Vangie suppressed a smile. Her sentiments exactly.
Her ladyship half-turned toward the card room. Speaking over her shoulder, she said, “Enjoy your dance, dears. I’m off to challenge Lady Higgenbottom to a game of faro. She’s such a poor loser.”
With a wink, and a naughty chuckle, she slipped from the ballroom.
Lord Warrick tilted his head, indicating the other dancers. “Shall we?”
Chapter 3
Noticing the numerous pairs of eyes watching him escort Miss Caruthers onto the polished floor, a wry smile touched Ian’s lips. “I haven’t danced with any other ladies this evening. No doubt the rumormongers are hissing envious conjectures as to why I’ve asked you.”
She shot him a startled look before glancing around the ballroom. “Why did you?”
“To see if what I’d heard was true.” Ian watched for a reaction.
She opened her mouth then closed it. They waltzed around the dance floor for a few moments in silence. The string quartet was quite satisfactory. Ian allowed the lilting strains to soothe his troubled spirit.
“What did you hear?” Miss Caruthers’s soft question reminded him of his purpose.
“That you are an excellent dancer.”
It was true. She moved with natural grace, following his lead, all the while holding herself in a most proper stance. He had to acknowledge she was a superb actress. Her gaze remained fixated on a spot above his left shoulder, except for one brief instance when she’d flicked her cobalt-blue gaze upward and unintentionally met his eyes.
“Is that all?” she asked softly.
He’d never seen eyes such a dark blue before. “All?”
“You’ve heard nothing else about me?”
Her eyes held the perfect combination of trust and innocent curiosity. So convincing was she, that when their gazes fused, a peculiar jolt stabbed the center of his being. What was it?
Something foreign, tantalizing, rousing from dormancy and flickering to awareness.
Startled by his train of thought, Ian stiffened. Good God, now he was waxing sentimental claptrap. Even so, he continued to stare into her seemingly guileless eyes. How could someone that jaded appear so innocent? He couldn’t very well tell her what he knew, now could he?
He searched her eyes. “Is there something else you would have me know?”
Furrowing her smooth brow, she stared at him. “No.”
Was that confusion in her gaze? She looked away first. That irked him.
Man, control yourself. She’s not even flirting with you.
He could better understand Geoff’s fascination now. Miss Caruthers was skilled in her art. Most skilled. Ian would have to guard himself well. He sensed her siren’s allure; the tentacles of desire winding their way about his reasoning, holding him in an imperceptible, yet impenetrable grip. It was almost as if she’d cast a spell, bewitching him.
What drivel. He was having difficulty concentrating, though, too aware of the voluptuous woman in his arms, their bodies moving as one to the music. No wonder the young blades were lined up, waiting for the smallest morsel of attention from her. Ian could almost believe she was as diffident and unsure of herself as she pretended. Both qualities were designed to stir the primitive male.
He suppressed the protective response she roused in him with her seductress’s wiles. “You truly are an exceptionally graceful dancer,” he murmured near her ear.
“Thank you . . . my lord,” she murmured.
He flared his nostrils at her intoxicating perfume. Tilting his head a bit closer to hers, he drew in a deep breath savoring her scent. Something citrusy. Maybe orange blossom? And lightly floral. Lily of the Valley. He recognized the aroma. A myriad of the graceful, nodding white flowers blanketed the grounds near Somersfield’s pond.
Ian ignored good sense and drew Miss Caruthers’s lush form closer. Her décolletage and his height advantage gave him an excellent view of her ample cleavage. A diamond pendant was nestled in the valley between her creamy breasts. It gently caressed the sloping mounds as she swayed in time to the music. He imagined his fingers doing the same.
Blood rushed to his loins. He’d been too long without a woman. Not since Amelia . . . Damn, had it really been eight months? He caressed Miss Caruthers’s spine with his thumb. One slow stroke. She shuddered. Was that a gasp? Perhaps she wasn’t as poised as she affected.
Excellent.
It was better to catch her off guard if he was to succeed with his plan. Why then, didn’t his scheme of vengeance fill him with the same sense of satisfaction it had before meeting her?
Vangie flicked a glance upward, her gaze colliding with Lord Warrick’s again. What unusual eyes. Light blue flecks colored the gray. And those dark eyelashes. She’d never seen eyelashes so thick on a man. Her gaze lowered to his mouth. His well-formed lips curved into a smile. She stumbled, though he didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ve not seen you at other assemblies, my lord,” she blurted, feeling the rush of color skimming her face at her ineptitude.
Faith, what’s with this blushing?
His lips slanted again. “I’ve just returned to London. My father and brother died recently.”
Her breath caught. “I’m deeply sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Shouldn’t he be home, in the comforting presence of his family? Perhaps he didn’t have anyone else. At least she had Uncle Gideon, Aunt Adélaid, and Yvette. Had he anyone?
“Have you any remaining family?” Faith, now she was prying.
“My stepmother and a sister, Charlotte.” Warmth infused his voice when he spoke of his sister.
What possesses a man in mourning to leave his family and attend a ball? Vangie barely finished the thought. That little niggling she’d mentioned to Yvette had begun to throb full on now. Vangie was light-headed, and it took every bit of her effort not to trip while dancing.
Why now?
Her last megrim episode had been many months ago. It must be the excitement—and the corsets of course. She only wore short stays at home. Oh, why had she let Yvette talk her into trying one of her new back-laced French corsets? The garment didn’t fit properly, and pressed against Vangie’s ribs making it difficult to breath.
She sucked a meager puff of air into her constricted lungs. Bother, she could scarcely breathe, though whether it was from her spell or the corset she couldn’t say for certain. She didn’t care what Yvette and Aunt Adélaid said, the blasted corded stays did interfere with her breathing. She detested the dratted thing.
“My lord?”
She must get off the dance floor before she disgraced herself in front of everyone. She swallowed against the waves of nausea assailing her. Tiny black spots flashed before her eyes. “My lord, I. . .”
Her steps faltered. She weaved, clutching at his hand and shoulder to keep her balance.
Vangie began to panic. Her vision narrowed. The familiar blackness closed in. The fuzzy ringing in her ears amplified, as the pain throbbing in her temple crescendoed to an excruciating climax. She struggled to remain standing, and felt his lordship tighten the arm around her in added support.
She swayed and gulped. “I fear I need some air.”
The distress in Miss Caruthers’s tone alerted Ian.
The terrace was at the other end of the ballroom. Maneuvering her across the crowded floor, he assisted her through the open French windows, then onto the veranda. She started to sag. He slipped one arm around her slender waist.
Turning her head, her hazy gaze met his concerned one. “Forgive me.”
She slumped in his arms.
This wasn’t a fit of the vapors. He’d seen his sister perform that stunt far too many times to be taken in by play-acting. No, Miss Caruthers was truly insensate. Scooping her up, Ian winced. Pain lanced through his shoulder. He stood undecided for a moment. Should he carry her into the ballroom? He glanced downward. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her ashen face.
Her bout of faintness was
most convenient, even providential. She’d played straight into his hands. Only now, with his arms wrapped around her slight form, he was having second thoughts. Blast and damn, he didn’t want to feel compassion for her. She didn’t deserve it. But a weeping or swooning woman always stirred his protective nature.
Guilt squeezed his chest. Blister it.
Step-by-step, he turned in a wide arc. The garden? No doubt there was a bench . . .
No, that wouldn’t do.
He spotted another pair of French windows further along the veranda. A dim light glowed beyond the panes. He strode to the entrance. Braving a peek around the door’s sash, Ian glimpsed a retiring room set aside for the ladies.
He heaved a frustrated sigh. Confound it, the room held no primping peeresses to which he could transfer the care of Miss Caruthers. Ah, but luck was on his side. The doors were open, ever-so-slightly.
Shifting the bundle in his arms, he flinched, his injured shoulder objecting to her weight. He toed the door further open, then turning to the side, slipped into the deserted room. Lamps burned low on the fireplace mantle under which a fire burned brightly. Another glowed on a side table. Three divans were centered on the floor in a u-shape. Across from them sat two plush armchairs.
“I say, is anyone here?”
Where was the servant who ought to be attending the chamber? He hoped she wasn’t attending to her personal needs behind one of the elaborately painted screens.
Gads, he didn’t even want to think on that. Just in case he called, “Halloo?”
Nothing. It would have been helpful to have a female presence to assist him. He’d no idea how to proceed with the limp form he held.
His left shoulder ached from holding Miss Caruthers. Laying her on a divan, he shoved a tasseled pillow beneath her head, then patted her cheek. Even indisposed and unconscious, she was exquisite. Her dark lashes were a stark contrast to her porcelain cheeks.
Several of her beaded hairpins had slipped loose and lay scattered on the floor. Ian gathered the pins. Unsure where to put them, he stuffed the pins into his pocket. He stood studying her, then shook his head. When had he gone from a ruthless rogue, prepared to give her the dressing-down she deserved, to caring for her welfare? He contorted his lips at the incongruity of it.
Despite the cracked doorway, the room was stifling hot. He yanked off his gloves, and with the backside of his hand, wiped the moisture from his brow. Quickly unbuttoning his coat, he found a linen cloth on a table laden with needles, threads, hair pins, and other toiletries. After dampening it, he bathed Miss Caruthers’s face.
Still nothing.
He really shouldn’t be here. There’d be the devil to pay if he were discovered. His presence in this room was beyond acceptable boundaries. Vengeance was one thing, but he stood the risk of irreparably ruining both their good standings in society.
Tossing the cloth onto a marble-topped table behind the divan, he heaved a frustrated breath. She hadn’t stirred a jot but lay still-as-death and every bit as ashen.
No, not quite. Her lips were blue-edged, and her breathing labored. Where was the confounded servant?
He needed help.
Miss Caruthers needed help.
What had he been thinking, toting her in here? Pushing a hand through his hair, he cocked his head and stared at her. He dropped to one knee before tugging off her gloves, then felt for a pulse. The rise and fall of her well-endowed chest gave him pause.
Hell. What kind of a lecher was he, ogling an unconscious woman? His gaze traveled to the door. Should he leave her and seek help? It would be better for their reputations. Confound it all, this could very well destroy the both of them.
He patted her hand. “Miss Caruthers? Can you hear me? Wake up.”
He gently shook her shoulders. She remained limp and unresponsive. Shutting his eyes, Ian tried to recall what Lucinda or the servants did when Charlotte keeled over.
Smelling salts.
Searching the tables for a smelling bottle, he found no trace of the salts. He stood staring in disbelief. All these fallalls, fripperies, and female whatnots, and not a single vial of smelling salts amongst them?
“Blast it all,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on, man, think. Charlotte’s flopping round like a loose fish half the time. What else is done to help her?”
He raked his fingers through his hair again, pushing it on end. Miss Caruthers’s chest barely rose now, her breaths even shallower.
Would her breathing ease if he loosened her stays?
Loosen her stays?
His gaze ricocheted to the door, then returned to Miss Caruthers. Were her lips bluer? The devil take it, she was struggling to breathe.
“Why do women insist on wearing those blasted contraptions?”
There was nothing for it then.
Ian slid her gauzy gown off one shoulder, then the other. Bent over her, his face inches from her tempting breasts, he began to tug the dress to her waist. Her perfume wafted upward. The fabric caught and held behind her. He gave a little jerk, then a harder yank. The material was stuck fast.
Raising her plaint form part way, he peered over her back. A hook had caught on her stays. Sweat broke out across his brow. It’s the heat of the room—nothing more. Her breasts crushed against his chest most certainly weren’t the cause.
With her head lolling against his shoulder, Ian shifted Miss Caruthers to a more upright position. With a might more force than was necessary, he jerked the gown once more. It popped loose, leaving a shred of lace stuck to the stays. Damn and blast. It was considerably more difficult to undress an insensate woman than one eager to have her clothes removed.
He darted another worried look to the door. All he needed was some dame to enter the retiring room and catch him in the act of undressing Miss Caruthers. That unwelcome thought spurred him on.
He laid her on her stomach, then made quick work of unlacing her stays. The moment they were loosened, she sucked in a shuddering breath. Turning her onto her back, he snatched the dress’s neckline, pulling the fabric over her breasts. His fingers brushed the smooth mounds in his haste.
“Hell.” He swore at the involuntary tightening in his breeches.
He tried to slide her arms back into their sleeves, but the gown, pulled nearly to her neck now, was too tight. Ian unceremoniously yanked the dress down, slid her arms into the sleeves, 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 and staring at Miss Caruthers. Her gown was rumpled and sagged off her shoulders. He adjusted the fabric into some semblance of decency, then smoothed her skirts. She still did not rouse. His concern increased. Charlotte never remained unaware for this long.
Miss Caruthers needed a physician.
Now.
Striding to the room’s entrance, he breathed a grateful sigh. He’d not been interrupted in his ministrations. Gads, he could only imagine what the gossipmongers would make of it. Glancing at Miss Caruthers, he smoothed his hair, then reached to button his coat once more.
A gaggle of twittering women piled into the room. They halted abruptly, stumbling pell-mell into one-another.
Bloody, maggoty hell.
Chapter 4
Ian finished securing his coat, and addressed the lady’s maid, who’d finally made an appearance. She skittered around the edge of the ladies to gape at Miss Caruthers splayed on the divan. “Miss Caruthers is seriously ill. Please find her cousin, Miss Stapleton, and request she come at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Bobbing a hasty curtsy, the pudgy girl tore from the room as if the hounds of hell were after her. More likely, she was already planning the juicy details she would use to embellish her rendition of what she’d seen.
A warning sounded in Ian’s head.
The rotund Duchess of Beacock drew herself up in indignation, sputtering, “Viscount Warrick, whatever are yo
u doing in here?” And upon peering past his shoulders, her bulgy eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And why is Miss Caruthers unconscious and . . . half-clothed?”
“Indeed, sir,” parroted Lady Pendelbury, a skinny pinched-faced widow. “Surely, you’ve a plausible explanation.”
Her voice rang with self-righteousness, clearly insinuating no such thing was possible.
A few women traveled to ogle Miss Caruthers, whispering in what was obviously feline satisfaction at her appearance. He heard one of the murmuring harpies refer to her as a heathen, gypsy trollop.
He stifled an oath. Rage, hot and furious roiled in his gut. Sharp-clawed, envious hellcats. And these were the créme-de-la-créme of the ton from which he was expected to select his viscountess. Not bloody likely. Cocking up his toes was preferable to becoming leg-shackled to one of them.
Tucking his arms behind him, he clenched his hands together and rocked onto his heels. What maggot in his head possessed him to stay and help Miss Caruthers?
She couldn’t breathe, dolt.
Sweeping the aristocratic women with a contemptuous gaze, Ian observed a conglomeration of emotions. More than a few ladies averted yearning eyes, their desire obvious as they blushed self-consciously. Others’ expressions reflected embarrassment, sympathy, accusation, condemnation, and yes, even malicious glee. Those were the biddies whose vicious tongues would be flapping all over town before the night ended.
If Ian planned this debacle, it couldn’t have served his original purpose any better. Now, he found himself attempting to preserve Miss Caruthers’s reputation by assuring these rabid flibbertigibbets he hadn’t ravished her.
“Miss Caruthers felt faint while we danced. She swooned on the terrace. I brought her here to recover.” Blister it all, the story sounded preposterous even to his ears.
There was a flurry of activity outside the room. What now? More histrionics?
The ladies turned eager faces to the door. He eyed them, barely keeping his mouth from curling into a sneer of disgust. As if they needed any 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 Viscount's Vow Page 3
