Could he feel her trembling?
Propelling her along by the elbow, he escorted her into the brightly lit townhouse. In the foyer, the staff stood in a straight line, ready to greet their new mistress.
Vangie smiled and nodded, at least she thought she did, though she couldn’t remember any of their names except perhaps the butler, Flinch, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Porker.
Oh dear, that can’t be right. Mayhap it was Mrs. Perky.
The heat from Ian’s hand scorched her through the light fabric of her shawl. It was difficult to concentrate on anything except for his disturbing touch.
“Mrs. Parker will show you to your chamber, Lady Warrick.”
She glanced at him, surprised. It was the first time he’d addressed her thus. She risked sending him a hesitant smile. It quickly faded when he turned away from her. She watched him escape through a carved door across the entry.
“Yes, indeed, everything’s been made ready for your arrival,” the vivacious housekeeper declared, a smile on her jovial face.
“Wait ‘till you see—” Her smile widened until her plump cheeks resembled miniature candied apples. “We’ve quite outdone ourselves, we have.”
Appreciation surged through Vangie at the friendly welcome. Mrs. Parker’s chatelaine tinkled as she bustled across the entry. “If you’ll please follow me, my lady.”
Lady Warrick? Faith, she was a lady now. Vangie lifted her gown and followed the housekeeper up the stairs. She paused on the landing. Turning, she stared at the door Ian had disappeared through. A dim light glowed through the crack beneath it.
Would he come to her tonight?
Dash it all, she hoped not.
Two hours later, she sat at the dressing table in the sumptuous chamber appointed to her. The room was overwhelming. Everything was pink roses, from the silk rose-laced wallpaper to the draperies and bed curtains—even the rugs on the floor. Numerous vases of roses were placed throughout the room, their bold scent perfuming the air.
There had even been rose petals floating in her bathwater, and more petals were sprinkled atop the silken sheets. Why would anyone put rose petals on the bed? She’d scooped the petals from the copper tub before picking the others off the sheets. Standing in the middle of the chamber, she’d bitten her lip.
Where to put them? A chamber pot peeked from beneath the bed. She’d pulled it out and grinned. Pink roses smiled back at her.
Now brushing her hair with long, slow strokes, her emotions were in a whirl. Ian hadn’t made an appearance. Her relief was profound. Then why the queer, uncomfortable feeling inside? She mentally shook her head. Tosh, that other sentiment was not disappointment. It was embarrassment at being rejected on one’s wedding night—that was all. Her gaze stole to the connecting door once more.
Vangie dismissed, Irma, the girl assigned to act as her lady’s maid, after the girl helped Vangie from her gown. It was awkward having a stranger undress her. She’d refused the offer of assistance with her bath as well. She’d no personal servants in Brunswick and was accustomed to seeing to her own needs.
She wore a diaphanous nightgown and robe. They too, were tinted pink, and embroidered blue roses graced the neckline and sleeves. Thank goodness for something other than pink. She hoped Ian wasn’t the one overly fond of the color. She didn’t much care for it herself.
The set had been lying across the gargantuan bed dominating the room when she entered the bedchamber. She’d no doubt they were meant for her to wear tonight, and so, she dutifully donned them. She had nothing half as lovely of her own.
A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. She would like to see his lordship’s reaction if he ever saw her in her plain, serviceable nightdress. The gown was patched in numerous places. The hem and sleeves were ragged and frayed, and it boasted several tea and paints stains. She loved its well-used comfort.
Tilting her head, Vangie caught sight of the bed in the mirror. The sheer size of it gave her pause. How many people were meant to sleep in that monstrosity? Her hand froze mid-stroke.
Leaning forward, she peered into the mirror, seeing the shock on her face, before sinking her gaze to gape at her chest. The material of her night rail was much too fine, revealing far more than it concealed. One could see the dark tips of her breasts.
“Faith, this will never do.”
Dropping the brush on the table, she jumped from the bench. Her mouth fell open. The dark shadow of her womanhood was visible through the frail fabric as well.
“What could the modiste have been thinking, fashioning a gown of such transparent material? Why, it’s positively wicked.”
She darted to the wardrobe intent on donning her thick, well-worn night robe. Lord Warrick mightn’t make an appearance tonight, but should he, Vangie wanted to be prepared. Standing before him in an embroidered, lace covered ensemble, that left nothing to the imagination, wouldn’t lend itself to the purpose she’d set her mind to.
Yanking the wardrobe open, she removed the familiar garment. She lifted her arm to slip it into the comfortable, woolen arm. Lord Warrick’s deep voice halted her.
“Nay, sweeting, lay it aside.”
She stood transfixed, one hand clutching the robe, the other her throat. Her pulse beat a rapid cadence beneath her fingertips. She’d not heard him enter through the adjoining door. Panther feet.
Draping the garment across a nearby armchair, Vangie gazed longingly at the robe’s modest folds before she faced Lord Warrick. His mahogany hair was damp, though neatly combed. He wore a dark blue banyan, open to the waist. What she could see of his chest was matted in fine, curling hair. Silk frogs secured the remainder of the banyan, which fell to the middle of his calves. The lower part of his muscled legs was covered in crisp, dark hair.
She stared. Gads, even his toes have hair on them.
Of course they do. Black hair probably covers his entire body.
Oh dear.
She forced herself to meet his disconcerting eyes. She daren’t look anywhere else on his form. Was he naked beneath the Banyan? She gulped against an absurd desire to giggle. Clearing her throat, she swallowed against a bothersome lump lodged there.
She plastered a fake smile on her face. “My lord. . .?”
He shook his head and waved a finger at her. “Not ‘my lord’ sweeting. I prefer, Ian, or darling, or dearest, or my love.”
There was a bantering tone to his voice, or was it mockery? Puzzled, Vangie’s smile faded. “My, uh, Ian, I thought perhaps we could wait to. . .”
“Wait?”
He crooked a winged chestnut brow, a bland smile on his lips, though the humor failed to reach his eyes. His gaze shifted to her breasts. Her nipples puckered against the gossamer fabric. Curse it. She reached to pull the filmy cloth away from her traitorous breasts.
A slow smile tilted the corners of his mouth.
Rotten knave.
Instead she angled her chin, straightened her shoulders, and folding her arms across her chest, plowed onward. “Well, yes, to get to know one another better before we—”
She swallowed again as he purposefully spanned the distance separating them with measured steps. She stood her ground, though every instinct screamed for her to run.
Drawing a thick lock of hair across her shoulder, he idly toyed with it. With his other hand, he tilted her chin upward until her eyes grudgingly met his.
His were endless pools, and Vangie struggled to find a nuance of mercy or compassion within their fathomless depths. The look simmering there wasn’t reassuring or comforting in the least. He looked about to pounce and gobble her up.
Panther.
Sliding the hand cupping her chin to the back of her head, Ian held her immobile. His gaze sank to her parted mouth. Lowering his head, he brushed her lips, a feather-light wisp of a touch, wit
h his. She stiffened but didn’t pull away.
He played with her mouth, gently caressing her lips with his warm, velvety ones. It was unlike anything she’d dreamed of. She relaxed, pressing against his solid chest and cautiously moved her lips against his. He tasted of brandy and mint. She breathed in his subtle scent.
“You’d deny your husband what you’ve freely given others, wife?” He whispered against her mouth. Though softly spoken, the bitterness in his tone belied any true tenderness.
Jolted back to awareness, Vangie stood mute. He hadn’t just said . . . No, she must be mistaken. She angled away from him, searching his cold eyes.
“Pardon?”
“Come now, no need to be coy, to pretend false chastity.” He cupped her buttocks, pressing her against his solid length and grinding his hips suggestively against hers. “We both know you’ve none.”
Making an inarticulate sound in her throat, Vangie went rigid, as rage unlike any she’d ever experienced engulfed her.
Incredulous, horror streaking through her, Vangie shoved him away. She took a faltering step backward, her arms extended as if to ward off a demonic spirit. Stunned, voice shaking, she said, “Are you implying I’ve been intimate with another?”
“No, sweeting, no such thing,” he taunted. “You’ve not limited yourself to one man. I’m not pleased, but as long as you’re as generous with me—”
The injustice of it infuriated her. She’d been forced into marriage with a man who thought her a harlot. Hands fisted, Vangie ground between clenched teeth, “You bostaris! How dare you?”
The loud smack of her fist connecting with Ian’s injured cheek echoed ominously in the room.
Chapter 12
Jaw slack, Vangie stood gaping at Ian. Good Lord, she’d punched him. He was known for his vile temper. What would he do? Where was her dagger? She darted a quick look at the nightstand.
Not there. Think. Where had she laid it?
She wasn’t given to violence. Why had she hit him so hard? A welt, red and raw like a fresh branding, was clearly visible on his angled face. Standing before him, the intense, provocative glimmer in his eye sent a fresh dash of color across her cheeks.
“Ian. . .”
No, she would not apologize. He deserved it, the brute. Faith, why is he grinning? Was her new husband dicked in the nob? She frowned at him, inching her way backward. Perhaps he’s mad. Mayhap it wasn’t bad temperament plaguing the man at all, but lunacy. She sent a sidelong glance to the open wardrobe.
Where was her blasted dagger?
Clasping her hands before her, she warily watched him. A muscle flexed in his jaw. She gasped when he stole closer, his gait purely predatory. She sucked in another wheezing lungful of air.
It was most difficult to breathe, or think, when one was being stalked.
Ian crept onward, step-by-step.
For every step he took forward, Vangie retreated until she was brought up short by the small bench she’d just vacated. She tried to skirt around it, not daring to take her eyes from him. Her hip grazed the dressing table, rattling the contents on top. Reaching beside her, her gaze fixated on him, she grasped wildly. Her hand closed on the handle of the silver hairbrush.
She sent it sailing at his head. He ducked, then laughed, a deep resounding echo in his chest. He was enjoying this, the cretin. She began tossing objects at him as fast as she could grab them.
Crystal perfume bottle. Engraved hand mirror. Jar of face cream. Jewel encrusted comb. Her wedding wreath. They all went careening past him.
He dodged each item, stealthy edging nearer. The floor was littered with broken glass, petals and leaves, globs of cream, and a puddle of perfume, which bathed the room with its citrusy scent.
In desperation, she tossed the last item, a filmy lace-edged handkerchief. A feral grin on his lips, he watched it flutter onto the rug, then raised mocking eyes to her.
The damned cur. He still laughed at her.
She frantically sought something else to throw at him. Ah, there it was. The jeweled dagger had been beneath the handkerchief the entire time. She snatched the blade, wielding it before her. He would gloat no more.
Ian’s gaze dipped to the knife. The lines of laughter on his face shifted into irritation. “Put down the blade.”
“No.”
“Vangie, give me the knife.”
She shook her head, daring to take a step forward, the blade tilted at a dangerous angle. The metal glinted in the candlelight. She knew how to use it. Puri Daj insisted upon it.
He retreated a cautious step, his dark gaze narrowed and trained on the knife.
“I won’t be called a lóoverni.”
Emboldened, she took another step his direction. No man, not even her husband, had the right to call her a whore.
His eyes slowly rose to meet hers, his expression unreadable. “Give it to me.”
His lips thinned, and he extended his hand, palm upward. “I won’t ask you again.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “Not likely, my lord.” She angled the dagger in the direction of the adjoining door. “Now get out.”
It happened in an instant. With his foot, he gave a vicious yank to the rug she stood upon.
Vangie cried out, her arms flailing, desperately trying to stay on her feet. He lunged and seizing her wrist, wrenched the knife from her hand. He flung it across the room. Bouncing against the wall, it thudded to the floor, then skidded several feet before disappearing beneath the armoire.
She tottered and would’ve fallen had Ian not caught her in his strong embrace, pinning her arms to her sides. Without preamble, he scooped her up, then strode to the bed, holding her gaze and arms captive.
Now she’d done it. She’d threatened her husband with a knife on their wedding night. Panic, mixed with a good portion of rage engulfed her. “Let me go, you filthy bostaris!”
He smiled, a slow, taunting curling of his lips. “Not likely.”
Ian stared at Vangie, taking in her high color, her heaving breasts, the breathtaking body her nightclothes did little to hide, and he grinned. A grin of pure delight. Her eyes snapped blue fire. He rather liked this side of his wife. She possessed a feisty spirit. His gaze rested on the subtle shadows her gown hinted at.
“I’ll scream.”
He laughed then, with genuine amusement.
“No, you won’t. You would have done so by now.”
“I will too. I’ll screech like a banshee from hell.”
“The servants will only think me a skilled lover, sweeting, and that I have successfully introduced you to the pleasures of the flesh.”
Cheeks blooming with color, she broke eye contact. She bent her head and pleaded, her voice quivering. “Do not do this, Ian, I beg you.”
She pressed her head into his chest. Her warm breath caressed his naked flesh. The intuitive gesture roused Ian’s protective instinct. She’d not meant to seek comfort from him, had done so unawares, he was sure.
“Sweeting, look at me.”
Vangie shook her dark head, her silky hair swinging across his arms as he held her trembling form.
Shaking her gently, his voice a low rumble, he insisted, “Vangie, look at me.”
She lifted tormented eyes to his. He felt he was drowning. Her luminous sapphire pools were lost and uncertain. “Have you been ill-treated by the men you’ve taken to your bed thus far?”
Her eyes grew huge, and her mouth fell open, then snapped closed. Twice. Yet she said nothing. Perhaps that’s why she discarded men like used tea leaves. She’d become bitter—cynical. What a shame for one so young, and one who possessed such a passionate nature.
“I’ll not hurt you.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “What’s come before matters naught, I forgive you.”
Ian
was amazed. Even as he uttered the words, he meant them. He should be furious. Instead, he was intrigued. Confound it all, when had she gotten beneath his skin? How had she managed to in such a short period of time?
Like a dimwit, Vangie gawked at Ian dumbfounded. He forgives me? Is he serious? For what?
He who covers and forgives an offense seeks love.
Faith, where did that come from? This was not the time for Puri Daj’s misplaced wisdom. Vangie was sure she was about to be ravished by her husband.
His caressing voice brought her hurtling back to the present. “We’ll consummate this marriage tonight. I promise to be gentle. I’ll bring you pleasure, I give you my word.”
Eyeing her, Ian asked, apparently with sincere concern, “Were your other lovers rough and selfish? Is that why you’re so skittish?”
Did he think he was being noble, voicing concern over her past unpleasant experiences, nonexistent experiences, the addlepated lout? Incapable of speech, she gaped at him.
God, let me die right now, this instant.
This is outside of enough. It’s simply too much to bear. He was cork-brained. He was. She was married to a man who believed her to be a frustrated wanton.
In a move so swift, she’d no time to protest, Ian set her on her feet, then adroitly tugged her nightclothes off over her head. Mortified, eyes squeezed shut, she stood before him naked, desperately trying to cover her womanly places.
Any thought of reprieve was squelched. There wasn’t much help for it now. Her protests had been for naught. He would have his way with her, as was his husbandly right. She could only pray he’d be as gentle as he promised.
He swept her into his arms, laying her on the bed’s silky sheets. Lying nude on the turned-down, rose-scented bed, Vangie’s mind was in a jumble. Shouldn’t she be screaming for all she was worth, doing everything within her power to escape?
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 10
