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.
His chest tightened.
Damn, he hated it when a woman cried. He much preferred they rail at him, especially this woman. He didn’t want to feel pity for her. He shot a sidelong glance at Stapleton. Her uncle glared daggers at Ian.
Releasing a breath of air, he strove for gentleness he was far from feeling. “You see why we must wed? Why we are permitted no other option?”
Wounded sapphire eyes, framed by spiky lashes and pooled with tears, met his. He kept his expression carefully bland. If she even suspected he was suffering as much as she, she’d use it against him the first opportunity she was given. Her kind always did.
His wrath was another matter. It created a barrier few men, let alone women, dared cross. Even so, self-recrimination gnawed at him. He’d allowed his fury to rule his tongue. It changed nothing and succeeded only in further lowering Stapleton’s estimation of him—something he could ill afford at present.
Gripping the lapels of his coat, Ian’s resisted the urge to check his pocket for the ring he’d soon slip on Miss Caruthers’s hand. He swallowed an oath. The vows were as good as spoken and spewing his frustration in a verbal tirade served no purpose.
It mattered not that she acted like flirtatious, loose-moraled demi-rep. He daren’t further voice his contempt in front of her uncle. Even Ian had limits. Crossing to the hearth, he kicked a stray coal into the glowing fire. Resting his arm atop the cherrywood mantel, he stared into the flames. They merrily chased one another, over and around the crackling wood, like impish pixies, as if they hadn’t any cares in the world.
“It does no good to protest, to proclaim our innocence,” he said, his voice taking on a harsh edge. “In the eyes of the ton, you’re ruined. Disgraced. And only I can rescue you from a life of degradation.”
“No—”
Devastation was etched across her beautiful face. She mouthed, “No” again, shaking her head in denial.
He knew blaming her was unfair, yet there was no other target for his ire. He was being coerced into a loveless marriage, something he vowed he’d never do. Unlike his father, he’d intended to have a degree of fondness for the woman he married.
To support his debauched lifestyle, his sire had married three times with deliberate intent; to increase his coffers and expand his holdings. And he chose wealthy, evermore dowdy and desperate women, well past the first bloom of youth, to meet that end.
Two of his wives, including Ian’s mother, died in childbirth, as Roger strove to produce more males for the family lineage. Lucinda escaped that fate by barring his father permanently from her bed the instant she knew she was with child.
Only three, no it was but two now, of the eight offspring Ian’s father had sired yet lived. With Geoff dead, Ian was the last remaining male in his line.
Confound it to hell.
He leveled Miss Caruthers with a fuming stare.
He’d have to beget an heir on her. A woman he could barely conceal his disdain for. The physical act wasn’t what he objected to—no, she was a tempting morsel. He sank his gaze to her full bosom. A very tempting morsel. He’d no complaints there—none at all.
But she was responsible for his father’s and brother’s deaths, and what of the on dit concerning her previous indecorous behavior? If even partially true, she might as well be a member of the muslin company, especially with her Romani heritage. Lest he curl his lip and snarl at her, he turned his attention to the crackling fire.
He stifled his emotions. He was a trained soldier, by God. This marriage was but another battle—another campaign he would win with strategy and logic.
A log fell, sending a flurry of sparks spiraling up the chimney in wild disarray. A few struggled, sputtering out before being sucked up the flue. Their end was predetermined, as was his.
Bit by bit, he released a pent-up breath. He hadn’t expected love, but mutual respect and admiration would have been sufficient. He doubted he was capable of truly loving. That emotion left one too vulnerable. He’d never experienced anything beyond a warm regard for a feminine companion, even Amelia. Could be, he was incapable of feeling the much-touted sentiment.
Just as well. He’d seen what love did to sensible men. It turned them into sentimental chuckle-heads with more hair than wit. He supposed the same could be said of honor. Men did any number of ridiculous things in the name of honor. Geoff had.
And Ian, more the fool, was no exception.
Turning away from the frolicking flames, he faced her. Linking his hands behind him, he welcomed the piercing heat of the blaze. It matched the fire searing his soul.
He repeated, “Miss Caruthers, we’ve no choice but to wed.”
The bitterness in Lord Warrick
’s voice caused Vangie’s breath to hitch, his raw pain ripping at her heart. She stopped protesting. Her mind went numb in shocked dismay and justified anger. There was an unholy ache in her stomach, and with each in-drawn breath, a fresh stab of pain in her vitals. Clutching her stomach, she swallowed against the nausea tickling her throat and roiling in her middle.
Was she never to be allowed any happiness? Never permitted her choices? Would she always have to submit to the will and whims of others?
She sighed, a trembling breath, her eyes fixed on the toe of her slipper to avoid Lord Warrick’s withering glare. He was right of course. She’d known what the outcome would be, must be, but she’d hoped . . . no prayed otherwise.
“This is grossly unfair,” she whispered, more to herself than the men in the room. How could she bear this?
Toying with the soft fringe edging the silk pillow scrunched beside her, Vangie stifled a ragged sob. Her throat ached from the effort. She swallowed hard against the sting, then swallowed again as a cry of protest welled up, trying to force its way past her compressed lips. She clasped her hands together in a silent prayer. Surely God wouldn’t allow this injustice to take place.
Lord Warrick could walk away from the alleged indiscretion, couldn’t he? Rakehells who cared nothing for their honor did so, quite often, in fact. Her reputation, however, was tarnished beyond repair. To all intents and purposes, she’d been despoiled, at least verbally. Without an immediate marriage, she’d no hope for anything but a lifetime of condemnation and malevolent gossip.
If she were a woman of means, she’d refuse the marriage. She’d travel, paint, do . . . do whatever she wished. Be free at last. But, as it was, she was a penniless orphan. Vangie gripped her hands tighter, and closed her eyes against the anguish tearing at her heart and mind.
Lord Warrick was sacrificing himself for her. A woman he didn’t know. It spoke of his character, of his decency and honor. She knew she should feel gratitude—supposed somewhere in the recesses of her heart she did. The only emotions she could summon at present were desolation and despair, tempered with a good deal of horror.
She sucked in an unsteady breath. He would never forgive her for being forced into marriage. Not like this. How could he?
Would she be able to forgive Uncle Gideon?
Marriage without love.
There were worse fates.
Not for someone with Romani blood running through their veins. Someone who, from girlhood, always prayed she would make a love match.
Uncle Gideon stood, offering a sad smile. “I hope someday you’ll understand and be able to forgive me.”
He shifted his gaze to Lord Warrick, including him in the request as well.
His Lordship met her uncle’s gaze squarely, though there was no answering warmth in his eyes. Instead a contemptuous smile contorted his strong mouth. Despite the fire’s cheery warmth, Vangie shivered and sank deeper into the settee’s cushions.
Uncle Gideon strode to the door, reaching for the brass handle before turning to face her. With his hand clasping the latch, his solemn gaze shifted between her and his lordship for a disquieting moment.
“Lord Warrick, please, do proceed with the proposal. Vangie, you will accept his offer.” He opened the door. “I’ll allow you some privacy.”
Uncle Gideon slipped from the room, the door closing behind him with a firm, final-sounding thunk.
Vangie sat stunned.
Run, everything in her cried. Get away. Flee.
Why then did she remain inexplicably fixed and mute as her uncle exited the room, leaving her to the viscount’s mercy . . . or lack thereof?
Except for the purple finches’ muted scolding in the lilac bush beside the sunlit window, the room was silent as a tomb. Death had indeed visited the room today. Her dreams died with the decree she must marry Lord Warrick. The demise of her heart’s desire left a bitter stench in her nostrils. She twitched her nose and mashed her lips together.
She refused to lift her gaze from her clenched hands. A single unkind look or word from him and she’d be caterwauling like an infant. She knew he was looking at her. It unnerved her no end. The man truly should acquire some decorum.
Holding her breath to calm her stampeding heart, she listened to the viscount’s steady breathing.
He rustled about. She started in surprise when he sat beside her on the settee. His cologne, crisp and woodsy, wafted past her nostrils. Without a word, he reached over, then pried her clenched hands apart. He slid a heavy ring onto her third finger.
She stared at the jeweled band. Smaller and prettier than iron shackles, nevertheless, it signified imprisonment. He must have had it in his pocket.
“It’s warm,” she muttered aloud.
So was his hand. His fingers with their trimmed nails were sun darkened. A bit calloused too. Her gaze lingered on his injured hand. She stole a glance from beneath her lashes at the door. No, Uncle Gideon wasn’t unscrupulous. He wouldn’t have hired thugs—
“Those cuts and bruises weren’t there last night. Whatever occurred after we parted company?”
Lord Warrick didn’t answer.
“Have you engaged in fisticuffs with someone?” Vangie winced inwardly. She sounded like a harping wife already.
He remained silent, though he retained his hold on her hand.
Vangie raised her eyes until she met his disquieting gaze. She tried to read his mind. Was he trying to read hers as well?
He released her hand, then stood. He spun on his heels and left the room without uttering a word.
She remained immobile a long while after he’d gone, gazing blankly through the beveled window panes framed by heavy scarlet and ivory pleated coverings. The morning sun’s golden rays illuminated tiny dust bits floating about the room.
Beyond the window, in a small courtyard, a spot of grass celebrated spring with vivid emerald blades. The lush blossoms of pink and peach peonies burst forth in glorious color. Beneath them, jeweled-colored petunias and geraniums teased and tickled their neighbor’s leggy stems.
She appreciated none of it. Her mind reeled, silently protesting in disbelief and wounded rebellion.
“I’m to be married—in three days.” She spoke the words aloud, trying to convince herself of the awful reality.
Clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap, the awkward weight of the foreign object on her third finger reminded her of her fate. Vangie swung her gaze to the closed door. Odd, she’d almost expected his lordship to be there, staring at her with his penetrating, unfathomable silver gaze.
It was as if he could see straight into her thoughts, her soul, yet kept his own emotions shuttered, barring her from viewing any portion of his true self. Clasping her hands again, Vangie felt the ring he’d placed on her finger less than a half hour past. She stared at the emerald-cut sapphire framed by a double row of diamonds. It was a brilliant ring. She turned it round her finger. Its fit was a trifle loose.
She laughed then, a sad hiccupping rasp, saturated with unshed tears. “I should have heeded Puri Daj’s warning. Should have run as fast as my feet would carry me when I saw him, the black panther,” she murmured in self-castigation.
Yet, how was she to know her life would irreversibly change because of one innocent dance? A solitary tear slipped down her cheek.
Slowly pushing to her feet, she wandered to the window and watched a hummingbird moth flit from flower to flower, greedy for the sweet nectar hidden in the blooms. Resting her head against the warm glass, she frowned, then shuddered. She stood precisely where he’d stood as both their lives were shattered. Lifting her face, she allowed a thin sunbeam to bathe her in its warmth. It gave her strength and hope.
A clock chiming in another part of the house brought her from her reverie. Her stomach growled reminding her she’d not yet bro
ken her fast.
Vangie turned to stare at the door once more.
She wasn’t wed yet, and . . . she wasn’t marrying anyone against her will.
Chapter 8
Climbing from the curricle, Ian surveyed the weathered two-story brick building before him. A black-lettered sign, hanging from two hooks, Joseph Dehring, Solicitor, swayed and rattled in the damp breeze. Lifting his pocket watch from his waistcoat, Ian flicked it open.
Four minutes to three. He wasn’t late, dash it all.
He regretted that. He rather liked the idea of Stapleton stewing a bit at Ian’s tardiness, fretting as to whether he was going to call at the appointed time.
Or, call at all.
He’d been sorely tempted not to.
Damn his insufferable honor . . . and damn Stapleton’s threats.
Tucking the watch away, he climbed the steps to the entrance. Although the appointment’s purpose was to sign the marriage agreement, he intended to try one final time to extract himself from the compulsory nuptials.
Scowling, he was ushered into a large office by a skinny, anxious clerk. The clerk was so nervous, he didn’t announce Ian’s arrival at all, but shuffled backward out the door the moment Ian crossed the threshold. No doubt his glower contributed to the fellow’s ineptness. Poor chap.
Removing his topper, and tucking it beneath his arm, Ian quickly surveyed the room.
Overflowing bookshelves filled one entire wall. The pleasant odor of old leather-bound books scented the air. A long since abandoned cobweb dangled from the topmost corner of one of the tall shelves. A fern, sorely in need of water, drooped before a tall window. Stapleton, and a man Ian presumed was Mr. Dehring, were talking quietly and examining a pile of papers atop a mammoth double desk. At his entrance, they stopped speaking and looked up.
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 6
