Page 19

“That’s outside of enough, 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 had ruined her, albeit not intentionally. He’d only meant to curb her fast behavior, not destroy her reputation beyond repair.

She’d likely never marry if he didn’t make things right—unless her uncle bought her a husband. Someone either desperate or decrepit, for no decent man would have her now. Sucking in a gusty breath, he fisted his hands until the nails cut into his palms. He met Stapleton’s furious glare far calmer than he felt. Ian wouldn’t escape the parson’s mousetrap, and they both knew it.

His damnable sense of honor—even for a Cyprian as unworthy as Miss Caruthers— demanded he wed 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, with Prinny’s disapproval and retribution looming overhead, he was already halfway to ostracism. Stapleton could—would—destroy him if he didn’t make an honest woman of the chit. Her uncle had been brutally clear about that.

Head canted, Ian considered his soon-to-be bride.

Miss Caruthers struggled to retain her composure. Her eyes drifted closed, her thick lashes fanning the tops of her ivory cheeks. A plump tear slipped from the corner of her eye, trailing over her smooth face as she bit her trembling bottom lip.

His chest tightened involuntarily. He hated it when women cried, loathed how helpless it made him feel. He much preferred they rail at him, most especially this woman. He didn’t want to pity her. He shot a sidelong glance at Stapleton.

Her uncle glared daggers at him.

Releasing a breath of air, Ian strove for gentleness he was far from feeling. “You understand why we must wed, Vangie? Why we’re 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 suffered as much as she, she’d use the knowledge 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. His rashness changed nothing, succeeding only in further lowering Stapleton’s estimation of him—something he could ill-afford at present.

Gripping his coat lapels, Ian resisted the urge to check his pocket for the ring he’d soon slip on Miss Caruthers’ hand. 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 a flirtatious, loose-moraled demi-rep. He daren’t voice his contempt in front of her uncle. Even he had limits.

Needing to put distance between them, he crossing to the hearth and kicked a stray coal into the glowing fire. Resting an 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 etched her beautiful face. She mouthed, “No” again, shaking her head in denial. A raven curl slid free of the sunny ribbon confining it.

Laying the blame solely on her was unfair. Yet being coerced into a loveless marriage, something he vowed he’d never do, galled bitterly. Unlike his father, he’d intended to have a degree of fondness for his viscountess. 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, had died in childbirth as Roger strove to produce more heirs for the family lineage. Lucinda, his third wife, escaped that fate by barring his father permanently from her bed the instant she became pregnant. Only three—no it was but two now—of the eight offspring his father had sired yet lived. With Geoff’s death, Ian became the last remaining male in his line. The very last.

Confound it all to hell.

He leveled Miss Caruthers a fuming glare. 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 and even as furious as he was, he could appreciate her many attributes. He sank his gaze to her full bosom. A very tempting morsel. He’d no complaints there—none at all.

Nonetheless, he held her responsible for his father’s and brother’s deaths, to say nothing of the on dit concerning her previous indecorous behavior. If even partially true, she might as well be a member of the muslin company, particularly given her Romani heritage. Lest he curl his lip into a snarl, he forced his attention to the crackling fire and stifled his emotions.

He was a trained soldier, by God. This marriage was simply 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 in his marriage, but mutual respect and admiration would’ve 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. Mayhap, 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 weighting Lord Warrick’s voice caused Vangie’s breath to hitch, his raw pain ripping at her heart. Her mind numb with shocked dismay and justified anger, she stopped protesting. An unholy ache gnawed in her stomach, and with each in-drawn breath, a fresh stab of pain lanced her heart. Clutching her middle, she swallowed against the nausea tickling her throat.

Was she never to be allowed any happiness? Never permitted her own choices? Would she always have to submit to the will and whims of others?