“Pardon?” She snapped up her head. “They aren’t my guardians. Uncle Gideon and my father’s Romani mother are…were.”
Married now, she no longer had guardians.
Ian’s smile turned apologetic. “Then they altered the documents to gain access to your funds.”
Anger surged through her, hot and sharp. She would be well rid of them. “I’m not surprised. Their perfidy knows no bounds.”
Sucking in a calming breath, she went about her room, gathering her possessions, scarce though they were. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ian explore the rustic chamber. She cast a loving gaze around the small space. She’d miss this attic room, despite its austerity.
Nestled under one eve stretched a hard, narrow cot covered with a faded quilt her mother had made. That treasure she wouldn’t leave behind. A sideways wooden crate formed a makeshift nightstand, a neat pile of books stacked within. Pegs protruding from the opposite wall held no more than a half dozen garments.
One was her brightly colored, multi-layered padma. The full skirt swirled around her ankles like a vibrant, pulsating rainbow when she danced. Beside the padma was an embroidered, full-sleeved blue blouse with an extraordinary embellished vest draped atop it. Puri Daj had sewn the garments.
“Vangie, did you draw these?”
Tucking a book into one of the crates, she glanced up. Ian examined one of her sketches of Roma children tacked to the rafters.
“Yes. I do draw a bit, but I much prefer to paint. Aunt Eugenia insisted I sell anything I painted, though.”
He gestured at the sketches. “These are good, very good. Have you nothing you’ve painted?”
Vangie smiled, a sad half-smile. “Only this.”
She handed him a wooden picture frame. A miniature portrait of a man and woman smiled at him. “My parents.” She’d painted the frame with delicate vines, flowers, and birds. “I but painted the frame. The portrait was done before I was born. Aunt Eugenia was going to toss it in the rubbish.”
He returned the portrait to her, and the compassion in his eyes caused hot tears to spring to hers, blurring her vision. She blinked rapidly several times. Ian pointed to the portrait. “She allowed you to keep it?”
Vangie nodded. “Wood is of minimal value. Otherwise, they’d have sold it too. If you look closely, you can see the frame is cracked, though I tried to conceal the crevices by painting vines over them.”
“It’s still exquisite.”
“Thank you.”
Her soft reply didn’t reflect the joy she felt at his praise. While his attention appeared focused on the frame, she could tell he was thinking. His brows formed a vee whenever he was deep in thought. His gaze whisked about the room once more.
“Vangie,” Ian’s tone was gentle, yet probing. “How is it you wear little more than rags while your aunt and uncle wear expensive, new clothing?”
She ducked her head, heat sweeping her face. He needn’t voice what was obvious.
“You’ve been treated worse than a servant, living in this attic room with bare essentials.” He waved a hand in an arc. “But the rest of the cottage is furnished rich enough.”
“Ian—”
He stood with his hands on his hips and peered around her room in disapproval. “The grounds are well-cared for, and based on the delectably tray of pastries your uncle sampled, food is not in short supply.”
“They are not impoverished.” She tucked the portrait in her valise.
He crossed the narrow room in two long strides and gathered her into his comforting embrace. “Sweeting, does Stapleton know how you’ve lived?”
She shook her head against his chest. No one knew of her misery, but Uncle Gideon must’ve suspected, hence the monthly packets. In addition to monies for her care, she was certain the parcels contained other fanciful whatnots. Aunt and Uncle never spoke of it, and Vangie never saw any improvement in her position.
Ian placed his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until their eyes met. “You will never go without again. I promise you.”
She curved her lips into a smile. “Ian, I don’t require much to be happy.” Only someone to love me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Breaking eye contact, she released a short breath, “To be honest…” Hesitating, she peeked at him, unsure if she dared voice the truth.
He arched a hawkish eyebrow at her.
“I don’t much care for grand parties and extravagant entertaining,” she blurted. “Fancy clothing makes me feel artificial, and I’ve absolutely no use for dozens of pairs of slippers or silly bonnets. And,” in a rush she finished, “I don’t care if I ever attend another assembly or Season in London.” There, she’d said it. He could make what he would of those truths.
Ian laughed, a genuine laugh of pure delight. It transformed his features, and an answering giddiness flitted behind her breastbone.
“By God, I’ve been blessed,” he said. “I, too, cannot abide the trappings and antics of the le bon ton.”
“You don’t like London either?” Vangie grinned, delighted at the revelation.
“Cannot stomach it.” He grasped her valise and extended his elbow. “I’ll have the drivers collect the rest of your belongings. Let’s go home, my lady.”
Home. Oh, that sounded lovely indeed.
Vangie slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She hesitated, searching his gray eyes. “Ian, are your stepmother and sister aware we’re coming? That I’m coming?”
A shadow whisked across his face. “Ah, as to that—no. I thought to surprise them.”
Eyes wide and jaw slack, Vangie stared speechless and awestruck at her first glimpse of Somersfield. A majestic stone archway proclaimed their entrance to Warrick lands. Truly having no idea of Ian’s wealth or the size of his estate, she could only gawk, stunned. Stately yew trees standing at attention on either side of the neglected drive allowed glimpses of once manicured lawns, overgrown formal gardens, and untrimmed mazes.
At one time, Somersfield had been spectacular, and she made a mental note to tell Puri Daj about the yews. The trees had many medicinal uses. The coach lumbered down the half-mile long, convoluted lane. Her breath caught again when the grandiose Baroque-style manor house materialized on the horizon.
“Faith, Ian, it’s enormous. A veritable castle. Are those turrets?” She gaped, entranced.
“Indeed,” he murmured, his gaze riveted on the horizon and his mouth bent upward. Unrestrained pride glimmered in his eyes as he gazed at his ancestral home.
He loves Somersfield.
Vangie smiled again and directed her attention out the carriage window once more. At least a hundred beveled windows caught the afternoon sun, brilliantly refracting the golden rays. The building glowed as if it were alive, a living breathing entity. She was overcome with the splendor of the magnificent manor and grounds.
How was she to be mistress of such a grand estate? She didn’t have the skills or training to manage such a vast household. Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she clasped her reticule, pressing her fingers into the woven threads. Her gaze never left the mansion.
Did Ian have any notion how ill-prepared she was for such an overwhelming task? Would he be disillusioned with her yet again?
Before the equipage rolled to a stop, two liveried servants descended the manor’s granite steps. After alighting, Ian handed Vangie down and gave her an encouraging smile, probably to ease the discomfort caused by the footmen’s openly curious glances.
Two yapping white and tan harriers, their white-tipped tails wagging fiercely, lopped across the drive, eager to greet him. Whining, the dogs bounced about his feet. “Halloo, chaps.” He patted each of their heads before the hounds turned their attention to her. The larger of the dogs nuzzled her hand.
“That’s Horace,” Ian said. “He’s a terrible flirt.”
Vangie obediently scratched the hound’s ears. The other dog circled her twice, sniffing her skirts before he sat on his haunches a
nd raised one paw, gazing at her with woeful hazel eyes.
She giggled, and shook it. “How do you do?”
“Ah, Blake, ever the gentleman.” Ian took her by the elbow. “Come along. I have someone I want you to meet.” He guided her to the top of the stairs, a wide grin on his handsome face.
A diminutive, rigidly proper butler, attired in cobalt blue livery manned the doorway. “Welcome home, Lord Warrick.”
“Thank you, Jasper. May I introduce you to Lady Warrick?”
Except for a singular twitch of Jasper’s beetle eyebrows, the butler’s face remained expressionless, though his warm brown eyes twinkled merrily. “Indeed, my lord.”
“My lady, this is Somersfield’s majordomo, and my dear friend, Francis Jasper-Faulkenbury. I’ve called him Jasper since I was in short pants. I couldn’t pronounce Faulkenbury and my toddler attempts sounded like profanity.” Ian winked and grinned at the butler. “You don’t mind, do you, Jasper?
“Not at all, my lord.” Humor danced in the butler’s eyes, but his face remained impassive. Bowing formally, Jasper intoned, “Welcome to Somersfield, my lady.”
Vangie smiled. She liked him already. “Thank you, Jasper.”
She tried not to stare at his head. Given he was nearly her height, and he’d just bowed, providing her with a clear view of his oddly-styled hair, it was rather difficult not to, so she focused on the immense, opulent entry.
At the far end of the foyer a grand staircase split halfway up. Likely each side led to a separate wing. Four carved doors, two on either side, graced the entrance. From one of these rushed a distraught woman, garbed in full mourning attire, a piece of paper clutched in one hand. The Dowager Viscountess Warrick?
Vangie cast a quick glance to Ian.
He spoke with Jasper, his back to her. “Please send for Dr. Farnsworthy. A gunshot wound needs tending.”
“Thank God, you’ve returned, Ian. Charlotte—” Upon hearing his request, the matron stuttered to a halt. “You…you’re wounded? Shot?” Her gaze flew over his form, seeking any sign of injury.
Facing her, he shook his head, a lock of russet hair falling over his forehead. “No, Lucinda. We were set upon by highwaymen yester eve, and Malcolm suffered a gunshot wound, Not I.”
A peculiar expression crossed her thin face. Not relief exactly. For the first time, she glanced directly at Vangie, and the dowager stiffened, her eyes narrowed with unconcealed antagonism. “What is she doing here?”
The contempt in her voice and expression took Vangie aback. For once, she was certain she’d have no problem remembering a name. Lucinda. Lucifer.
The footmen entered, each encumbered with armfuls of luggage, further adding to the commotion in the entryway.
Ian reached for Vangie’s elbow, drawing her to his side. “Lucinda, it’s my immense pleasure to introduce my wife to you.”
“Your what?” The dowager sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying to cover her heart. She impaled Vangie with a hostile glare. “Surely you’re not serious,” she exclaimed, enunciating each word with haughty anger.
This wasn’t going well. Had Ian’s stepmother hoped he’d marry someone else? The thought didn’t settle well with Vangie, and a sickening knot twisted in her belly. She hadn’t considered the possibility. Were Ian’s affections engaged elsewhere?
A sly look crept across the dowager’s plain features. “Ah, is this part of the plan?” She laughed then, a markedly humorless snicker.
Plan? Vangie searched Ian’s face. He didn’t reply but glared at his stepmother, his face a mask of cold fury. Was there a challenge in his eyes?
She eyed her ladyship.
A conglomeration of emotions skittered across the dowager’s face before settling into a pinched scowl. “There’s no time for this now. We can discuss your travesty of a marriage later.”
Sensing an undercurrent that didn’t bode well, Vangie swung her gaze between Ian and his stepmother. Obviously, she emphatically objected to the marriage. Very much wishing she could disappear, she cast a quick glance at Jasper.
He nodded, one sharp movement then winked.
Despite the tense atmosphere, her lips twitched. Yes, she most certainly did like Jasper.
Dismissing her, the dowager faced Ian. “I must speak with you now. Alone.” She cut a rude glower toward Vangie. Thrusting the scrunched paper beneath his nose, she cried, “Charlotte’s run off to Gretna Green with that penniless squire, Trevor Monroe!”
“Monroe?” Ian scrunched his brow. “But I thought she was in love with Lord Pickering?”
“As did I.” Lucinda shoved the paper at him. “Until I found this.”
He took the note and quickly scanned it, his jaw muscle twitching. “Jasper, please escort her ladyship,” Ian’s focus flicked to his stepmother for an instant, “to the drawing room. Then send for the leech. Lucinda, wait for me in the study.”
She speared Vangie with another animosity-laden glare. “But, Ian—”
“In the study, Lucinda. I’ll be with you shortly.”
Huffing her outrage, the petulant woman scowled. Spinning on her heels, her spine ramrod straight, she marched from the foyer. The crape of her stiff skirts crackled with each resolute stride.
Wrapping her arms around her torso, Vangie watched her go. She shivered and rubbed her arms as she stared at the doorway for several seconds after the dowager disappeared through it. Had she traded one hostile home for another?
Ian addressed the butler one more. “Please, fetch Tanny to my wife. She’ll need to prepare a temporary chamber for Lady Warrick until the Dowager Viscountess Warrick removes herself to the dower house.” He leveled a contemplative glance to the study door. “Jasper, I’d be most grateful if you’d oversee Lucinda’s packing. I’d like her to take up residence there tomorrow. See that she doesn’t help herself to the silver, will you?”
Vangie breathed easier. Thank goodness. She’d not have to reside under the same roof with Lucifer—Lucinda. Would she really take the silver?
“At once, your lordship,” Jasper offered enthusiastically.
Taking her hand in his, Ian gazed into her eyes. “Sweeting, wait for me in the drawing room. I’ll explain everything after I’ve spoken with her.” Before she could respond, he swiveled and strode to the doorway the dowager had entered.
“The drawing room is along this corridor, Lady Warrick.” Arm extended, Jasper looked at her expectantly. “If you will please follow me, Lady Warrick.”
Vangie started. He meant her. She trailed behind the butler, feeling terribly alone and unsure of herself. This wasn’t the reception she’d expected, though truth to tell, she’d not known precisely what to expect.
“Ah, here we are, Lady Warrick.” Opening the double doors, Jasper stood at their entrance waiting for her to enter. “Lady Warrick, would you care for some refreshment?”
Each time he called her Lady Warrick, she had to mentally remind herself, he spoke to her. “Yes, thank you. Tea would be wonderful, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Dipping his head, he replied, “No trouble at all, Lady Warrick. Please make yourself comfortable, Lady Warrick. I’ll return momentarily, Lady Warrick.”
The man seemed delighted to address her by her formal title. How long would it be before she grew accustomed to the title herself?
She wandered over to the fireplace dominating one wall. A woman’s portrait hung above the gleaming white marble. Peering at her, Vangie recognized the silver eyes and high cheek bones. The artist had captured a lingering unhappiness in the woman’s expression, and though her hair was lighter than Ian’s, the painting was unmistakably a likeness of his mother.
“I’ll try to make him happy,” she whispered. “If he’ll let me.”
With a sigh, she turned away and surveyed the rest of the room. Intricate scrollwork detailed the plaster border along the ceiling’s edge, whilst a filmy yellow shade of paint covered the walls. Floor to ceiling leaded glass windows graced the opposite side of the
chamber, their sun-faded silk draperies wide open.
Brilliant streams of sunshine cascaded into the chamber, casting a myriad of rainbows throughout the room. A tall, marble-topped table stood between a pair of worn saffron brocade-covered settees, and a variety of threadbare oriental rugs covered the scratched parquet floor here and there.
Tucked beneath a window on the west end of the room sat a small writing desk where the mistress of the manor might enjoy the garden view while attending to her correspondence. An elaborate Taj Mahal-shaped birdcage graced another wall. Two silent canaries watched her from within.
Vangie perched on the edge of one of settees, twisting her hands. She scrutinized the room once more. Though the furnishings were of the highest quality, they were generations old and well-worn. Not that she minded. It gave the room a homey, comfortable ambiance.
Jasper arrived with the tea service, followed by a stern-faced woman in a crisp black dress. A jangle of keys was secured on a chatelaine at her waist.
A trilling whistle rent the air.
“Ah, Leopold is attempting to woo Lily again.” Jasper jutted his chin toward the birds.
Vangie turned to peer at the pair. The male, a gorgeous cinnamon canary, puffed his chest out. He dipped and twisted in a courtship dance for the timid lemon-colored female sitting in their food dish.
She smiled at his antics, glad for the momentary distraction from her dour thoughts. She directed her attention to the tea tray and poured a steaming cup. Adding a bit of milk, she murmured, “Thank you, Jasper. You’re most kind.”
His, “Not at all, Lady Warrick,” was interrupted by Leopold chirping excitedly. The bird halted instantly when Jasper ordered, “Cease your infernal chittering, you lovesick fowl.”
Vangie curled her lips in amusement, though she hid the smile by taking a sip of tea. It wouldn’t do to have him think she laughed at him. She needed an ally here.
A harrumph startled her. Oh, dear. She’d almost forgotten about the dour housekeeper. The woman had been silent up to this point.
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 16
