The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) (4 page)

He laid her on her stomach, then made quick work of unlacing her stays. The moment they were loosened, she sucked in a shuddering breath. Turning her onto her back, he snatched the dress’s neckline, pulling the fabric over her breasts. His fingers brushed the smooth mounds in his haste.

“Hell.” He swore at the involuntary tightening in his breeches.

He tried to slide her arms back into their sleeves, but the gown, pulled nearly to her neck now, was too tight. Ian unceremoniously yanked the dress down, slid her arms into the sleeves, then once again, covered her breasts. He hadn’t accomplished the task with a great deal of finesse, but at least her breathing had eased somewhat.

He wiped his upper lip before standing and staring at Miss Caruthers. Her gown was rumpled and sagged off her shoulders. He adjusted the fabric into some semblance of decency, then smoothed her skirts. She still did not rouse. His concern increased. Charlotte
never
remained unaware for this long.

Miss Caruthers needed a physician.

Now.

Striding to the room’s entrance, he breathed a grateful sigh. He’d not been interrupted in his ministrations. Gads, he could only imagine what the gossipmongers would make of it. Glancing at Miss Caruthers, he smoothed his hair, then reached to button his coat once more.

A gaggle of twittering women piled into the room. They halted abruptly, stumbling pell-mell into one-another.

Bloody, maggoty hell.

Chapter 4

Ian finished securing his coat, and addressed the lady’s maid, who’d finally made an appearance. She skittered around the edge of the ladies to gape at Miss Caruthers splayed on the divan. “Miss Caruthers is seriously ill. Please find her cousin, Miss Stapleton, and request she come at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Bobbing a hasty curtsy, the pudgy girl tore from the room as if the hounds of hell were after her. More likely, she was already planning the juicy details she would use to embellish her rendition of what she’d seen.

A warning sounded in Ian’s head.

The rotund Duchess of Beacock drew herself up in indignation, sputtering, “Viscount Warrick, whatever are you doing in here?” And upon peering past his shoulders, her bulgy eyes narrowed in suspicion. “And
why
is Miss Caruthers unconscious and . . .
half-clothed
?”

“Indeed, sir,” parroted Lady Pendelbury, a skinny pinched-faced widow. “Surely, you’ve a plausible explanation.”

Her voice rang with self-righteousness, clearly insinuating no such thing was possible.

A few women traveled to ogle Miss Caruthers, whispering in what was obviously feline satisfaction at her appearance. He heard one of the murmuring harpies refer to her as a
heathen, gypsy trollop.

He stifled an oath. Rage, hot and furious roiled in his gut. Sharp-clawed, envious hellcats. And these were the
créme-de-la-créme
of the
ton
from which he was expected to select his viscountess. Not bloody likely. Cocking up his toes was preferable to becoming leg-shackled to one of them.

Tucking his arms behind him, he clenched his hands together and rocked onto his heels. What maggot in his head possessed him to stay and help Miss Caruthers?

She couldn’t breathe, dolt
.

Sweeping the aristocratic women with a contemptuous gaze, Ian observed a conglomeration of emotions. More than a few ladies averted yearning eyes, their desire obvious as they blushed self-consciously. Others’ expressions reflected embarrassment, sympathy, accusation, condemnation, and yes, even malicious glee. Those were the biddies whose vicious tongues would be flapping all over town before the night ended.

If Ian planned this debacle, it couldn’t have served his original purpose any better. Now, he found himself attempting to preserve Miss Caruthers’s reputation by assuring these rabid flibbertigibbets he hadn’t ravished her.

“Miss Caruthers felt faint while we danced. She swooned on the terrace. I brought her here to recover.” Blister it all, the story sounded preposterous even to his ears.

There was a flurry of activity outside the room. What now? More histrionics?

The ladies turned eager faces to the door. He eyed them, barely keeping his mouth from curling into a sneer of disgust. As if they needed any more juicy tidbits to bandy about. Miss Stapleton charged into the room, bolting at once to her cousin’s side. A striking couple followed her.

The aunt and uncle, Ian presumed.

Their host and hostess, Lord and Lady Armstrong, rushed in behind the pair. Ian couldn’t but admire Lady Armstrong’s astuteness. With a quick, assessing glance, she comprehended the delicacy of the situation and took matters in hand.

“Ladies, let us remove ourselves to one of the other sitting rooms.” Despite their protests, she firmly shepherded the titillated oglers out the door.

Ian disregarded them, more concerned that Miss Caruthers had yet to stir despite the ongoing commotion. He turned a carefully bland expression on her uncle. Was he a hot-tempered sort? The type to jump to conclusions? The devil take it, would he demand satisfaction? By all that was holy, it mustn’t come to that.

Fire flared in Stapleton’s light blue eyes, but other than his lips firming into a straight line of disapproval, he remained silent.

Ian breathed a bit easier. Good. A sensible man.

Mrs. Stapleton joined their daughter, both women intent on reviving Miss Caruthers. After several moments, during which the men watched in tense silence, her eyelids fluttered open.

“Dearest, are you all right?” Miss Stapleton cast an apprehensive glance in Ian’s direction. “What happened?”

Furrowing her brow, Miss Caruthers lifted a shaky hand to her forehead. “I had one of my unfortunate episodes. I must have fainted.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed.

Ian exhaled bit-by-bit, daring to feel the tiniest smidgen of relief. She had
episodes.
Surely her family would understand.

The aunt tsked comfortingly. “I so hoped you would outgrow your headaches; the physician said you might. You’ve suffered from them so many years now—ever since your parents died. . .”

Mrs. Stapleton stopped and forced a smile. “Never mind that. Let’s see to your attire.” 

She discreetly positioned herself to block his view as Miss Stapleton made quick work of securing Miss Caruthers’s stays and gown. After propping her into a sitting position, Miss Stapleton lifted the dangling tiara and circlet from atop her cousin’s head, then attempted to straighten the mass of midnight curls cascading well-past her shoulders.

Damn it, the chit did look like she’d engaged in a rousing romp. Despite the irregular circumstances, the thought was fascinating. His loins contracted again.

Eight months was far too long.

Mrs. Stapleton handed her niece a glass of water, receiving a weak smile in return. Miss Caruthers took a sip.

“How did you come to be here,
chéri,
partially
déshabillé
?” Mrs. Stapleton asked.

“She isn’t partially disrobed,” Ian disputed with calm irritation. “I but loosened her stays so she could breathe.”

Mrs. Stapleton’s fair brows rose in twin arcs of disbelief. “And you thought such a thing was necessary?”

“Her lips were turning blue.”

The brows rose higher.

They were as likely to believe that as pigs were to fly. Ian released an exasperated huff, and felt a noose slip round his neck.

“I suggest you not speak at all, at present, Lord Warrick,” Stapleton said, with an icy scowl. He turned his intense gaze on his niece, his expression softening. “Vangie, what happened?”

Miss Caruthers’s confused gaze swung to Ian. Voice husky, she murmured, “I . . . I don’t know, Uncle Gideon. I often can’t remember anything happening before or after I faint.”

She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap.

Ian fisted his hands. “Bloody hell.”

This was getting devilishly thorny. The noose tightened a fraction.

“I say, Lord Warrick, bad
ton
. There are ladies present.” Lord Armstrong delivered this admonition, his baggy-eyed gaze skimmed over the women.

Ian angled his head. “Please, forgive. . .”

Aunt Edith burst into the room, alarm etched across her refined features.

“Lud, Ian, whatever has occurred? Everyone’s speaking of it. Lady Pendelbury’s proclaiming you and Miss Caruthers were caught. . .” She cast a guarded glance toward Miss Caruthers, “er . . . in an unseemly situation.”

The rope tugged taut.

Both Stapleton women gasped. Miss Caruthers sat on the divan, a bewildered, nonplussed look in her beautiful blue eyes. Did she understand any of this?

“Lord Armstrong, do you have a private study nearby?” asked Stapleton.

“Yes, yes, o’ course,” said Lord Armstrong. “Just down the corridor.” He moved to the door. “Gentlemen, let’s make our way there, and allow the ladies to care for Miss Caruthers.”

“I’ll join you as well,” announced Aunt Edith starchily, a fierce no-nonsense glint in her intelligent eyes.

None dared deny her. She moved to Ian, and reached to smooth several strands of errant hair. “Lawks, Ian, you’ve made a merry mess of it. You should never have been here tonight.”

He tugged at his cravat, feeling the imaginary rope burning his flesh.

“Lord Armstrong,” Stapleton said, “can you arrange for our landau to be brought round to the side entrance, please? I presume there’s a way to leave the premises through those doors.”

He indicated the French windows with a slight inclination of his dark head.

Lord Armstrong nodded his head, his bewhiskered jowls jiggling. “Course, o’ course.”

“Adélaid, I’ll have your wraps brought here,” said Stapleton. “I’m confident Lady Armstrong will ensure you’re not disturbed. You and Yvette escort Vangie home. Leave by the side entrance, and speak to no one.”

Meeting her husband’s eyes, Mrs. Stapleton nodded, and wrapped her arm across Miss Caruthers’s shoulders.

Ian watched the exchange with practiced detachment, something he’d learned to do as a child, then perfected while in the army. He had a nasty premonition.

One he wouldn’t allow himself to fully explore, or his temper would give way entirely.

From a haze, Vangie heard the conversation around her. She answered the questions posed to her without thinking. Something untoward had occurred. Something scandalous. She could see it in Lord Armstrong’s embarrassed fidgeting, the troubled looks Aunt Adélaid and Yvette were giving her, and the anger Uncle Gideon was strictly controlling.

But had what happened?

She frowned, searching her memory. Concentrating was  difficult. Her head was muddled, and at the moment, she’d much more hair than wit. Oh, to be able to go home, crawl into her soft bed, and go to sleep.

Slouching against the divan, she lifted her gaze to Lord Warrick, then quickly averted it. He was in high dudgeon as well.

Though he appeared self-possessed and unruffled, except for a few strands of dark chestnut hair sticking up at odd angles, he simmered with restrained fury. The hooded eyes he leveled on her revealed his rage was, at least in part, directed at her.

But why?

Somehow, she’d caused his anger. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she’d done; unless swooning while dancing aggravated him so. Vangie trembled, clasping her hands once more. Was he like Uncle Percival, given to fits of irrational rage without provocation? More than once she’d been on the receiving end of a vicious slap from her uncle.

She dared a peek at Lord Warrick from beneath her lashes. He looked every bit the untamed cat she’d likened him to earlier, right down to the wild look in his eyes. If he’d a tail, it would be lashing back-and-forth in agitation.

“Lady Fitzgibbons, gentlemen?” Lord Armstrong stood at the door waiting.

Her ladyship and the men moved to quit the chamber. Viscount Warrick turned to give Vangie an indecipherable look, a steely stare, peering into her soul. His predatory panther gaze held her ensnared.

Time stopped, held immobile for the scantest of moments. Even in her muddled state, Vangie knew her world had been turned upside-down, irrevocably altered, for better or worse.

Chapter 5

Bloody, holy hell.

Ian was being followed, and it was due to his own carelessness. Could this confounded evening possibly get any worse? Too furious to take the carriage home, he opted to walk instead, hoping the exercise would alleviate some of his ire.

The effort had been futile.

He’d been ambushed once already this evening. The methods used by Stapleton and his entourage of powerful peers were much more refined than these two grimy brutes. Ian was not in the mood for finesse now.

The dim light from a streetlamp cut a narrow path across the pavement. He quickly scanned the street for other riffraff. It was deserted. As well it should be this time of night.

It was lucky for these miscreants he’d been consumed with his dark thoughts, and hadn’t been as attentive as was typical for him, when they’d come at him from two different directions. Unfortunately for them, though, they had the lack of good sense to select him to spice.

Ian eyed the two footpads. He allowed a smile of satisfaction. Yes, indeed, a chance to expend his wrath was just what he needed.

Rage consumed him. These two devils would be on the receiving end of a month’s worth of ire magnified to the point of violence over the course of the evening. Two hours spent listening to Stapleton, during which Ian was effectively cornered and bound against his will.

The smaller of the thieves swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his scrawny neck like a chicken pecking corn. Slanting a sidelong glance to his bulgier crony he said, “Hand over yer purse an’ we won’t hurt ye.”

The ugly looking knife he wielded belied his words. Laughing shakily, he revealed several missing teeth. His rancid breath carried to Ian on the cool evening breeze. A cloud blew past revealing a quarter moon. Its meager light did little to illuminate the gloomy street corner.

Ian smirked at the thief’s false bravado before switching his gaze to assess the larger man. The brute outweighed him by a good three or four stone, though Ian was several inches taller.

“Aye, guvna,” the other said, nodding his oafish head. “We only be after yer blunt.” His sly gaze danced to his partner’s, and he sniggered as if privy to a private joke.

The short fellow cackled, shifting his blade menacingly from hand to hand.

Yanking his hat from his head, Ian tossed it to the ground. “Gentlemen, and I do use the term loosely, I welcome the opportunity to have a bit of sport with you.”

He casually twirled the silver tipped cane he carried in his left hand, and unbuttoned his coat with the other. “It’s been far too long since I’ve had an opportunity to practice my sparing.”

The ruffians exchanged a fleeting look.

Ian grinned at their alarm. They both came at him at once. In one swift, fluid motion, he swung his cane, slamming it into the hand of the scrounger with the knife. Simultaneously, he kicked the other lout in his pudgy midsection. The impact knocked the bigger man onto his ample bum.

The cane’s impact slammed into the scrawny thief’s hand. His knife flew through the air, clattering onto the cobblestones and clanking along until it skidded to a stop several feet away. Clutching his damaged hand, he swore. “Ye broke me fingers, ye bloody bug—”

Dropping the cane, Ian let fly with an uppercut. The blow landed square on the man’s pockmarked jaw. The cur spun halfway round, then wobbled unsteadily before toppling to the ground, bum upward, out cold.

“That’s one.” 

Only a bit winded, Ian turned to face the other fellow. He beckoned with his hand, wiggling his fingers tauntingly. “Come on then. Let’s be about it.”

Lumbering to his feet while bellowing in fury, the other miscreant charged at him like an inebriated bull. Ian ducked the first, ham-fisted punch.

“Surely a great lummox like you can do better than that,” he mocked.

The thief’s second swing connected with Ian’s cheek.

“How ‘bout that?” the brute puffed, sucking in great gulps of air.

Taking a couple dancing steps beyond his opponents reach, Ian touched his face. “Ah, it seems I’ve underestimated your skills. I do apologize.”

Damn, too much wine had slowed his reflexes.

The robber’s mouth curled sideways into a sneer. “Come on, ye dandified twiddle poop.”

Ian laughed. He’d never been called a twiddle poop before. An image of Lord Pickering’s garish attire sprang to mind. He chuckled once more. Now there was a twiddle poop.

The filthy man across from Ian crouched low, his large hands circling about, beating the air. Thick rivulets of sweat trickled down his blotchy face, and his stubby tongue repeatedly darted out to lick the moisture off his thick upper lip.

Best to make short work of it.

“Do forgive me for ending our match quickly. I’ve important matters to attend to.” Lunging forward, Ian planted a facer upside his surprised assailant’s crooked nose. The crunch of breaking bones was muffled by a guttural groan.

Another well-placed punch to his opponent’s flabby stomach bent the man over, blood spurting from his broken nose. Ian kicked the rotter on his broad rear, sending him face-first to the ground.

He rolled onto his back, hands lifted upward. “No more, guvna.”

He pressed a grubby sleeve to his bloody nose.

Ian stepped backward, breathing heavily, fists still raised in defense. He jerked his head toward the unlit street. The hefty villain lumbered to his feet. Pressing his hand to his streaming nose, he tore off without a backward glance, deserting his accomplice sprawled on the path.

Bending over to retrieve his hat and cane, Ian winced. His shoulder was complaining no small amount. It had scarce been a week since his stallion threw him toe over top. Only agile reflexes and quick thinking prevented him from cracking his skull. His shoulder took the brunt of the fall. Holding his hat and cane in one hand, he rubbed the bruised muscles.

Pericles never threw him before. He blamed himself. Ian had been riding the stallion, neck or nothing. When he shifted his weight to leap a hedgerow, he’d been unceremoniously tossed to the ground. At the time, he attributed the fall to the stallion’s refusal to take the hedge. But in truth, it was his foul temper that caused the horse to balk.

Incensed and grief-stricken over the recent deaths of his brother and father, Ian had been a bit too enthusiastic with his boot-spurs on Pericles’s sides.

Geoff, his brother.

A fierce stab of sorrow speared his chest. Covering his heart with his hand, Ian remembered the last time he and Geoff had raced their horses across that very meadow. The lavender dots of heather now speckling the field and lending their subtle fragrance to the crisp morning air hadn’t been blooming that day. 

Ian stood motionless until the spasm of grief passed. His cheerful, gullible brother would laugh no more, and Miss Caruthers was to blame. That in itself was a crime far greater than the deplorable state his father had left Somerfield’s ledgers and tenants.

Miss Caruthers. Ian clenched his fist, a wave of fresh anger rolling over him as pain speared through his hand. He’d broken a knuckle or two if he wasn’t mistaken.

He flexed his fingers. The answering twinge confirmed his assessment. Running his uninjured hand over his cheek and jaw, he gingerly opened and closed his mouth. His face throbbed where he’d taken the blow from the ham-handed lout.

Ian would have a colorful bruise come morning.

Settling his hat atop his head, he twisted his mouth into a cynical smile. A black-and-blue face paired with his battered pride. Somehow, it seemed fitting and, truth be known, a far more brilliant match than the union proposed to him an hour ago.

“Wake up.”

“Please, no,” Vangie groaned. She pressed her face into the downy softness of her pillow. Sleep curled round her consciousness again.

Yvette gently shook her shoulder, repeating urgently, “Wake up, Vangie.”

“
Chérie
, you must get dressed,” said the muffled voice of Aunt Adélaid.

Vangie opened drowsy eyes to see her aunt’s head poking inside the wardrobe as she rifled through her borrowed gowns. Yvette was lifting a fresh chemise and stockings from the bureau. She brought the garments to the bed, then held them out, dangling them from her fingertips.

“Here, I’ll help you. You must make haste.” Her voice trembled.

Why were her aunt and cousin here to help her dress instead of her abigail? Most peculiar. “Where’s Mary?”

Vangie’s gaze shot to Yvette’s pale face. She sent her stepmother a helpless look. “She’s. . .”

“Occupied, at present,” finished Aunt Adélaid.

Vangie sat up, brushing hair away from her face. It hung loose, in heavy waves around her shoulders and back. “Faith, whatever is going on? Is someone ill?”

“Lord Warrick has. . .” Yvette sent another quick glance to Aunt Adélaid. “He . . . uhm . . . he has come to call.”

“At this ungodly hour?”

Vangie looked to the French windows opening onto a private balcony. Muted, early morning light shimmered through the panes, crisscrossing the hand-hooked, blue and pink cabbage rose rug. Taking a sideways peek at her bedside table clock, she widened her eyes in surprise. “It isn’t even eight straight-up!”

She plucked at the satin coverlet. “Can’t Uncle Gideon address any urgent matters with Lord Warrick?”

Her aunt shook her head, lines of worry creasing her face. “No, his lordship specifically asked for you, and your uncle asked us to make haste with your
toilette
.”

She sighed. “Mary may not have been the best choice of a lady’s maid for you. She’s a dear, but she dawdles terribly.”

“But it’s unfashionably early to be calling. What’s the rush to get me dressed?” Bewildered, Vangie idly twirled a curl, her gaze shifting between Yvette and Aunt Adélaid. Tension radiated sharp and severe across their attractive features.

She stopped twisting her hair. “Is something wrong?”

They exchanged anxious glances. Unease quickened through Vangie again.

“
Chére
,” Aunt Adélaid drew in a deep breath, “I think it best to let Gideon explain. Now come, we must hurry. Your uncle is impatient this morning.”

Vangie slipped from the bed, then pulled off her nightgown. “Did something happen last evening?”

She slipped her arms into the filmy chemise Yvette held for her. Her question met with pained silence. “I remember feeling unwell, and his lordship assisting me from the ballroom.”

A pair of embroidered stockings came next. “I can’t remember most of what happened after I swooned.”

She shook her head when Aunt Adélaid made to assist her into the French stays. “Not after last night. I can’t breathe properly in that contraption. I’ll wear my short stays.”

Her aunt shrugged, tossing the offending undergarment on the rumpled bed. She retrieved Vangie’s well-worn stays.

After quickly lacing them, Vangie stuffed her arms into Yvette’s yellow chintz gown, then lowered the garment over her head.

“I have a vague memory of a conversation about a
tete-a-tete,
but
I don’t recall the details or individuals involved,” Vangie said.

The gown settled round her ankles. Aunt Adélaid smoothed the mussed ruffles round the collar and sleeves.

“Was it someone we know?” After twisting her hair into a simple knot, Vangie tied a sunny ribbon across the crown of her head. She scrunched her brow, deep in thought. She tried to remember the ride home. It was a muddled memory. As were her preparations for bed.

“Dash it, it’s no use. I can’t remember—not a single thing.”

There was nothing for it then, but to go below and set things straight. How was she to do that with only a minimal memory of last evening? It was an enigma, to be sure.

What if she’d seen something illicit, and she and Lord Warrick were to be called as witnesses?

Had someone’s honor been sullied?

Had there been a duel?

Good God. Had someone been killed?