Page 29

But her lips were blue.

Yes, and look at where that concern had landed him. Forced to marry the chit whose undoing he’d intended. Was God laughing? For the devil certainly was.

Fortunate for him, not only was she pleasing to look upon—quite exquisite if he were wholly forthright—her figure rounded nicely in the appropriate places. His new wife was a passionate woman too. He sensed it, though it galled him to think how many men had already explored her luscious curves.

After that tantalizing dance, Ian keenly anticipated their wedding night. Theirs would not be a marriage of convenience. It would be consummated. He required an heir. Why the continuation of his family line was suddenly of such importance to him remained a puzzle. One he didn’t want to explore, let alone solve at present.

How to keep his bride from sharing her favors was easy to remedy. Closet her at Somersfield with strict directives as to her mobility and the company she’d be permitted to keep. Once she’d produced two or three heirs, his heirs, he didn’t give a fig what she did.

He cast a glance to the mantle clock. Not yet.

From half-closed eyes, he studied her as she floated by in her uncle’s arms. He rescinded that last thought about giving a fig. He might very well be inclined to indulge himself and sample her charms for an extended duration. She did quicken his blood, though he attributed his arousal to lust. He’d long been without a woman. What other explanation was there for the nagging ache in his innards?

Aunt Edith approached, a knowing smile teasing her lips. “Can’t keep your eyes off your beautiful bride, I see.”

He had no intention of discussing his wife and pointedly changed the subject. Surveying the decorated room, he angled his head. “Thank you, for this.”

She smiled and nodded. “I did it as much for her as you. She needed a pretty wedding. Her life’s not been easy.”

Unlike her virtue.

Laying a bejeweled hand on his arm, Aunt Edith searched his face. “I’m pleased you decided to give her your mother’s ring. Does she know?”

“No.”

She stared at him for an intense, lengthy, and ever increasingly uncomfortable moment. “I’ve always admired your commitment to honor and justice, Ian. The least you can do is to extend the same courtesy to your new wife.” Her gaze shifted to Vangie before she admonished. “Give her a chance. She deserves that much from you.”

“My wife has received precisely what she deserves.”

“Balderdash!” Aunt Edith jerked her eyebrows together in disapproval. “You’re not the only one who was forced into marriage, nephew,” she snapped. “It’s much more difficult for a woman than a man. Believe me—I know.” She slapped him on the arm with her damnable fan. “Stop being such an aristocratic, arrogant cork-brain.”

With that declaration, she proudly lifted her head and swept from his side, nodding as she passed Sethwick making his way to Ian.

Feeling like a chastised schoolboy, he shifted his attention to his friend.

“Warrick, I’m afraid I’m off. I’ve been delivered a communiqué. Night Hawk left an urgent missive at the Home Office.” He smiled and shook Ian’s hand heartily. “Congratulations, old chap.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t think you’d be leg-shackled at twenty and seven.” Sethwick angled to look at Vangie, though his aqua gaze lingered far longer on her cousin. He grinned. “Your bride’s a beauty.”

Ian’s roamed his gaze over Vangie, the familiar quickening he’d come to expect tunneling through his veins whenever he allowed himself the luxury. “Indeed.”

Vangie covertly observed her new husband while she danced. Lord War—Ian looked anything but happy while conversing with Lady Fitzgibbons and Lord what-ever-his-name was. She didn’t blame him. She couldn’t understand why he’d gone through with it. The marriage benefited her far more than he.

She mentally ticked off his attributes.

He was handsome, a Corinthian, titled, and fairly well-heeled. And, she’d gleaned from the accounts everyone eagerly filled her ears with, a decent man, though known for his temper, dark moods, and obstinacy. He was fond of horseflesh—a top sawyer in fact—and his pugilistic and firearm skills were renowned.

She turned and dipped, stepped forward and backward in time to the music. Rumor had it he was somewhat of an intellectual as well. He didn’t gamble, womanize, or drink overly much. Or so she’d been assured by Aunt Adélaid who’d attempted to placate her into believing the match wasn’t a complete tragedy.

Her dear aunt had failed in her effort to comfort Vangie. Indulging in another sulk tempted. No. Roma were made of sterner stuff. As if lifted upright by an invisible hand, she raised her chin and straightened her spine.

There must be something advantageous about this union.

Another turn, a hop and skip.

I can paint until my heart is content. One.