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Beside the tub, Mrs. Parker removed a bottle from her starched apron pocket an after removing the cap, poured a liquid into the water. She recapped the bottle and slipped it into the pocket from whence it had come. She bent and swished the water with her fingers. Drying her hand on her pristine apron she said, “My lady, your bath awaits.”

Smiling her appreciation, Vangie slipped off her robe, past the point of caring whether a complete stranger saw her unclothed. She settled into the warm, soothing water, sighing in pleasure. An aroma wafted past her nostrils. Roses, naturally. She strongly suspected Mrs. Parker held the penchant for both the color pink and roses.

The housekeeper made herself busy, tidying the room, tsking and clucking the whole while. Her movements stopped when she too spied the tell-tale mark upon the bedding while removing the linens. Vangie’s face burned with chagrin. Wasn’t it normal to bleed? Aunt Adélaid had mentioned it. The pitying look Mrs. Parker sent her had her sinking deeper into the bath water.

Several minutes later, Emma returned with a basket.

All brusque business, the housekeeper assisted Vangie from the tub, then wrapped her in an enormous linen towel. She handed Vangie a jar. “It’s an ointment. It will aid in the healing.”

Vangie removed the lid, sniffing the aromatic mixture. It reminded her of one of Puri Daj’s herbal concoctions. Mrs. Parker lifted some soft cloths from the basket. She hesitated, casting a glance in Emma’s direction. The maid busily tended the hearth. Lowering her voice, Mrs. Parker said, “To catch the remnants of your torn maidenhead.”

Vangie averted her eyes. This was really beyond the pale. Did all the servants know? She clutched the towel tighter, like an enormous shield against the embarrassment oozing from every pore. Truly grateful, yet equally humiliated, she thanked the housekeeper. “You’re most kind.”

Mrs. Parker tutted comfortingly again. “You’ll be mended in a day or two. Right as rain.”

She passed Vangie her threadbare shift and darned stockings. Shooting another look toward Emma, Mrs. Parker muttered for Vangie’s ears alone, “So long as your rutting husband leaves you be.”

After taking his usual chair at the breakfast table, Ian opened the news sheet folded neatly before him. He stared blindly at the headline. His body was replete—his mind anything but.

He’d fallen asleep with Vangie nestled securely in his arms. Dawn’s glow woke him this morning, prompting him to edge from the bed. The coals burned low in the grate. They offered little in the way of warmth, yet emitted enough frail light that he could appreciate the vision of his slumbering wife.

She lay on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, and her ebony hair fanned across her pillow. Several silky curls curved over her ivory shoulder and back. The dark arc of her lashes created a startling contrast to the porcelain cheeks they caressed. Her lips, still rosy-red from his fervent kisses, were parted as she breathed softly in her sleep.

The sheet had slipped halfway to her waist when he’d risen, revealing the sumptuous curve of a breast. She shifted, and the sheet dropped lower.

Ian had sucked in a hissing breath. A slight bruise marred the loveliness of her breast. Had he done that? Blister it all, he was a brute. Tenderly draping the bedclothes over her, he’d silently vowed he’d make it up to her.

By God, his stepmother and sister had better have a good explanation for defaming her character. And for sending him on a wild goose chase to snare a siren-turned-angel.

The clattering of china as Lynch prepared Ian’s tea interrupted his reverie. He glanced through the open door. Was Vangie awake yet? Two maids and a footman huddled together beyond the doorway, whispering. Catching Ian’s perusal, they ceased talking and scattered.

Returning his attention to the breakfast room, he frowned. What was afoot with the staff? He’d been met with a series of dark scowls and looks of reproach from his usually amiable servants the entire morning.

Lynch finished pouring Ian’s tea. He placed the cup and a plate of food before his master. He half-turned to the sideboard muttering, “I forgot the sugar—”

Ian studied him. Something was awry. It wasn’t his imagination. The man never forgot anything. Ever. And where was Mrs. Parker? Ian hadn’t seen her all morning. If anything was amiss, Lynch would be the first to know.

“Lynch?”

The butler faced him. “Sir?”

Did he detect the minutest bit of frost tingeing the single word? Crooking an eyebrow, Ian met the butler’s indecipherable gaze. He took a bite of sausage. “Is something afoot?”

Lynch pursed his lips and looked down his rather long, hooked nose. Disapproval was etched across his haughty countenance. “Perhaps, my lord,” he sniffed disdainfully, “you should make that inquiry of the newLady Warrick.”

Ian paused, his kipper-laden fork almost to his mouth. Frosty, to be sure, and no small measure of censure as well. “Lady Warrick?”

“Indeed,” Lynch intoned, his imperious voice ringing with disapproval.

Lynch turned to the sideboard, muttering beneath his breath. Lynch did not mutter. Ever. It seemed it was a morning for firsts.

Ian distinctly heard, “Inconsiderate…poor innocent…lout,” before the butler snatched up the teapot, and with another loud, disapproving sniff, quit the room.

Ian placed his fork on his plate and wiped his mouth before tossing the serviette onto his full plate. He shoved from the table and strode from the breakfast room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made straightaway to Vangie’s chamber, entering without knocking.

Mrs. Parker and Emma both fussed over his bride. Upon spying him, Vangie dipped her head, lowering her gaze to the floor. The maid continued to twist and pin his wife’s raven hair.

Patting Vangie on the shoulder, Mrs. Parker gathered the bed and bath linens before heading for the door. Ian heard her mutter, “Ought to be ashamed of yourself, you great oaf,” as she flounced from the room.