“Chére,” Aunt Adélaid drew in a deep breath, “I think it best to let Gideon explain. Now come, we must hurry. Your uncle is impatient this morning.”
Vangie slipped from the bed, then pulled off her nightgown. “Did something happen last evening?”
She slipped her arms into the filmy chemise Yvette held for her. Her question met with pained silence. “I remember feeling unwell, and his lordship assisting me from the ballroom.”
A pair of embroidered stockings came next. “I can’t remember most of what happened after I swooned.”
She shook her head when Aunt Adélaid made to assist her into the French stays. “Not after last night. I can’t breathe properly in that contraption. I’ll wear my short stays.”
Her aunt shrugged, tossing the offending undergarment on the rumpled bed. She retrieved Vangie’s well-worn stays.
After quickly lacing them, Vangie stuffed her arms into Yvette’s yellow chintz gown, then lowered the garment over her head.
“I have a vague memory of a conversation about a tete-a-tete, but I don’t recall the details or individuals involved,” Vangie said.
The gown settled round her ankles. Aunt Adélaid smoothed the mussed ruffles round the collar and sleeves.
“Was it someone we know?” After twisting her hair into a simple knot, Vangie tied a sunny ribbon across the crown of her head. She scrunched her brow, deep in thought. She tried to remember the ride home. It was a muddled memory. As were her preparations for bed.
“Dash it, it’s no use. I can’t remember—not a single thing.”
There was nothing for it then, but to go below and set things straight. How was she to do that with only a minimal memory of last evening? It was an enigma, to be sure.
What if she’d seen something illicit, and she and Lord Warrick were to be called as witnesses?
Had someone’s honor been sullied?
Had there been a duel?
Good God. Had someone been killed?
Chapter 6
Entering the well-appointed study, flanked on either side by Yvette and Aunt Adélaid, Vangie stopped inside the doorway. Yvette’s spaniels trotted over to greet her. She idly petted their mottled heads.
Vangie was certain something unpleasant was afoot. Lord Warrick stood looking out the bay window, his back to the room. Uncle Gideon sat at his mammoth mahogany desk, drumming his fingers atop it, staring at his lordship. The stern expression marring his usually pleasant features gave her pause.
Her heart skipped, then fluttered uncomfortably. Uncle Gideon was rarely out of sorts, and never with her. Skirting the dogs and a table displaying carved jade figurines, she approached his desk.
Clasping her hands before her, she said softly, “You wished to see me, Uncle Gideon?”
She cast a nervous glance in Lord Warrick’s direction. When she’d spoken, he’d stiffened visibly, his shoulders going rigid. He didn’t turn round but remained obsessed with the scene beyond the beveled window, seemingly ignoring her.
She studied him. He wore a hunter-green cutaway across his broad shoulders. Those coffee-colored curls she noticed last evening teased the starched edge of his neckcloth once more. Buff colored pantaloons, emphasizing his long legs and narrow hips, were tucked into gleaming Hessian boots.
His fingers, knuckles newly bruised, curled round the rim of the hat he held. He tapped it against his muscular thigh every now and again, as if he’d a great need to release restrained energy.
“Please, have a seat, Vangie.” With a casual wave of his hand, Uncle Gideon indicated the striped maroon settee before the fireplace.
Her gaze never leaving her uncle’s much too serious countenance, she did so. Only after sitting and arranging her skirts did she turn to look at Yvette and Aunt Adélaid. “Aunt Adélaid, Yvette?”
Their gazes remained fixed on Uncle Gideon. Why hadn’t they taken a seat too? Apprehension gripped Vangie. Were they waiting for permission to remain? She flicked a quick look at her uncle. A nearly imperceptible shaking of his head denied her aunt and cousin’s silent request.
Giving her a reassuring smile, Aunt Adélaid patted Vangie on the shoulder. “All will be well, chérie.”
Her aunt slipped an arm around Yvette’s waist, “Come along, dearest.”
She led Yvette from the room, the dogs following at their mistress’s heels.
Vangie’s sense of foreboding increased. She shivered, despite the warmth of the cheery fire, and fisted her hands in her gown. She thought she heard Lord Warrick heave a gusty huff, but after darting him another fleeting look, decided she’d imagined it. His back remained facing the room, although he now rested a shoulder against the window sill.
Was he to never turn around, the boorish lout?
Thwap went the hat against his leg.
She sifted her uneasy gaze between Uncle Gideon and Lord Warrick, waiting for her uncle to speak. His dark brows were drawn together into a deep vee as he studied the viscount. This was not good, no indeed, not good at all. She clenched her hands until the tips of her fingers grew numb.
A frown flitted across Uncle Gideon’s face before he stood and faced her. He spoke plainly. “Vangie, you and Lord Warrick will wed in three days.”
Rounding her eyes in shock, Vangie choked on a gasp. Her gaze flew to the viscount. “Pardon?”
He’d turned then, lounging against the window sill, his ankles and arms casually crossed. He stared at her, his eyes hooded, his striking features blank. His hat remained in his hand, only now it rested on his folded arm. The sunlight behind him speared his shadow the length of the room. The distorted silhouette was oddly disturbing. Almost ominous.
She shuddered and rubbed her hands the length of her arms wishing she’d donned her cashmere shawl.
She noticed a shadowy discoloration near the top of his lordship’s cheek, near his eye. That hadn’t been there last night. Her gaze meshed with his, and she recognized an answering spark of anguish. And anger. That had been there last night.
His tail’s lashing.
She suppressed the hysterical laugh bubbling from her throat at the absurd thought. Her mind refused to believe what she heard. “I’m sorry, Uncle Gideon. I must have misheard you. What did you say?”
“You heard me,” he said gently.
He can’t be serious. She peered at him, seeking even a nuance of humor. “Surely . . . you jest.”
When his expression remained unchanged, a shrieking alarm sounded in Vangie’s brain. Throwing caution and manners aside, she cried, “Lord Warrick couldn’t have agreed to such a match. We only met yestereve!”
Lord Warrick spoke then. “It’s no jest. We shall wed—two days after the morrow.” His modulated tone couldn’t conceal his fury.
She swung her head round to gape at him.
No. No. He can’t be serious.
He’d lowered his arms, then slapped his hat against his thigh again. Vangie’s gaze fell to his hand. His white-knuckled fist crushed the hat’s brim. He must have noticed her gawking. He tossed the ruined accessory onto a nearby armchair and curled his lips into a mocking sneer.
Faith, but he was in a foul temper today. Or was that his typical attitude? Had last night’s courteous behavior been the anomaly? Dragging her gaze from Lord Warrick, she sought Uncle Gideon’s eyes. Was sympathy mirrored in them? And mayhap compassion? To be sure, but she also glimpsed something more foreboding in their depths.
“Uncle Gideon?” She heard the panic in her shaky voice.
He frowned and rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “What do you remember of last evening . . . after you became ill?”
He moved to rest his hip on the polished front of his desk.
She licked dry lips before sneaking a peek at Lord Warrick. He remained statue-like, his face devoid of emotion, except for his hostile pewter eyes. “Not much, I fear. I felt unwell, and Lord Warrick assisted me from the ballroom. I fainted, then awoke in the lady’s retiring room.”
Blowing out a lengthy sigh, Uncl
e Gideon eyed Lord Warrick. “You’re quite sure you won’t have a seat?”
“Quite.”
Crossing the carpet to sit beside Vangie, holding himself stiffly erect, Uncle Gideon cleared his throat.
“Vangie, you and the viscount were discovered in, ah . . . an indiscrete circumstance.” His gaze swept his lordship once more. “Though after questioning him, I am inclined to believe the entire incident was most innocent.”
Lord Warrick raised his chestnut brows. His mouth tilted into a jeering grin. “I’m grateful for your confidence, sir, I’m sure.”
Uncle Gideon ignored him. Vangie could not. Her heart quickened in a peculiar mixture of consternation and relief. Consternation caused by Lord Warrick’s dark temper, and relief that the situation wasn’t dire after all.
“That’s what this is about? My fainting and Lord Warrick helping me?” A heavy yoke lifted from Vangie’s shoulders. “Faith, it’s all a simple misunderstanding, thank goodness.”
Laughter bubbled to the surface again, but she only allowed her lips to tilt upward a smidgeon. It wouldn’t do to skip around the room in celebration, grinning like a jingle-brained ninny. “Certainly, there is no need for matrimony if we,” she met both of their gazes, “agree nothing unseemly occurred.”
“I concur,” said Lord Warrick scowling.
Vangie’s smile broadened. “No indeed. No need at all.”
Her relief was heady, and not even Lord Warrick’s dour expression could wipe the smile from her lips. Gracious, but the man was Friday-faced. She’d nothing but pity for the unfortunate woman who did eventually find herself his viscountess, poor wretch.
“Nonetheless, as deplorable as it is, my dear,” said Uncle Gideon, “I’m afraid several peeresses saw you in a partially unclothed state and are spreading the most contemptible tales.”
He gave her hand a small squeeze. “Vangie, I promised your mother I’d protect you should anything happen to her.”
“Yes, but. . .”
He raised his hand, cutting off her objection. “To salvage your reputation, I must insist this wedding take place.” He slid a cursory glance over Lord Warrick. “By God, if there was any other way—”
At Uncle Gideon’s words, her smile waned, and her head swam dizzily. Lord Warrick’s face blurred as a short, sharp pain speared her temple. Raising her hand, she rubbed the spot. Oh dear, not another one. For a moment dread gripped her.
No, there was no buzzing or aura. It was only a nasty pang.
“But nothing happened.” Her gaze riveted on Uncle Gideon, she blindly reached over to grope the carved arm of the settee.
“I’m sure Lord Warrick acted in no way inappropriate. He didn’t do anything. He wouldn’t. . .” She dared a sidelong peep at his lordship, quickly averting her eyes at his stony, unsettling stare.
“He’s not the type of gentleman who’d. . .” Her voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence.
Uncle Gideon shook his head. “It matters not. The damage is done.”
Vangie twisted to look fully at the viscount. She knew beyond a doubt what she’d said was absolute truth. “Lord Warrick did not molest me while I was unconscious.”
His eyes warmed the merest bit. “Thank you, for that.”
Ignoring the heat sweeping across her face, she pointed a trembling finger at him while looking at her uncle. “He is as outraged and opposed to this union as I am.”
Lord Warrick was as much a victim as she was. The knowledge brought her no respite.
Sighing, Uncle Gideon pinched the bridge of his nose. “He has agreed. . .”
“Is that what you’re calling it?” interrupted Lord Warrick sarcastically. “I’d prefer coercion.”
“Why?” Vangie interrupted. “Why are we to be forced into a union neither of us wants—marriage to a complete stranger?”
Her voice was a rasping whisper from the tears she struggled to contain.
“This is unjust. Nothing untoward occurred.” She fisted her hands in her lap in frustrated agitation. “Lord Warrick acted the perfect gentleman. He committed no offense.”
Compassion simmered in Uncle Gideon’s eyes. “Be that as it may, dear, you shall wed.”
Vangie stiffened. “And, what if I refuse?”
She drew herself upward and squared her shoulders. She was no spiritless ninny. Unflinching, she met his gaze straight on and jutted her chin out in defiance.
“I refuse to marry him.”
Ian almost smiled. He pressed his lips together and mashed his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep them from curving upward. Despite himself, he admired Miss Caruthers’s fiery spirit. Her eyes narrowed and blue sparks flew from them when she defied her uncle.
Ludicrous though it was, her adamant refusal irritated him. Not that he wanted to wed the uppity chit. He didn’t. But did she think her prospects so great, she could reject a viscount? With her breeding she wasn’t likely to get a better offer.
Why did he care?
He didn’t of course.
Odd too, she’d not once mentioned her innocence, but had repeatedly declared his. He shifted to better view her. The movement caused another blinding explosion of pain in his head.
Bloody hell.
He closed his eyes until the pain passed. He really oughtn’t to have imbibed so freely last night. It only worsened his already disagreeable mood this morning. Or mayhap it was last night’s facer causing the pounding in his head.
Opening his eyes half-way, he considered Miss Caruthers. Even upset she was stunning. He allowed his gaze to travel from her face to her heaving breasts. The flowery yellow frock with its rows of flounces became her. So did the ribbon tied at the nape of her neck.
What would that ebony mass look like draped round her shoulders? Her rounded hips? What would it feel like to slip his hands through the silky midnight tresses?
His gaze drifted to her pale face, registering the rebellion and distress she made no attempt to conceal. With focused determination, Ian repressed his sensual musings and hardened his heart. Why wasn’t she screaming her innocence? Screeching about her virtue?
Because she didn’t have any to claim, that’s why.
Most likely, Miss Caruthers was unwilling to curb her promiscuous ways this soon. Her innocent beauty concealed a wanton’s heart. She wasn’t prepared to settle for the confines of marriage yet, to limit her favors to one man’s bed. Perhaps she was one of those women whose carnal appetites couldn’t be satisfied with one man.
The notion brought an angry scowl to Ian’s face and a sickening jolt to his gut.
Well, she’d best prepare herself. He’d have no strumpet to wife. He could do nothing about her immoral behavior before marriage, but, devil take it, he’d curtail it afterward. She’d not cuckold him. The moment they were wed, it was off to Somersfield with her—under lock and key if need be.
At his frown, Miss Caruthers seemed to renew her efforts. She shifted on the settee to face Stapleton. “I won’t be forced into marriage. I truly shall refuse, Uncle.”
“You won’t,” Stapleton said firmly. “Already your name is being cast around. . .”
She interrupted him, waving her hand back and forth as if clearing cigar smoke from the air. “Oh posh. The gossips always have someone’s name on their poisonous tongues. Puri Daj says, an evildoer listens to wicked lips, and a liar gives ear to a mischievous tongue.”
Who, or what, in God’s holy name, was a Puri Daj?
“Miss Caruthers,” Ian began.
She sent him a surprised glance.
Was there the tiniest bit of curiosity in her gaze? “Though apt, that truth is of little help to us.”
He strode to stand before her, forcing her to tilt her head to look at him. She shook her head and opened her mouth, no doubt to argue her point, but he hurried on, done with the niceties.
It was time she heard the vile truth. “The scandalmongers are spreading appalling falsehoods, grossly exaggerating the incident in the retiring room.
”
Flexing his injured hand, he ran the fingers of his other hand across the bruised knuckles before raising his eyes to meet hers. “Depending on whom you hear the account from, we’ve either been discovered in a licentious embrace, or caught naked-as-robins, openly copulating on one of the divans in full view of all.”
Ian watched the color drain from her face, her eyes growing wide as saucers. Her jaw dropped open, and she slapped her hand across it in apparent horror.
He wasn’t through. Rage propelled him on. “I’m portrayed as a scoundrel, an unconscionable knave, while you, Miss Caruthers, have been relegated to the ranks of a lady-bird, a light o’ love.”
His calculated finish was cruel and crude, “A common . . . strumpet.”
Chapter 7
“That’s outside of enough, Lord Warrick!” Stapleton thundered. “Stubble it, else I decide to withdraw my offer and my niece’s hand. I can find her a more suitable match.”
For a fortune—to an ancient, lecherous podger.
Ian knew he’d ruined her. She’d likely never marry if he didn’t make things right—unless her uncle bought her a husband. Someone who was either desperate or decrepit, for no decent man would have her now.
He sucked in a gusty breath, fisting his hands until the nails cut into his palms. He met Stapleton’s furious glare with far more calm than he was feeling. There was no escaping the parson’s mousetrap. They both knew it.
His damnable sense of honor, even for a Cyprian as unworthy as Miss Caruthers, demanded he marry her. That and the threats posed by Stapleton and his peers. They were a formidable lot. One he couldn’t, one he daren’t, oppose. Not if he didn’t want to face financial and social ruin.
He couldn’t do that to Charlotte.
Hell, he was already well on to ruin with Prinny’s disapproval and retribution looming over head. Stapleton could . . . would . . . destroy him if he didn’t make an honest woman of the chit. Stapleton had been most clear on that.
Cocking his head to the side, Ian watched Miss Caruthers struggle to retain her composure. She closed her eyes, her thick lashes fanning the tops of her cheeks. A plump tear slipped from beneath a lowered lid, then dripped its way over her smooth cheek while she bit her trembling bottom lip.
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