She’d known without being told the sparkle was gone from her eyes. She could have no more summoned a smile than she could have conjured a spell to prevent the travesty of a marriage to Lord Warrick. Turning her head to gaze out the window once more, she had breathed a small, silent, and altogether hopeless sigh.
Now, the dreaded day was upon her.
Vangie shoved off the heavy coverings. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before sliding to the floor. Her gown was a wrinkled mess from having been slept in. Grabbing her shawl from a chair by the window, she threw it round her shoulders and padded to the French windows on bare feet.
Opening them, she stepped onto the balcony disturbing a jay grooming itself on the rail. It scolded her soundly while flying away. A pinkish-brown feather floated slowly from the sky, swirling round and round to settle on the landing beside her foot. She retrieved the fallen feather, then ran her fingers along the crisp edge.
Lucky creature. It can fly away from its troubles.
For a fanciful moment after leaving Uncle Gideon’s study the day the marriage was announced, she too had contemplated flight—had actually intended to flee to her Romani relatives. He must have suspected she might try to run away. She hadn’t been alone, except when she slept, since her abrupt departure from his study. She suspected her uncle had her room watched at night too.
Vangie shook her head. Faith, she’d become mistrustful.
A cool breeze wafted by, and she wrapped the shawl tighter around her. The silk-fringed edge fluttered, and a stray curl caressed her cheek and tickled her nose until she tucked it behind her ear. She bent over the rail, breathing in the tangy air. Even though it rained last night, the dank smells of the city lingered heavily this morning.
She missed the fresh, clean air of the country, and she missed her Romani clan. Heart heavy with yearning, she turned her gaze toward home. A rainbow struggled to show itself amongst the myriad of ashen clouds gliding across the distant horizon. When the clouds passed by, the colorful arc would be free from its confines. At least the rainbow had some hope of reprieve.
She had none.
Vangie had momentarily forgotten the wretchedness when she woke a few moments ago. How she wished last night, the awful conversation with Uncle Gideon, had been a horrible dream. She’d cried herself to sleep hoping . . . praying Lord Warrick would jilt her.
She peered at the sun-drenched courtyard below. Two robins hopped in the grass, tugging fat worms from the damp ground. There was yet time. A few hours remained before the wedding took place. Maybe he would cry off.
He was a man of honor.
With a longing so strong it was near physical pain, she wished her grandmother was here. Vangie adored Yvette, they were as close as sisters, but she needed her grandmother right now. Puri Daj would know what to do with this calamity.
Vangie fingered the shawl’s fringe and permitted herself a skeptical twisting of her lips. Puri Daj must have known something of this nature was going to occur, hence the mystifying warning.
Grandmother had been mysterious during her last visit. More than once Vangie caught grandmother studying her with an unnerving glint in her eye. Though a devout Christian, Puri Daj wouldn’t disavow her gypsy heritage. Or the inexplicable gifts she possessed because of her birthright.
“God made the Roma too,” the elder gypsy princess was often heard to say with a shrug of her shoulders.
Vangie felt herself fortunate to be as close to her unconventional Romani relatives as she was. Aunt Eugenia and Uncle Percival tolerating the twice yearly visits was nothing short of astonishing, considering their low opinion of the Roma. They’d never once argued against the visitations, although their noses turned up and their eyes narrowed when Puri Daj came to call.
It was most convenient the Travelers always journeyed near Brunswick, typically for a short stay in early winter and an extended duration in the late spring or early summer. Vangie cherished the close relationship she shared with her father’s Roma family. She’d stay in their encampment for a few weeks each year before they moved on.
Puri Daj agreed to allow Vangie to live with the current baronet and his wife, as long as the visitations were honored. It was part of the complicated terms of her father’s will. Vangie had long suspected Uncle Gideon padded Uncle Percival and Aunt Eugenia’s pockets handsomely to ensure that particular stipulation was honored.
Vangie cocked her head, listening. What was that commotion in the hallway? She ventured to the open French windows. Yvette, Aunt Adélaid, and a pair of lady’s maids, bustled into the room, their arms overflowing.
Yvette laid aside the flowers she carried, then embraced Vangie. “We’ve brought you breakfast, dearest, and after you bathe, we’ll help you dress for your wedding.”
Despite her doldrums, Vangie gawked in slack-jawed astonishment as she stood in grand entry of Lady Fitsribbons opulent mansion. At the dame’s insistence, the wedding ceremony was to commence at an unfashionable four o’clock in the afternoon in her ladyship’s drawing room.
Vangie would have rather it took place in Uncle Gideon’s study, or a prison, with none present but the cleric, her uncle, and the reluctant groom. She didn’t even want Aunt Adélaid or Yvette in attendance.
In Vangie’s mind, it wasn’t a joyous occasion in the least, but rather a sentencing. A life-long, irreversible imposition of punishment for two convicted of a crime they’d not committed.
The foyer, and what she could see of the rest of the manor, was resplendent, teeming with enormous bouquets of flowers and floral swags in every imaginable color. She half expected to hear bees buzzing as butterflies and birds fluttered from flower to flower.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet, perfumed air, then sneezed. Every hothouse in London must have relinquished its blooms for the occasion.
“There you are, my dears.”
Vangie turned to see Lady Fitzgobbins emerging from an adjoining room.
“Do come along. Ian and the others are already assembled in the drawing room.” The matron gestured toward a room at the end of the magnificent foyer.
Others? What others?
No one mentioned anyone else being present. Vangie sent a panicked glance to Aunt Adélaide who offered a wan smile but shrugged her shoulders. She doesn’t know either?
“Thank you, Lady Fitzgibbons,” Uncle Gideon said.
For pity’s sake. She still had the name wrong.
Uncle Gideon took her by the arm and escorted her through the wide open double doors. Was he afraid she might bolt?
Too late for that now.
She would do this. She must do this. She squeezed the spray of flowers she held so tightly, the stems nearly snapped.
Lord, how could she do this?
From across the room, Vangie’s eyes met Lord Warrick’s. Had he been watching the door? She trembled when his cool gaze slowly traveled over her. A tingling followed the route of his eyes, settling in her bosom when his gaze lingered there, before rising to meet hers once more. With a sardonic twist of his lips, he turned to speak to the cleric.
She glanced down at her gown. It was the same silver confection she’d worn to that inauspicious ball. She’d refused to purchase a new gown.
“It would be a sorry waste of funds,” she’d told Aunt Adélaid.
From the pile of flowers Yvette toted into her room this morning, a lovely bridal bouquet and hair wreath of peach-tinted roses, orange blossoms, and ivy, had been created. One of the lady’s maids—Dora? Cora? Flora? Vangie had no idea what her name was—had spent an entire hour arranging her hair into an elaborate Grecian coiffure with the wreath carefully pinned atop.
Vangie wore a pearl and diamond pendant with matching drop earrings; her wedding gift from Uncle Gideon and Aunt Adélaid. As her aunt draped the necklace round her neck Vangie asked, “Don’t pearls signify tears?”
“Ah, yes, but it’s good luck for a bride to cry on her wedding day and. . .” Aunt Adélaid dangled one of the
earrings to catch the sunlight, “diamonds mean affection.”
Vangie fingered the large pearl resting against her chest. She’d wager there were more tears than affection as a result of this union. Uncle Gideon guided her to Lord Warrick’s side. Her traitorous feet obeyed his gentle urging. The whole while her mind screamed for her to turn and run.
Standing before the reverend, a squat, sallow fellow, smelling of garlic and brandy, Vangie almost smiled at the irony. It was somehow fitting this offensive man, whose dour countenance suggested that anything remotely resembling joy or happiness should be considered blasphemous, presided over the ceremony.
From the corner of her eye, she peeked at Yvette standing beside her, resplendent in a pale apricot gown. The false smile her cousin had pasted on her lovely face didn’t diminish the unhappiness reflected in Yvette’s eyes. Vangie looked away lest she give in to the despair simmering beneath the surface of her own carefully constructed poise.
A striking man Vangie didn’t know stood next to Lord Warrick. His turquoise eyes—she’d never seen eyes that color before—were riveted on Yvette, though her cousin didn’t seem to notice. Vangie cast a hesitant glance at Lord Warrick. His stern profile was marred by another large scrape on his jaw.
Whatever had he been about this time?
She presumed the other guests in attendance, no more than a score total, consisted of the powerful nobility who’d been called upon to dispel the gossip surrounding the hasty wedding.
Her gaze downcast, Vangie stood beside Lord Warrick, quietly reciting the vows. The icy contempt in his eyes earlier had turned her blood cold.
To the assembled guests, she supposed her downcast eyes bespoke modesty. But for her, a most reluctant bride, it was the means to keep the burgeoning tears from spilling onto her cheeks. Once they started, she’d become a blubbering fool. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her lips from trembling. Sniveling females exasperated her, though she greatly feared she was becoming one herself.
Only once during the ceremony did her gaze lift to meet Lord Warrick’s. The rector intoned, “To love, honor, and cherish, until death do you part.”
The cleric’s monotone rendering of the vows mirrored the desolation in Vangie’s heart and most likely, the black fury in Lord Warrick’s. Would he say, “I do,” or would he spare them from this catastrophe? Albeit, the humiliation should he do so, would be insufferable.
Which was worse, a forced marriage or being jilted?
Or bearing the label of a demi-rep?
Lord Warrick’s silver-eyed gaze, brimming with cynicism, held hers captive. “I do.”
Even as he uttered the words, his piercing gaze shifted ever-so-subtly. Possessiveness and a hint of a promise she didn’t understand reflected in their arresting depths. A slight tremor shook her. His lips twitched and slanted, inching upward, promising something she didn’t recognize—didn’t understand.
Surely, it wasn’t relief she felt. That and some other peculiar emotion she couldn’t identify tumbled round her middle, muddling her thoughts. They left her feeling strange and woozy, as if she’d not eaten in days.
Would casting up her accounts save her from the marriage bed?
Chapter 10
“You didn’t eat much, wife.”
They were alone on the dance floor. Ian deftly twirled Vangie around his aunt’s smallish ballroom, mindful of the interested gazes watching them.
Stealing a glance at the smiling and nodding onlookers, he suppressed a frown. He felt like a curiosity on display at Bullock’s Museum. He wished others would take to the floor, so he could dispense with the devoted bridegroom facade.
The twelve courses at dinner had been torturous. His wife hadn’t taken more than a dozen bites nor said as many words. He’d tried to eat the succulent foods Aunt Edith had gone to such efforts to have prepared, but his anger made everything dry as chalk and every bit as tasteless.
“I’d not much appetite, my lord.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you think you might address me by my given name, wife?”
“Why?” she asked pertly. “I’ve known you but four days, certainly not long enough to be so familiar with you.”
He lowered his head, breathing in her ear, very aware every eye in the room was trained on them. He’d give them something to gossip about. “Because I want you to, wife, and you did promise to obey.”
He nipped her ear.
She jumped and a tiny yelp of surprise escaped before she clamped her lips together. Her eyes were shooting sparks again; only this time they were directed at him.
“What’s my name, wife?”
“Please, don’t call me that. I too have a name, as you well know.”
Drawing her closer, her breasts pressing against the breadth of his chest and cresting the edge of her bodice, he murmured, “Indeed, but Evangeline sounds . . . angelic, and we both know you’re no such thing.”
“Pardon?” She stiffened, trying to shove away from him. “I don’t under—”
His head descended again. “Say it, or I’ll trace your ear with my tongue.”
He grinned as her breath hissed from between clenched teeth. She stumbled, her fingers digging into his shoulder and hand. A very becoming flush swept across her face.
“Will you cease?” Her worried gaze careened around the room. “We’re being watched.”
Voice husky, he said, “Say my name, sweeting.”
Giving her a gentle squeeze, he started to dip his head, caressing her elegant neck with his hot breath.
“Ian, your name is Ian,” she gasped breathlessly, twisting her head away.
Did she know how sultry her voice sounded? A chuckle rumbled through his chest. He’d no doubt his smile reflected his satisfaction.
“Bostaris,” she mumbled beneath her breath. She tried to wrench away again.
Bostaris? He was sure that wasn’t a compliment. His smile widened. He splayed his hand across the gentle slope of her spine, holding her firmly against him. His wife was a sensual thing. He’d but breathed in her ear, and she’d nearly melted onto the floor.
Vangie tilted her head upward. “Please, you’re holding me too tight. I can’t breathe.”
Ian immediately relaxed his embrace. Her gaze was fixed on his jaw.
“My equipage lost a wheel yesterday.”
She met his gaze for a moment before hers skittered away. “You are unharmed?”
“Except for this scratch.” He angled his scraped jawbone at her. And a nasty bruise on his thigh where he’d slammed into the side of the livery wagon. Never thought he’d be grateful for a pile of manure and straw. Convenient too, to drop a wheel in front of the livery. They tended to his horse, while the blacksmith next door repaired the wheel.
The music ended, and Stapleton claimed Vangie for the next set. Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, and Ian’s close friend, made his bow to Yvette. They too made their way onto the floor. Soon the room was full of happy couples, stepping and turning to the lilting music.
Leaning against a marble fireplace mantle, Ian watched his bride. Tonight, there was no gay smile on her pink lips while she danced. His mouth skewed into a humorless smirk. He’d kept his vow all right. He shook his head, at the incongruity of it.
Vangie would dally no longer. He’d not tolerate fast behavior from his wife. God only knew how many others had enjoyed her favors, but he’d make it perfectly clear where her affections better lay from this point forward. He’d be claiming no by-blow as his.
His gaze never straying from her, Ian permitted himself a moment of cynical musing. It was outside of enough. He’d gotten shackled with that Jezebel, because he’d suffered a lapse in judgment, allowed a moment’s tenderheartedness.
When had he become such a cod’s head?
But her lips were blue.
Yes, and look at where that landed him? Forced to marry the chit whose undoing he’d intended. Was God laughing? For the devil certainly was.
It was fortunate she wa
s pleasing to look upon, quite exquisite if he were wholly forthright. Her figure was nicely rounded in the appropriate places. His new wife was a passionate woman too. He sensed it, though it galled him to think how many men had already explored her luscious curves.
After that tantalizing dance, Ian was keenly anticipating their wedding night. Theirs would not be a marriage of convenience. It would be consummated. He needed an heir. Why the continuation of his family line was suddenly of such importance to him remained a puzzle. One he didn’t want to explore, let alone solve at present.
How to keep his bride from sharing her favors was easy to remedy. Closet her at Somersfield with strict directives as to her mobility and the company she’d be permitted to keep. Once she’d produced heirs, his heirs, he didn’t give a fig what she did.
He cast a glance to the mantle clock. Not yet.
From beneath half-closed eyes, he studied her as she floated by in her uncle’s arms. He rescinded his last thought. He might be inclined to indulge himself and sample her charms for an extended duration. She did quicken his blood, though he attributed his arousal to lust. He’d long been without a woman. What other explanation was there for the nagging ache in his innards?
Aunt Edith approached, a knowing smile teasing her lips. “Can’t keep your eyes off your beautiful bride I see.”
He had no intention of discussing his wife and pointedly changed the subject. Surveying the decorated room, he angled his head. “Thank you for this.”
She smiled. “I did it as much for her as you. She needed a pretty wedding. Her life’s not been easy.”
Unlike her virtue.
Laying a bejeweled hand on his arm, Aunt Edith searched his face. “I’m pleased you decided to give her your mother’s ring. Does she know?”
“No.”
She stared at him for an intense moment. “I’ve always admired your commitment to honor and justice. The least you can do is to extend the same courtesy to your new wife, Ian.”
Her gaze shifted to Vangie before she admonished him. “Give her a chance. She deserves that much from you.”
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