the adjoining door. Panther feet.
Draping the garment across a nearby armchair, Vangie gazed longingly at the robe’s modest folds before she faced Lord Warrick. His mahogany hair was damp, though neatly combed. He wore a midnight blue banyan, open to the waist. What she could see of his chest was matted in fine, curling hair. Silk frogs secured the remainder of the banyan, which fell to the middle of his calves. The lower part of his muscled legs was covered in crisp, coal-black hai
r.
Gads, even his toes have hair on them.
Of course they do. Hair probably covers his entire body.
She forced herself to meet his disconcerting eyes, not daring to look anywhere else on his form. Was he naked beneath the banyan? She gulped against an absurd desire to giggle. Clearing her throat, she swallowed against a bothersome lump lodged there then plastered a fake smile on her face. “My lord?”
He shook his head, waving a finger at her. “Not ‘my lord,’ sweeting. I prefer, Ian, or darling, or dearest, or my love.”
There was a bantering tone to his voice, or was that mockery? Puzzled, Vangie’s smile faded. “My, uh, Ian, I thought perhaps we might wait to—”
“Wait?” He crooked a hawkish eyebrow, a bland smile on his lips, though the humor failed to reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to her breasts.
Her nipples puckered against the gossamer fabric. Curse it. She reached to pull the filmy cloth away from her traitorous breasts.
A slow smile tilted the corners of his mouth.
Rotten knave.
Instead she angled her chin, straightened her shoulders, and folding her arms across her chest, plowed onward. “Well, yes, to become better acquainted before we—” She swallowed again as he purposefully spanned the distance separating them with measured steps. She stood her ground, though every instinct screamed for her to run.
Drawing a thick lock of hair across her shoulder, he idly toyed with the strand. With his other hand, he tilted her chin upward until her eyes grudgingly met his.
His were endless pools, and Vangie struggled to find a nuance of mercy or compassion within their fathomless depths. The look simmering there wasn’t reassuring or comforting in the least. He looked about to pounce and gobble her up.
Panther.
Sliding the hand cupping her chin to the back of her head, Ian held her immobile. His gaze sank to her parted mouth. Lowering his head, he brushed her lips, a feather-light wisp of a touch, with his. She stiffened but didn’t pull away.
He played with her mouth, gently caressing her lips with his warm, velvety ones. The sensation was unlike anything she’d dreamed. She relaxed, leaning into his solid chest and cautiously moved her lips against his. He tasted of brandy and mint. She breathed in his subtle scent.
“You’d deny your husband what you’ve freely given others, wife?” he whispered against her mouth. Though softly spoken, the bitterness in his tone belied any true tenderness.
Jolted back to awareness, Vangie stood mute. He hadn’t just said… No, she must be mistaken. She angled away from him, searching his cold eyes. “Pardon?”
“Come now, no need to be coy or to pretend false chastity.” He cupped her buttocks, holding her to his solid length and grinding his hips suggestively. “We both know you’ve none.”
Making an inarticulate sound in her throat, Vangie went rigid, as rage unlike any she’d ever experienced engulfed her. Incredulous, horror streaking through her, she shoved him away. She took a faltering step backward, her arms extended as if to ward off a demonic spirit. Stunned, voice shaking, she said, “Are you implying I’ve been intimate with another?”
“No, sweeting, no such thing,” he taunted coolly. “You’ve not limited yourself to one man. I’m not pleased, but as long as you’re as generous with me…”
The injustice infuriated her. She’d been forced into marriage with a man who thought her a harlot. Hands fisted, Vangie ground between clenched teeth, “You bostaris! How dare you?”
“Come now.” His hot gaze took in the shadows her gown didn’t hide. “Why the false affront? Everyone knows what a tart you are.”
The loud smack of her fist connecting with Ian’s injured cheek echoed ominously in the room.
Jaw slack, Vangie gaped at her husband. Good Lord, she’d punched Ian. He was known for his vile temper. What would he do? Where was her dagger? She darted a frantic look at the nightstand.
Not there. Think. Where had she laid it?
She wasn’t given to violence. Why had she hit him so hard? A welt, red and raw like a fresh branding, was clearly visible on his angled face. The intense, provocative glimmer in his eyes sent a fresh dash of heat across her cheeks.
“Ian…” No, she would not apologize. He deserved it, the brute.
Why was he grinning? Was her new husband dicked in the nob? She frowned, inching her way backward. Perhaps he was mad. Mayhap it wasn’t bad temperament plaguing the man at all, but lunacy. She sent a sidelong glance to the open wardrobe.
Where is my blasted dagger?
Clasping her hands before her, she warily regarded him. A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he gasped as he stole closer, his gait purely predatory. She sucked in another wheezing lungful of air. It was most difficult to breathe or think when one was stalked.
Ian crept onward, step-by-step.
For every step he advanced, Vangie retreated until she was brought up short by the small bench she’d just vacated. She tried to skirt around it, not daring to take her eyes from him. Her hip grazed the dressing table, rattling the contents on top. Reaching beside her, her gaze fixated on him, she grasped wildly. Her hand closed on the handle of the silver hairbrush.
She sent it sailing at his head.
He ducked then laughed, a deep resounding echo in his chest. He was enjoying this, the cretin.
She tossed objects at him as fast as she could grab them. A crystal perfume bottle. Engraved hand mirror. Jar of face cream. Jewel-encrusted comb. Her wedding wreath. All careened past him.
He dodged each item, stealthy edging nearer.
Broken glass, petals and leaves, globs of cream, and a puddle of perfume, which bathed the room with its citrusy scent, littered the floor.
In desperation, she tossed the last item, a filmy lace-edged handkerchief.
A feral grin on his lips, he followed its fluttering descent onto the rug then raised mocking eyes.
The damned cur. He still laughed at her.
She frantically sought something else to throw at him. Ah, there it was. Her jeweled dagger had been beneath the handkerchief the entire time. She snatched the blade, wielding it before her.
He’d gloat no more.
Ian’s focus dipped to the knife, and his mirth lines shifted into irritation. “Put down the blade.”
“No.”
“Vangie, give me the knife.”
She shook her head, daring to take a step forward, the blade tilted at a dangerous angle. The metal glinted in the candlelight. She knew how to use it. Puri Daj had insisted upon it.
He retreated a cautious step, his dark gaze narrowed and trained on the blade.
This certainly was not how she envisioned her wedding night.
“I shall not be called a lóoverni.” Emboldened, she took another step his direction. No man, not even her husband, had the right to call her a whore.
“Give it to me.” His eyes slowly rose to meet hers, his expression unreadable. His lips thinned, and he extended his hand, palm upward. “I shan’t ask you again.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “Not likely, my lord.” She angled the dagger in the direction of the adjoining door. “Now leave.”
It happened in an instant. With his foot, he gave a vicious yank to the rug she stood upon.
Vangie cried out, her arms flailing, desperately trying to stay upright.
He lunged and, seizing her wrist, wrenched the knife from her hand. He flung it across the room. After bouncing against the wall, it thudded to the floor then skidded several feet before disappearing beneath the armoire.
She tottered and would’ve fallen had Ian not caught her in his strong embrace, pinning her arms to her sides. Without preamble, he scooped her up, then strode to the bed, holding her gaze and arms captive.
Now she’d done it. She’d threatened her husband with a knife on their wedding night. Panic, mixed with a good portion of rage engulfed her. “Let me go, you filthy bostaris!”
He smiled, a slow, taunting curling of his l
ips. “Not likely.”
Ian stared at Vangie, taking in her high color, her heaving breasts, the breathtaking body her nightclothes did little to hide. And he grinned. A grin of pure delight. He rather liked this side of his wife. She possessed a feisty spirit, and at this moment, her eyes snapped blue fire.
His attention rested on the subtle shadows her gown hinted at. They were his to explore.
“I’ll scream, Ian.”
He laughed in genuine amusement. “No, you won’t. You would’ve done so by now.”
“I shall too.” She wiggled, attempting to free herself, but only succeeded in loosening his banyan and causing her gown to slide off one creamy shoulder. “I’ll screech like a banshee from hell.”
“The servants will only think me a skilled lover, sweeting.” He dropped a swift kiss to the silky flesh at the juncture of her throat and shoulder. “And that I have successfully introduced you to the pleasures of the flesh.”
Cheeks blooming with high color, she broke eye contact. She bent her head and pleaded, her voice quivering. “Do not do this, Ian, I beg you.”
She pressed her head into his chest, her warm breath caressing his naked flesh. The intuitive gesture roused Ian’s protective instinct. She’d not meant to seek comfort from him, had done so unawares, he’d bet Somersfield.
“Sweeting, look at me.”
Vangie shook her dark head, her silky hair swinging across his arms as he held her trembling form.
Shaking her gently, his voice a low rumble, he insisted, “Vangie, look at me.”
She lifted tormented eyes, the luminous sapphire pools shimmered with uncertainty and fear.
A man could drown in the depth of her eyes. “Have you been ill-treated by the men you’ve taken to your bed thus far?”
Her eyes grew huge, and her mouth fell open before snapping closed. Twice. Yet she said nothing. Perhaps that’s why she discarded men like used tea leaves. She’d become bitter—cynical. What a shame for one so young, and one who possessed such a passionate nature.
“I’ll never intentionally hurt you. I swear.” He gave her a reassuring smile and feathered his finger across the swell of her breasts. “What’s come before us matters naught. I forgive you.”
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 10
