Page 28

“You didn’t eat much, wife.”

Ian deftly twirled Vangie around his aunt’s smallish ballroom, mindful of the interested gazes watching them. They, alone danced. Stealing a glance at the smiling and nodding onlookers, he suppressed a frown. He felt like a curiosity on display at Bullock’s Museum. He wished others would take to the floor, so he could dispense with the devoted bridegroom facade.

The twelve-course dinner had been torturous. His bride hadn’t taken more than a dozen bites or said as many words. He’d tried to eat the succulent foods Aunt Edith had gone to such efforts to have prepared, but his anger made everything dry as chalk and every bit as tasteless.

“I hadn’t much appetite, my lord.”

He chuckled. “Don’t you think you might address me by my given name, wife?”

“Why?” she asked pertly. “I’ve known you but four days, certainly not long enough to be so familiar with you.”

He lowered his head, breathing in her ear, very aware every eye in the room was trained on them. He’d give them something to gossip about. “Because I want you to, wife, and you did promise to obey.” He nipped her ear.

She jumped and a tiny yelp of surprise escaped before she clamped her lips together. Her eyes shot sparks again; only this time she directed them at him.

“What’s my name, wife?”

“Please, don’t call me that. I, too, have a name, as you well know.”

Drawing her closer, her breasts pressing against the breadth of his chest and cresting the edge of her bodice, he murmured, “Indeed, but Evangeline sounds…angelic, and we both know you’re no such thing.”

“Pardon?” She stiffened, trying to shove away from him. “I don’t under—”

His head descended again. “Say it, or I’ll trace your ear with my tongue.” He grinned as her breath hissed from between clenched teeth.

She stumbled, her fingers digging into his shoulder and hand. A very becoming flush swept across her face. “Will you cease?” Her worried gaze careened around the room. “We’re being watched.”

Voice husky, he said, “Say my name, sweeting.” Giving her a gentle squeeze, he started to dip his head, caressing her elegant neck with his hot breath.

“Ian. Your name is Ian,” she gasped breathlessly, twisting her head away.

Did she know how sultry her voice sounded?

A chuckle rumbled through his chest. He’d no doubt his smile reflected his satisfaction.

“Bostaris,” she mumbled beneath her breath as she tried to wrench away again.

Bostaris? For certain that wasn’t a compliment. His smile widened. He splayed his hand across the gentle slope of her spine, holding her firmly against him. His wife was a sensual thing. He’d but breathed in her ear, and she’d nearly melted onto the floor.

Vangie tilted her head upward. “Please, you’re holding me too tight. I cannot breathe.”

He immediately relaxed his embrace.

Her gaze fixed on his jaw, a silent question in her eyes.

“My equipage lost a wheel yesterday,” he offered shortly.

She met his gaze for a moment before hers skittered away. “You’re unharmed?”

“Except for this scratch.” He angled his scraped jawbone at her. And a nasty bruise on his thigh where he’d slammed into the side of the livery wagon. He never thought he’d be grateful for a pile of manure and straw. Convenient too, to drop a wheel in front of the livery. The owner tended to his horse, while the blacksmith next door repaired the wheel.

The music ended, and Stapleton claimed Vangie for the next set. Ewan McTavish, the Viscount Sethwick, and Ian’s closest friend, made his bow to Yvette. They too made their way onto the floor. Soon the room was full of happy couples, stepping and turning to the lilting music.

Leaning against a marble fireplace mantle, Ian regarded his bride. No gay smile graced her pink lips while she danced tonight. His skewed his mouth into a humorless smirk. He’d kept his vow all right, to make sure she dallied no longer. He shook his head at the incongruity of it.

He’d not tolerate fast behavior from his wife. God only knew how many others had enjoyed her favors, but he’d make it perfectly clear where her affections better lie from this point forward. He’d be claiming no by-blow as his. His gaze never straying from her, Ian permitted himself a moment of cynical musing. It was outside of enough. He’d been shackled with that Jezebel, because he’d suffered a lapse in judgment and allowed a moment’s tenderheartedness.

When had he become such a cod’s head?