“Very well, come along then.” He grinned boyishly, his boot heels clicking on the flagstone path as he led the way. “Watch your step. Some of the stones are cracked or broken.”
She and Ian wandered the formal gardens all afternoon, strolling among the various floral rooms. An abundance of ornamental trees—complete with arbor covered stone benches—were strategically placed throughout the terraced gardens. The buzzing of fat honey-burdened bees and the lilting strains of birds filled the air with nature’s song.
Vangie craned her neck to peer at the heavily laden dogwood trees drooping overhead. Several fragrant shrubs lent their sweet essence to drift on the warm breeze. “Is that a yellowhammer?” She pointed to a yellow and brown-streaked bird perched on a branch.
Ian’s gaze followed her finger, and he nodded. “I believe so.”
She stopped, bending to smell a peach-etched rose, its petals just beginning to open. Straightening, she gazed around the unkempt rose garden. It was too early in the season for the roses to be fully in bloom, but hundreds of plump rosebuds dotted the greenery with a profusion of pastel and vivid hues. The garden’s neglect was not long-standing. These lands had been well-cared for in recent years.
“What happened?” She swept her hand in an arc to indicate the roses.
Ian reached behind her and pinched off a bud. He handed the rose to her, and then hands on his hips, he scanned his estate.
Raising the coral rose to her nose, Vangie inhaled deeply. However, she only detected a hint of fragrance.
“In recent years, my father deemed it unnecessary to spend monies on Somersfield.” A shadow darkened his features when he spoke of his father. “That will change now that I have inherited the viscountcy.”
She gently caressed the fragile petals. “He died recently?”
“Just over six weeks ago.”
“And your brother?”
Ian turned to stare at her. Grief and something else, regret perhaps, was tangible in his pewter eyes. He opened his mouth as if to say something but shut it.
An unpleasant sensation tingled along her spine. Dash it all. Had she offended him? He didn’t want to speak of it. She understood his pain. The loss of her parents had left her numb for months. “I’m sorry. I ought not to have mentioned them. Please forgive me.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Had he a headache? Or was he struggling to suppress tears? He opened his eyes and peered into hers for a long, unnerving moment.
Vangie couldn’t tear her attention away.
Voice husky, he said, “You’ve done no wrong.”
She had the oddest feeling he wasn’t referring to her insensitive questions.
Ian rubbed his forehead. Mayhap he did have a headache. “Geoff died two months ago. He was five years younger than me. We had different mothers.” He crossed the short distance separating them. Once more he started to speak and stopped.
She searched his tormented eyes. Yes, regret lingered there—and guilt. Did he feel responsible for his brother’s death? How awful.
“How did he die?” The words rolled from her mouth before she could corral them. Drat, my blasted tongue.
A pained expression flicked across his face, but he swiftly smoothed his countenance into indifference. No, not indifference. There was a harsh edge to his lips, and he clenched his jaw. His chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath. With visible effort, he relaxed his jaw. “A duel with a lord.”
“Dear God!” Vangie wished she hadn’t asked.
He gazed over her head, as if seeing the scene on a stage. “He was defending the honor of a woman he didn’t know but came upon being accosted. Both he and the duke were wounded. The duke died two days afterward.”
Tears pricked behind her eyelids.
“Geoff was shot high in the chest, near his shoulder. I was stationed in Portsmouth. Father sent word, insisting I return home even though Geoff’s wound was not fatal. In fact, the leech thought he’d make a full recovery.”
She would not cry. She would not.
Ian sucked in a ragged breath. “The day I arrived, he took a sudden turn for the worse. Most likely an infection or undetected internal injury, the surgeon said.”
Oh, God, why had she asked? Ian was reliving the horrid event. Tears trickled from the corner of one eye. She blinked several times, but the dratted droplets kept falling. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and wail for everything she was worth.
“He died that night. For once, I was grateful my father was such a controlling sot. I was able to say goodbye to my brother.”
A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, Ian.”
He wiped the tears from her face with his thumbs then caressed her jaw with the back of his hand. “You would’ve liked him, I think.”
If he was anything like you, I would’ve adored him.
“Enough of this morose talk. We cannot undo what’s already done.” He smiled, a melancholic half-smile. “Come, I want to show you the pond.”
He wrapped his hand around hers, and it fit neatly within his. The calluses on his palms rubbed against her fingers. Unlike the majority of the dandies she’d met in London, he was a man accustomed to hard work. The fops’ hands had been softer and whiter than hers.
Walking beside Ian, Vangie considered him. He was a man who loved intensely. The knowledge sparked and simmered deep in her breast. Would he—could he—ever love her that much? A queer flutter disturbed her stomach.
They crossed a large lawn—more of a meadow really—and came to a tree-shaded footbridge. Hundreds of lilies of the valley blanketed the ground beneath the trees. She bent to lean on the rail, watching several swans below the bridge.
“Vangie, don’t!” Ian drew her away. “Take care, sweeting. The bridge is in need of repair.” He guided her to the other side. “This side is safer.” Shaking the rail, he said, “See, this barrier is sturdy. The other is rotted along the planks and won’t support any weight. I really should set Olson to repairing it.”
Leaning over the support, she exclaimed in delight. “Look.”
A female swan passed under the bridge, four cygnets gliding in her wake. Swimming in a circle, the pen waited for her mate. She arched her neck in a caress as he passed by and replaced her at the front of the line.
Ian slipped his arm around her waist and tugged her into the circle of his powerful arms, whispering, “Swans mate for life, sweeting.”
His breath tickled her ear, sending errant flickers of sensation across the sensitive flesh. She forced her attention back to the swans. “They are magnificent, especially the black swans. I’ve never seen any before. Do they stay here year-round?”
“Yes. The pond is really more of a smallish lake. It extends clear into those trees, yonder.” He inclined his head in the direction of some evergreens. “It’s deep too. As boys, Geoff and I often swam in it.” Pointing to the far side of the pond, he asked, “Do you see where the cattails and bull rushes are—that boggish area just this side of the tall vegetation? Two nests are over there, and each pair of black swans has hatched four eggs. The hatchlings are light though, nearly white.”
Grasping his muscled forearm, Vangie cried, “Look, there are some of the little ones, near the middle of the pond.” She turned to look at him and smiled. “God’s creation is exquisite, is it not?”
Ian’s eyes darkened as they roamed her face. He was going to kiss her. Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she parted hers in invitation.
Dipping his head, he murmured, “It is indeed.”
The softest touch of his lips, the whisper of her sigh, and an onslaught bubbled from within, breaking down each of her reservations. This was right. It was meant to be.
Every doubt fled on the wings of wonder under the velvet softness of his lips. She rejoiced in his firm mouth playing atop hers, invoking tantalizing sensations in the most interesting of places. Tilting her head, she allowed him better access. She parted her mouth, welcoming him, inviting him to explore its depths.
&nbs
p; Groaning, Ian trapped Vangie within his arms. Her tentative response vanquished him, shook him, igniting his passion until he was consumed with her. Only her. When her slender arms clasped behind his neck, he was overcome. This kind-hearted, generous woman held no ill will, but forgave freely, giving of herself unreservedly. She felt something too. It was apparent in her fervent, if somewhat untried responses.
Holding her tight, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, he yielded to the pent-up emotion he’d buried deep inside. He conveyed his adoration with his mouth.
A distant thunk intruded—likely from the stables. With one final kiss, he lifted his head then surveyed the perimeter. Two forms lurked under the trees, one on either end of the pond. The first, a swarthy-complexioned man turned swiftly, and in one deft move, leapt onto his horse. He vanished into the trees bordering Somersfield.
Who was he?
The other, a darkly-clad woman hovered in the shade of the grove. Icy fingers of unease clawed the length of Ian’s spine. Lucinda. Even at this distance, he sensed her fuming rage.
Vangie awoke the next morning to Ailsa warbling a ribald ballad. As she lay watching the maid blundering around the chamber, she couldn’t help but suspect the girl was deliberately noisy. She kept slicing covert glances at the bed as she flung the draperies open, banged about in the fire grate, and sang much too loudly for possible further sleep.
Peeking at the servant through half-closed lids, and squinting at the torrent of sunshine now permeating the chamber, Vangie considered feigning sleep just to see her response.
“You’re awake at last,” Ailsa fairly chirped.
Oh, dear, she was caught. Smiling good naturedly, she sat up. “It was somewhat difficult to continue sleeping with you—”
“Oh, I know,” Ailsa interrupted, oblivious to her breach of decorum. “But I couldn’t wait to wake you.”
Clearly.
“Look.” She pointed to a mound of garments piled atop a nearby chair. “Lord Warrick said I was to select some of Miss Charlotte’s dresses for you to wear until your new wardrobe arrives.” Ailsa snatched a gauzy champagne-colored gown and held it before her. “Isn’t it lovely?”
“It is.” Almost as lovely as the silver gown she’d borrowed from Yvette the night of the ball.
Ailsa tossed the frock aside and grabbed a filmy white and gold gown next. “Set your peepers on this one, will you? Coo, it shines like the stars, it does.”
Intrigued despite herself, Vangie allowed the boisterous maid to persuade her to try on a dozen of the gowns. “I’ve never owned more than two or three gowns at once,” she admitted.
She paused as the maid lifted a green confection over her head. She eyed the garments strewn on the chair and bed. How could she choose which one to wear? They were all beautiful. At last, she selected a pale teal masterpiece trimmed in primrose. Its cheery colors matched her mood.
She was taller than Charlotte, but overall, the gowns fit reasonably well. A trifle loose at the waist and snug at the bodice, but certainly, a vast improvement over the rags she’d arrived in. The slippers, on the other hand, were another matter. While Vangie’s feet weren’t overly large, Charlotte’s were as petite as a child’s. It didn’t seem right wearing the stunning gowns with her worn slippers, but there was no help for it.
The next ten days passed in idyllic peace. Vangie’s appetite improved, and the odd odors previously accompanying her meals disappeared. The dowager truly must have been feeding her food on the verge of spoiling. The knowledge neither surprised nor made her more inclined to feel charitable toward the woman.
Her stomach continued, however, to object on occasion to the delicacies Cook prepared. Truth be told, Vangie wasn’t accustomed to rich fare in such abundance. Aunt Eugenia had hoarded the most delectable foodstuffs for herself and Uncle Percival. She twisted her mouth into a droll smile. To gaze upon Uncle’s emaciated form caused a person to wonder if the man ever consumed nourishment.
A few neighbors called to pay their respects, and she slipped into the role of lady of the manor with a great deal more ease than she’d anticipated. To her surprise, she’d become cautiously content in her position as Lady Warrick.
With Ian’s encouragement, she’d sent word to her Roma relatives that she was well, and arranged for Puri Daj to pay a visit Saturday. Vangie wanted to ask her grandmother to concoct the medicine from the yews which would ease the housekeeper’s rheumatism pain. Vangie wouldn’t attempt the mixture herself. One had to be extremely careful with yew. In the wrong dosage, it could be deadly.
Of the Dowager Viscountess Warrick, Vangie saw nothing, for which she was eternally grateful. She never wanted to encounter that spiteful woman again. Ian hadn’t sent her away yet, but as long as Vangie didn’t have to ever see her, she could almost forget the woman lived nearby.
Ian proved a doting and attentive spouse. He didn’t make any husbandly demands, but he made no qualms regarding his desire for her either. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. If he desired her, why didn’t he seek her bed?
She made no objections to his overtures, for she quite liked his attentiveness. And he was oh so, charming in his attempts to woo her. A tender, fleeting caress here. A skimming touch of his fingertips there. Multitudes of feather-light kisses dropped on her nape or shoulder while she was bent upon a task. Yes, he pursued her with feline persistence and cat-like patience.
She never thought she’d enjoy being his prey. If only he would snare her.
Had he known how effective his attentions were, she was sure he’d have been wallowing in masculine pride. She often woolgathered, immersed in fanciful musing, of which her handsome husband was the cause. On more than one occasion, her daydreaming brought a bloom of color to her cheeks.
Faith, he had her at sixes and sevens, she admitted to herself after dinner two evenings later. She and Ian sat in the drawing room in companionable silence. He read while she crocheted a fichu.
She tried to concentrate on the stitches and loops, but his close proximity and the sheer maleness he exuded, caused her to tear out missed stitches several times. She paused, eyeing the piece. Drat, it was much too long on the end.
That’s what comes of trying to crochet while wondering whether one’s husband sleeps naked.
Vangie began counting the stitches then stopped abruptly, her jaw sagging.
She hadn’t.
Yes, she had.
No, she couldn’t have.
She peered at her work. But I did.
It was the same length and general shape as his…disfigurement. She began frantically unraveling it, wrapping the yarn around and around her hand.
“What are you crocheting, Vangie?”
She froze, scrunching the thing in her fist. When had he stopped reading, and how long had he been watching her? Had he seen it? She glanced up, forcing a genial smile. At least she thought she did. Her lips were turned upward, weren’t they? “Ah, a fichu. Charlotte’s gowns are too revealing for my figure.”
Well, listen to that. I sound quite normal.
Casually unwinding the yarn from around her hand, she noticed his gaze slide to the material stretched taut across her breasts. The low décolletage exposed a generous portion of her flesh.
Ian murmured throatily, “I quite like the fit.”
Startled at the timbre of his voice, her gaze flashed to his. Spying the ravenous look in his eyes, her breath hitched, her mouth rounding into an “O” of surprise. His scorching gaze dropped to the mounds straining against the muslin, and to her chagrin, her nipples hardened.
Dash it all, why must they always do that?
He closed his book and held it up. “I’ve read the same passage four times and have no greater knowledge now what the page contains than I did when I began reading.”
At least he hadn’t crocheted a willy. That showed where her mind was, for pity’s sake.
Ian set his book aside then plucked the crocheting from her hands. He edged closer, his thigh pressing intimately against
hers, and wrapped one arm around her shoulders. Tilting her chin upward, his attention lingered on her lips. The slow descent of his head allowed her ample opportunity to resist should she be so inclined.
She wasn’t in the least.
Vangie angled closer, one hand resting on his marble-like thigh, a mere inch from his maleness. When their lips met, passion crashed over her in undulating waves. Flooded with unfamiliar sensation, she could only float on the torrent of want Ian masterfully invoked.
His tongue toyed with her lips, licking the crease until she opened to his insistent entreaty. With his mouth, he taught her what she was eager to learn. Her hesitant responses became bolder as consuming desire swept her along.
She moaned low in her throat, protesting when Ian tore his mouth from her lips. He trailed feathery kisses down her neck, edging lower and lower, until they skimmed her breasts swelling above her bodice. She was mindless against the onslaught, of the quivers spreading through her. She ran frantic hands across the muscular ridges and planes of his chest and torso.
He shifted away.
“No, Ian.”
Ian smiled wickedly at her mew of protest as he shrugged off his jacket. His waistcoat and cravat swiftly followed. He unbuttoned his shirt, yanked the fabric from his waistband then let it slide off his broad shoulders.
My, but he is a finely built man.
Vangie flattened her palm against the smattering of dark hair covering his chest. The curls tapered to a seductive triangle before disappearing into his unfastened pantaloons. A tell-tale bulge proudly strained against the opening.
He reached for the hem of her gown, scrunched halfway up her thighs. Never breaking eye contact, he edged the material upward, inch by inch. Shimmering with the intensity of dozens of miniature stars, the flecks in his eyes held a promise.
Flicking her tongue out, she moistened her lips.
Brushing his calloused fingers over the flesh of her inner thigh, he continued to raise her gown, swirling his fingertips over her skin.
Reality fled as he worked his magic, smothering her breasts and lips with adoration, urging her on with words of love and passion. His whiskers scraped her sensitized flesh, and every pore, every nerve ending, awakened in anticipation.
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides Book 1) Page 20
