The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (8 page)

Most likely, his staff already heard tattle of the marriage. What else might they have heard? Blister it. A January plunge in the Thames couldn’t have cooled his ardor any faster.

He supposed it was acceptable, even expected, for one’s betrothed to see to their intended’s needs when an ill-fated situation presented itself. While some would argue he shouldn’t have been in the ladies’ retiring room no matter the cause, others could make an equally sound argument it was his duty, as Miss Caruthers’s intended, to see to her well-being.

Stapleton was making sure that particular tidbit was planted in the right ears. As the tale circulated among elite circles, eyebrows would be raised of course, and Ian knew those hoping for a juicy scandal would be compelled to settle for something a mite less succulent.

He snorted his contempt, maneuvering the curricle round a stable cart piled high with filthy straw and horse manure buzzing with flies. What rot. The
ton
believed what was convenient to believe. Now he was in a devil’s own scrape, soon to be leg-shackled to a flirtatious jade.

The crack of the curricle’s wheel giving way rent the air.

Bloody hell. What next?

The horse stumbled. Ian was hurled from his seat and crashed headlong into the manure cart.

Chapter 9

The eve of her wedding, Vangie stood before the door to Uncle Gideon’s study. She had a plan. Sucking in a calming breath, she rapped sharply on the heavy door.

“Enter.”

Her shoulders squared, she marched into the room prepared to do battle. Halting before his desk, she scanned her uncle’s face. A lone lamp, sitting atop his desk, lit the room. In the muted light, his expression was guarded, though she was sure warmth shown in his eyes. Encouraged, she relaxed her shoulders.

“You’ve need of something, Vangie?” he asked, putting his quill aside.

She wasted no time but came directly to the point. “Uncle Gideon, please reconsider this union.”

She couldn’t bring herself to say,
my
marriage.

She searched his compassionate eyes, then played her trump card. “I want love in my marriage, Uncle. Love like my father and mother shared. Love like you and Aunt Adélaid feel for each other.”

Taking a deep pull of air, she challenged him. “Would you deny me that happiness?”

His lips curved in a poignant smile. “My dear, I’d like nothing better than for you to marry for love, but after the affair at the Armstrong’s, if you don’t marry Lord Warrick, it’s unlikely you’ll marry at all.”

He looked away and straightened a short stack of papers. His face was in the shadows, but he seemed tense. “The
ton
has a long arm, and a far longer reaching memory.”

“I don’t care about the
haut ton.
I can stay in the country. I’ll never venture to London again. I’ll . . . I’ll go away, perhaps with the Roma. Or . . . or I’ll go to the colonies.”

He set the papers aside, then met her gaze. His was tormented. He extended a palm upward to her. “Vangie—”

“I’ve no desire to marry someone of a high station.” She heard the desperation in her voice. His next words doused the remnant of hope in her heart.

“The scandal combined with your heritage—”

Vangie’s mouth dropped open. If he’d slapped her, she’d not be more hurt or taken aback. An icy blanket of shock engulfed her. She grasped the edge of the desk to steady herself.

“My heritage?” she whispered hoarsely.

Uncle Gideon closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his forehead. He took a large breath, then quietly said, “I’m sorry. I ought not to have said that.”

“But, that’s the real issue isn’t it, Uncle Gideon?” She clung to the desk as the truth of his words hit home. “Because of my Romani blood, I’ve been labeled a
lóoverni
, a . . . a
loose woman.”

She searched his remorseful gaze with her own, reading the truth mirrored in their depths. Lord Warrick was right.

Uncle Gideon came around the desk and grasped one of her cold hands in his. “As your guardian, I must protect you, and while an arranged marriage isn’t ideal, many couples who enter into such unions have been happy.”

And many miserable their entire lives
.

“Lord Warrick is a decent man, though at present, he’s angry at having his hand forced. Give him time, dear. He’ll come around.”

“Please, I. . .” Vangie swallowed the lump of anguish clogging her throat. “I don’t want to marry him,” she whispered.

“Vangie,” Uncle Gideon sighed. “It’s not only your honor at stake—”

Her breath caught as she stared at him, aghast. Even in the dim light she could see the lines of strain on his face.

Faith, that was the true crux of the matter.

Who else’s then? His? Aunt Adélaid’s?

Would her disgrace adversely affect his and Aunt Adélaid’s position in society and his business dealings?

Undoubtedly.

Yvette’s? Could the gossip destroy her chances of a brilliant match? Any match at all?

Possibly.

She couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything Yvette, Aunt Adélaid, and Uncle Gideon had done for her. Then there was Lord Warrick. What would her refusal do to his honor? Was he the type of man who valued honor above all else? She lowered her trembling chin to her chest, struggling for control.

Dash it all, he was, of course.

Uncle Gideon squeezed her hand and smiled reassuringly. “It’s a most suitable match for you, dear.”

Scalding tears burned her eyes, though she nodded. “It’s a better match than I dared hope for.”

Yet, she would settle for a haberdasher if he held some degree of affection for her. Instead, she was to wed a man whose only sentiment for her was scornful contempt. How could she endure it?

Her last encounter with Lord Warrick still stung. He hadn’t even bothered with the proposal Uncle Gideon expected. Without a proposal and acceptance, could there even be a wedding?

She’d not spoken of it to her uncle. The humiliation was crushing. If others were aware—well, she had endured all the pitying looks and
tsking
a body could tolerate.

Uncle Gideon grasped both her shoulders, bathing her in a loving look. “You’ve much of my sister in you, Vangie.”

He kissed her on the forehead, then admonished gently, “The wedding will take place tomorrow. I’ll hear no more talk of it.”

Pouting and complaining would change nothing. She had her pride. She would not beg. Head bowed, lips compressed, she nodded again. If it were only her reputation at stake, she would refuse the match. The Roma would take her in. But her aunt, uncle, and Yvette had much to lose too.

She could not . . . would not . . . bring censure upon them.

“That’s my girl.” Uncle Gideon folded her into a warm, what should have been comforting, hug. Instead, it felt like imprisonment.

Tears blocked Vangie’s throat. She couldn’t speak. Jerking from his grasp, she bolted to her bedchamber. Throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to her heartache and wept until sleep’s forgetfulness claimed her.   

A bird’s chirps woke her the next morning. She opened her eyes, curving her lips at the cheerful streams of sunshine slanting across the bedchamber’s rugs and wooden floor. What a glorious day. Stretching her arms overhead, she froze.

An unpleasant memory shattered her happiness.

Today she’d wed.

Her arms fell to her sides with a thump. The smile eased from her face, replaced by a frown of despair. She sat up, then hugged her knees to her chest. Her unbound hair circled about her shoulders. Resting her chin on her knees, she considered the pandemonium of the past couple of days. Everyone had been in a dither, rushing around, preparing for the nuptials.

Such silliness.

Why bother with the falderal when neither party wanted to wed at all? Vangie had watched the fanfare with numb detachment, uttering short, monosyllabic replies when her aunt asked for her opinion.

“Peonies or roses?”

“Peonies.” 

“The peach silk or the white muslin for Yvette?”

“Peach.”

“Bonnet or wreath?”

“Wreath.”

“Tongue or ham?”

Tongue or ham?

At last, she could take no more. Yesterday, she’d slipped into the wingback chair before her balcony window and rested her aching head against the smooth, silk back.
“Aunt Adélaid,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you and Yvette do what you think best.”

She’d raised a hand to her brow and closed her eyes against the nagging twinge. “I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”

“But, Vangie, don’t you want. . .?” Yvette began.

Vangie had lowered her hand and turned her head, resting her cheek against the soft, smooth fabric. She’d met Yvette’s, round, worried eyes. “I truly don’t care a whit what you decide.”

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?