Vangie laughed. She’d not felt this carefree in ages. His good humor was contagious. And the sun felt marvelous. Closing her eyes, she turned her face upward, savoring its warm rays. A soft kiss brushed her mouth. Her eyes flew open.
She stared at his finely sculpted lips. They had been warm and soft on hers. Her tongue trailed the seam of her mouth trying to capture the sensation of his lips on hers again.
His knowing chuckle drew her from her reverie. “I thought you wanted to see the estate?”
Vangie forced her gaze from his gorgeous mouth, then met his humor-filled eyes. “I do.”
Lord, but she sounded like a breathless goosecap.
He grinned at her. “Very well, come along then.”
His boot heels clicked on the flagstone path as he led the way. “Watch your step. Some of the stones are cracked or broken.”
She and Ian wandered the formal gardens all afternoon, strolling among the various floral rooms. An abundance of ornamental trees, complete with arbor covered stone benches, were strategically placed throughout the terraced gardens. The buzzing of fat honey-burdened bees and the lilting strains of birds filled the air with nature’s song.
Vangie was enthralled. She craned her neck to peer at the heavily laden dogwood trees drooping overhead. Several fragrant shrubs lent their sweet essence to drift on the warm breeze.
“Is that a yellowhammer?” She pointed to a yellow and brown streaked bird perched on a branch.
Ian’s gaze followed her finger, and he nodded. “I believe so.”
She stopped, bending to smell a peach-etched rose, its petals just beginning to open. Straightening, she gazed around the unkempt rose garden. It was too early in the season for the roses to be fully in bloom, but hundreds of plump rosebuds dotted the greenery with a profusion of pastel and vivid hues. The garden’s neglect was not long-standing. These lands had been well-cared for in recent years.
“What happened?” Vangie swept her hand to indicate the roses.
Ian reached behind her and pinched off a bud. He handed the rose to her, then stood with his hands on his narrow hips, scanning his estate. Raising the coral rose to her nose, Vangie inhaled deeply. She only detected a hint of fragrance.
“In recent years, my father deemed it unnecessary to spend monies on Somersfield.” A shadow darkened his features when he spoke of his father.
“That will change now that I have assumed the viscountcy.”
She gently caressed the fragile petals. “He died recently?”
“Just over six weeks ago.”
“And your brother?”
Ian turned to stare at her. Grief and something else, regret perhaps, was tangible in his pewter eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it.
An unpleasant sensation tingled along her spine. Dash it all, had she offended him? He didn’t want to speak of it. She understood his pain. The loss of her parents had left her numb for months.
“I’m sorry. I ought not to have mentioned them. Please forgive me.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Had he a headache? Or he was struggling to suppress tears? He opened his eyes and peered into hers for a long, unnerving moment. Vangie couldn’t tear her gaze away.
Voice husky, he said, “You’ve done no wrong.”
She had the oddest feeling he wasn’t referring to her insensitive questions.
Nonsense. What else could it be?
Ian rubbed his forehead. Mayhap he did have a headache.
“Geoff died two months ago. He was five years younger than me. We had different mothers.”
Ian crossed the short distance separating them. Again he started to speak and stopped. She searched his tormented eyes. Yes, regret lingered there—and guilt. Did he feel responsible for his brother’s death? How awful.
“How did he die?” The words rolled from her mouth before she could corral them. Drat, her blasted tongue.
A pained expression flicked across Ian’s face. He smoothed it into indifference. No, not indifference. There was a harsh edge to his lips, and he was clenching his jaw. His chest expanded as he drew in a deep breath. His jaw relaxed.
“A duel with a lord.”
“Dear God!” Vangie wished she hadn’t asked.
He gazed over her head, as if seeing the scene on stage. “He was defending the honor of a woman he didn’t know but came upon being accosted. Both he and the duke were wounded. The duke died two days afterward.”
Tears pricked behind her eyelids. She would not cry. She would not.
“Geoff was shot high in the chest, near his shoulder. I was stationed in Portsmouth. Father sent word, insisting I return home even though Geoff’s wound was not fatal. In fact, the leech thought he’d make a full recovery.”
Ian sucked in a ragged breath. “The day I arrived, he took a sudden turn for the worse. Most likely an infection or undetected internal injury the surgeon said.”
Oh, God, why had she asked? Ian was reliving the horrid event. Blister it all. Tears trickled from the corner of one eye. She blinked several times. They wouldn’t stop. She wanted to throw herself into Ian’s arms and wail for everything she was worth.
Blasted female histrionics.
“He died that night. For once, I was grateful my father was such a controlling sot. I was able to say good-by to my brother.”
A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, Ian.”
He wiped the tears from her face with his thumbs, then caressed her jaw with the back of his hand. “You would have liked him, I think.”
If he was anything like you, she’d have adored him.
“Enough of this morose talk. We can’t undo what’s already done.”
He smiled, a sad half-smile. “Come, I want to show you the pond.”
He wrapped his hand around hers. It fit neatly within his. The calluses on his palms rubbed against her fingers. He was a man accustomed to hard work, unlike the majority of the dandies she’d met in London. Their hands had been softer and whiter than hers.
Walking beside Ian, Vangie considered him. He was a man who loved intensely. The knowledge sparked and simmered deep in her breast. Would he, could he, ever love her that much? A queer flutter disturbed her stomach.
They crossed a large lawn, more of a meadow really, and came to a tree-shaded footbridge. Hundreds of lily of the valleys blanketed the ground beneath the trees. She started to lean on the rail, watching several swans below the bridge.
“Vangie, don’t!” Ian drew her away. “Take care, sweeting. The bridge is in need of repair.”
He guided her to the other side. “This side is safer.”
Shaking the rail, he said, “See, this barrier is sturdy. The other is rotted along the planks and won’t support any weight. I really should set Olson to repairing it.”
Bending over the support, Vangie exclaimed in delight. “Look.”
A female swan passed under the bridge, four cygnets gliding in her wake. Swimming in a circle, the pen waited for her mate. She arched her neck in a caress as he passed by and replaced her at the front of the line.
Ian slipped his arm around Vangie’s waist and tugged her into the circle of his powerful arms, whispering, “Swans mate for life, sweeting.”
His breath tickled her ear, sending errant flickers of sensation across the sensitive flesh. She forced her attention back to the swans.
“They are magnificent, especially the black swans. I’ve never seen any before. Do they stay here year round?”
“Yes. The pond is really more of a smallish lake. It extends clear into those trees, yonder.” He inclined his head in the direction of some evergreens.
“It’s deep too. As boys, Geoff and I often swam in it.”
Pointing to the far side of the pond, he
asked, “Do you see where the cattails and bull rushes are—that boggish area just this side of the tall vegetation? Two nests are over there, and each pair of black swans has hatched four eggs. The hatchlings are light though, nearly white.”
Grasping his muscled forearm, Vangie cried, “Look, there are some of the little ones, near the middle of the pond.”
She turned to look at him and smiled. “God’s creation is exquisite, is it not?”
Ian’s eyes darkened as they roamed her face. He was going to kiss her. Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she parted hers in invitation.
Dipping his head he murmured, “It is indeed.”
The softest touch of his lips, the whisper of her sigh, and an onslaught bubbled from within her, breaking down each of her reservations. This was right. It was meant to be.
Every doubt fled on the wings of wonder when the velvet softness of his lips met hers. She rejoiced in his firm mouth on hers, invoking tantalizing sensations in the most interesting of places. Tilting her head, she allowed him better access. She parted her mouth, welcoming him, inviting him to explore its depths.
Faith, but the man knew how to kiss.
Groaning, Ian trapped Vangie within his arms. Her tentative response vanquished him, shook him, igniting his passion until he was consumed with her. When her slender arms clasped behind his neck, he was overcome. This kind-hearted, generous woman held no ill will, but forgave freely, giving of herself unreservedly. She felt something too. It was apparent in her fervent, if somewhat untried responses.
Holding her tight, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip, he yielded to the pent-up emotion he’d buried deep inside. He conveyed his adoration with his mouth.
A distant sound intruded. With one final kiss, he lifted his head, then surveyed the perimeter. Two forms lurked under the trees, one on either end of the pond. The first, a swarthy complexioned man turned swiftly, and in one deft move, leapt onto his horse. He vanished into the trees bordering Somersfield.
Who was he?
The other, a darkly clad form hovering in the shade was a woman. Icy fingers of unease clawed the length of Ian’s spine.
Lucinda. Even at this distance, he sensed her rage.
Chapter 24
Vangie awoke the next morning to her Ailsa warbling a ribald ballad. She lay watching the maid blundering around the chamber. She seemed determined to wake her. She kept slicing covert glances at the bed, as she flung the draperies open, banged about in the fire grate, and sang much too loudly for Vangie to possibly sleep.
Peeking at the servant through half-closed lids, and squinting at the torrent of sunshine now permeating the chamber, Vangie considered feigning sleep just to see her response.
“You’re awake at last.”
Oh dear, she was caught. Vangie sat up, smiling good naturedly. “It was somewhat difficult to continue sleeping with you. . .”
“Oh, I know,” Ailsa interrupted, oblivious to her breach of decorum, “but I couldn’t wait to wake you.”
Clearly.
She pointed to a mound of garments piled atop a nearby chair. “Look.”
“Lord Warrick said I was to select some of Miss Charlotte’s dresses for you to wear until your new wardrobe arrives.”
Ailsa snatched a gauzy champagne colored gown and held it before her. “Isn’t it lovely?”
She tossed it aside, grabbing a filmy white and gold gown next. “Set your peepers on this one, will you? Coo, it shines like the stars, it does.”
Intrigued despite herself, Vangie allowed Ailsa to persuade her to try on a dozen of the gowns. “I’ve never owned more than two or three dresses at once.”
Vangie paused, as she lifted a green confection over her head. She eyed the gowns strewn on the chair and bed. How could she choose which one to wear? They were all lovely. At last, she selected a pale teal dress trimmed in primrose. Its cheery colors matched her mood.
She was taller than Charlotte, but overall, the gowns were a reasonably good fit. A trifle loose at the waist and snug at the bodice, but certainly a vast improvement over the rags she’d arrived in. The slippers were another matter. While Vangie’s feet weren’t overly large, Charlotte’s were as petite as a child’s. It didn’t seem right wearing the lovely gowns with her worn slippers, but there was no help for it.
The next ten days passed in idyllic peace. Vangie’s appetite improved, and the odd odors previously accompanying her meals disappeared. The dowager truly must have been feeding her food on the verge of spoiling. The knowledge didn’t surprise Vangie.
Her stomach continued to object on occasion to some of the delicacies cook prepared. Truth be told, Vangie wasn’t accustomed to such rich fare or so much of it. Aunt Eugenia had hoarded the most delectable foodstuffs for herself and Uncle Percival. Vangie smiled. To gaze upon his emaciated form, would cause one to wonder if the man ever consumed nourishment.
She was cautiously content in her new position as Lady Warrick. A few neighbors called to pay their respects. She found herself slipping into the role of lady of the manor with a great deal more ease than she’d anticipated.
She’d sent word to Roma relatives that she was well, and Puri Daj was to pay a visit this Saturday. Vangie wanted to ask Grandmother to concoct the medicine from the yews that eased rheumatism pain. Mrs. Tannsen suffered from the ailment.
Vangie wouldn’t attempt the mixture. One had to be extremely careful with yew. It could be deadly in the wrong dosage.
Of the Dowager Viscountess Warrick, Vangie saw nothing, for which she was eternally grateful. She never wanted to encounter that woman again.
Ian was doting and attentive. He didn’t make any husbandly demands, but he made no qualms regarding his desire for her either. Vangie wasn’t sure what to make of it. If he desired her, why didn’t he seek her bed?
She made no objections to his overtures. She quite liked his attentiveness. And he was, oh so, charming in his attempts to woo her. A tender, fleeting caress here. A skimming touch of his fingertips there. Multitudes of feather-light kisses dropped on the nape of her neck or shoulder while she was bent upon a task.
Yes, he pursued her with feline persistence and catlike patience. She never thought she’d enjoy being prey.
If only he would snare her.
Had he known how effective his attentions were, Vangie was sure he’d have been wallowing in masculine pride. She found herself often woolgathering, immersed in fanciful musing, of which her handsome husband was the cause. On more than one occasion, her daydreaming brought a bloom of color to her cheeks.
Faith, he had her at sixes and sevens, she admitted to herself after dinner two evenings later. She and Ian sat in the drawing room. He was reading silently while she crocheted a fichu.
She tried to concentrate on the stitches and loops. His close proximity, and the sheer maleness exuding from him caused her to tear out missed stitches several times. She paused, eyeing the piece. Drat, it was much too long on the end.
That’s what comes of trying to crochet while wondering whether one’s husband sleeps naked.
Vangie began counting the stitches, then stopped abruptly, her jaw sagging.
Dear Lord, she hadn’t.
Yes, she had.
No, she couldn’t have.
She peered at her work. But she had.
It was the length and generally the same shape as his . . . disfigurement. Gads. She began frantically unraveling it, wrapping the yarn around and around her hand.
“What are you crocheting, Vangie?”
She froze, scrunching the thing, in her fist. She looked up. When had he stopped reading, and how long had he been watching her? Good Lord, had he seen? She smiled. At least she thought she did. Her lips were turned upward, weren’t they?
“A fichu. Charlotte’s gowns are too revealing for
my figure.”
Well, listen to that. She sounded quite normal.
Casually unwinding the yarn from around her hand, she noticed his gaze slide to the material stretched taut across her breasts. A generous portion of her flesh was exposed above the low décolletage.
Ian murmured throatily, “I like the fit.”
Startled at the timbre of his voice, Vangie’s gaze flashed to his. Spying the ravenous look in his eyes, her breath hitched, her mouth rounding into an O of surprise. His scorching gaze dropped to the mounds straining against the muslin. Her nipples hardened.
Dash it all, why must they always do that?
He closed his book and held it up. “I’ve read the same passage four times and have no greater knowledge now what the page contains than I did when I began reading.”
At least he hadn’t crocheted a . . . willy.
Ian set his book aside, then plucked the crocheting from Vangie’s hands. He edged closer, his thigh pressing intimately against hers, then wrapped one arm around her shoulders. Tilting her chin upward, his gaze lingered on her lips. The slow descent of his head allowed her ample opportunity to resist should she be so inclined.
She wasn’t in the least.
Vangie bent closer to him, one hand resting on his marble-like thigh, an inch from his maleness. When their lips met, passion crashed over her in undulating waves. Flooded with unfamiliar sensation, she could only float on the torrent of want Ian masterfully invoked.
His tongue toyed with her lips, licking the crease until she opened to his insistent entreaty. With his mouth, he taught her what she was eager to learn. Her hesitant responses became bolder as consuming desire swept her along.
She moaned low in her throat, protesting when Ian tore his mouth from her lips. He trailed feathery kisses down her neck, edging lower and lower, until they skimmed her breasts swelling above her bodice.
Tugging the tight fabric, he grinned in shameless delight as her breasts popped free, their taut tips beckoning him. When his wet mouth and lapping tongue closed over one jutting tip, Vangie collapsed against the settee. She was incapable of holding herself upright, so magnificent were the sensations pulsing through her breast and streaking to the rest of her body.
The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) Page 20
