Page 32

The heat from Ian’s hand scorched her through the light fabric of her shawl. It was difficult to concentrate on anything except his disturbing touch.

“Mrs. Parker will show you to your chamber, Lady Warrick.”

She glanced at him. It was the first time he’d addressed by her new title. She risked sending him a hesitant smile. It quickly faded when he turned away from her and disappeared through a carved door across the entry.

“Yes, indeed, everything’s been made ready for your arrival,” the vivacious housekeeper declared, a smile on her jovial face. “Wait ’till you see.” Her smile widened until her plump cheeks resembled miniature candied apples. “We’ve quite outdone ourselves, we have.”

Appreciation surged through Vangie at the friendly welcome. Mrs. Parker’s chatelaine tinkled as she bustled across the entry. “If you’ll please follow me, my lady.”

Vangie lifted her gown and followed the housekeeper up the stairs. She paused on the landing to peer at the door Ian had vanished through. A dim light glowed through the crack beneath it.

Would he come to her tonight?

She sincerely hoped not.

Two hours later, she sat at the dressing table in the sumptuous chamber appointed to her. Everything was pink roses, from the silk rose-laced wallpaper to the draperies and bed curtains—even the rugs on the floor. Numerous vases of roses had been placed throughout the room, their bold scent perfuming the air.

There had even been rose petals floating in her bathwater, and more petals lay sprinkled atop the silken sheets. Why would anyone put rose petals on the bed? She’d scooped the petals from the copper tub before picking the others off the sheets. Standing in the middle of the chamber, she’d bitten her lip.

Where to put them? A chamber pot peeked from beneath the bed. She’d pulled it out and grinned. Pink roses smiled back at her. Someone, Mrs. Parker likely, had a fondness for pink roses.

She’d dismissed, Emma, the girl assigned to act as her lady’s maid, after the girl helped Vangie from her gown. It was awkward enough having a stranger assist in her undressing. She’d refused help bathing as well. She’d no personal servants in Brunswick and was accustomed to seeing to her own needs.

Now brushing her hair with long, slow strokes, her emotions whirled. Ian hadn’t made an appearance, and profound relief filled her. Then why the queer, uncomfortable feeling inside? She mentally shook her head. Tosh, that other sentiment was not disappointment. It was embarrassment at being rejected on one’s wedding night—that was all. But that was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

Vangie perused the connecting door once more.

She fingered the diaphanous nightgown and robe she wore—pink as well, except for the embroidered blue roses gracing the neckline and sleeves. Thank goodness for something other than pink. Hopefully, Ian wasn’t the one overly fond of the color. Personally, she didn’t much care for it.

When she’d entered the bedchamber, the set had been lying across the gargantuan bed dominating the room. She’d no doubt they were meant for her to wear tonight, and so, owning nothing half as lovely, she dutifully donned them.

A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. She would like to see his lordship’s reaction if he ever saw her in her plain, serviceable nightdress. Patched in numerous places, the hem and sleeves ragged and frayed, it boasted several tea and paint stains. She adored its well-used comfort, and would’ve preferred to don it tonight.

Tilting her head, Vangie caught sight of the bed in the mirror. The sheer size of it gave her pause. How many people were meant to sleep in that monstrosity? Her hand froze mid-stroke.

Leaning forward, she peered into the mirror, seeing the shock on her face, before dropping her focus to gape at her chest. The material of her night rail was much too fine, revealing far more than it concealed, including the shadows of her nipples.

“Faith, this will never do.” Dropping the brush on the table, she jumped from the bench. Her mouth fell open. The dark shadow of her womanhood showed through the sheer fabric as well. “What could the modiste have been thinking, fashioning a gown of such transparent material? Why, it’s positively wicked.”

She darted to the wardrobe intent on donning her thick, well-worn night robe. Lord Warrick mightn’t make an appearance tonight, but should he, Vangie wanted to be prepared. Standing before him in an embroidered, lace covered ensemble, that left nothing to the imagination, wouldn’t lend itself to the purpose she’d set her mind to.

Yanking the wardrobe open, she removed the familiar garment. She lifted her arm to slip it into the comfortable, woolen arm.

Lord Warrick’s deep voice halted her. “Nay, sweeting, lay it aside.”

She stood transfixed, one hand clutching the robe, the other her throat. Her pulse beat a rapid cadence beneath her fingertips. She’d not heard him enter through the adjoining door. Panther feet.

Draping the garment across a nearby armchair, Vangie gazed longingly at the robe’s modest folds before she faced Lord Warrick. His mahogany hair was damp, though neatly combed. He wore a midnight blue banyan, open to the waist. What she could see of his chest was matted in fine, curling hair. Silk frogs secured the remainder of the banyan, which fell to the middle of his calves. The lower part of his muscled legs was covered in crisp, coal-black hair.

Gads, even his toes have hair on them.

Of course they do. Hair probably covers his entire body.

She forced herself to meet his disconcerting eyes, not daring to look anywhere else on his form. Was he naked beneath the banyan? She gulped against an absurd desire to giggle. Clearing her throat, she swallowed against a bothersome lump lodged there then plastered a fake smile on her face. “My lord?”

He shook his head, waving a finger at her. “Not ‘my lord,’ sweeting. I prefer, Ian, or darling, or dearest, or my love.”

There was a bantering tone to his voice, or was that mockery? Puzzled, Vangie’s smile faded. “My, uh, Ian, I thought perhaps we might wait to—”