Page 55

Anger surged through her, hot and sharp. She would be well rid of them. “I’m not surprised. Their perfidy knows no bounds.”

Sucking in a calming breath, she went about her room, gathering her possessions, scarce though they were. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ian explore the rustic chamber. She cast a loving gaze around the small space. She’d miss this attic room, despite its austerity.

Nestled under one eve stretched a hard, narrow cot covered with a faded quilt her mother had made. That treasure she wouldn’t leave behind. A sideways wooden crate formed a makeshift nightstand, a neat pile of books stacked within. Pegs protruding from the opposite wall held no more than a half dozen garments.

One was her brightly colored, multi-layered padma. The full skirt swirled around her ankles like a vibrant, pulsating rainbow when she danced. Beside the padma was an embroidered, full-sleeved blue blouse with an extraordinary embellished vest draped atop it. Puri Daj had sewn the garments.

“Vangie, did you draw these?”

Tucking a book into one of the crates, she glanced up. Ian examined one of her sketches of Roma children tacked to the rafters.

“Yes. I do draw a bit, but I much prefer to paint. Aunt Eugenia insisted I sell anything I painted, though.”

He gestured at the sketches. “These are good, very good. Have you nothing you’ve painted?”

Vangie smiled, a sad half-smile. “Only this.”

She handed him a wooden picture frame. A miniature portrait of a man and woman smiled at him. “My parents.” She’d painted the frame with delicate vines, flowers, and birds. “I but painted the frame. The portrait was done before I was born. Aunt Eugenia was going to toss it in the rubbish.”

He returned the portrait to her, and the compassion in his eyes caused hot tears to spring to hers, blurring her vision. She blinked rapidly several times. Ian pointed to the portrait. “She allowed you to keep it?”

Vangie nodded. “Wood is of minimal value. Otherwise, they’d have sold it too. If you look closely, you can see the frame is cracked, though I tried to conceal the crevices by painting vines over them.”

“It’s still exquisite.”

“Thank you.”

Her soft reply didn’t reflect the joy she felt at his praise. While his attention appeared focused on the frame, she could tell he was thinking. His brows formed a vee whenever he was deep in thought. His gaze whisked about the room once more.

“Vangie,” Ian’s tone was gentle, yet probing. “How is it you wear little more than rags while your aunt and uncle wear expensive, new clothing?”

She ducked her head, heat sweeping her face. He needn’t voice what was obvious.

“You’ve been treated worse than a servant, living in this attic room with bare essentials.” He waved a hand in an arc. “But the rest of the cottage is furnished rich enough.”

“Ian—”

He stood with his hands on his hips and peered around her room in disapproval. “The grounds are well-cared for, and based on the delectably tray of pastries your uncle sampled, food is not in short supply.”

“They are not impoverished.” She tucked the portrait in her valise.

He crossed the narrow room in two long strides and gathered her into his comforting embrace. “Sweeting, does Stapleton know how you’ve lived?”

She shook her head against his chest. No one knew of her misery, but Uncle Gideon must’ve suspected, hence the monthly packets. In addition to monies for her care, she was certain the parcels contained other fanciful whatnots. Aunt and Uncle never spoke of it, and Vangie never saw any improvement in her position.

Ian placed his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until their eyes met. “You will never go without again. I promise you.”

She curved her lips into a smile. “Ian, I don’t require much to be happy.” Only someone to love me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Breaking eye contact, she released a short breath, “To be honest…” Hesitating, she peeked at him, unsure if she dared voice the truth.

He arched a hawkish eyebrow at her.

“I don’t much care for grand parties and extravagant entertaining,” she blurted. “Fancy clothing makes me feel artificial, and I’ve absolutely no use for dozens of pairs of slippers or silly bonnets. And,” in a rush she finished, “I don’t care if I ever attend another assembly or Season in London.” There, she’d said it. He could make what he would of those truths.

Ian laughed, a genuine laugh of pure delight. It transformed his features, and an answering giddiness flitted behind her breastbone.

“By God, I’ve been blessed,” he said. “I, too, cannot abide the trappings and antics of the le bon ton.”

“You don’t like London either?” Vangie grinned, delighted at the revelation.

“Cannot stomach it.” He grasped her valise and extended his elbow. “I’ll have the drivers collect the rest of your belongings. Let’s go home, my lady.”

Home. Oh, that sounded lovely indeed.

Vangie slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She hesitated, searching his gray eyes. “Ian, are your stepmother and sister aware we’re coming? That I’m coming?”

A shadow whisked across his face. “Ah, as to that—no. I thought to surprise them.”