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Vangie awoke the next morning to Ailsa warbling a ribald ballad. As she lay watching the maid blundering around the chamber, she couldn’t help but suspect the girl was deliberately noisy. She kept slicing covert glances at the bed as she flung the draperies open, banged about in the fire grate, and sang much too loudly for possible further sleep.

Peeking at the servant through half-closed lids, and squinting at the torrent of sunshine now permeating the chamber, Vangie considered feigning sleep just to see her response.

“You’re awake at last,” Ailsa fairly chirped.

Oh, dear, she was caught. Smiling good naturedly, she sat up. “It was somewhat difficult to continue sleeping with you—”

“Oh, I know,” Ailsa interrupted, oblivious to her breach of decorum. “But I couldn’t wait to wake you.”

Clearly.

“Look.” She pointed to a mound of garments piled atop a nearby chair. “Lord Warrick said I was to select some of Miss Charlotte’s dresses for you to wear until your new wardrobe arrives.” Ailsa snatched a gauzy champagne-colored gown and held it before her. “Isn’t it lovely?”

“It is.” Almost as lovely as the silver gown she’d borrowed from Yvette the night of the ball.

Ailsa tossed the frock aside and grabbed a filmy white and gold gown next. “Set your peepers on this one, will you? Coo, it shines like the stars, it does.”

Intrigued despite herself, Vangie allowed the boisterous maid to persuade her to try on a dozen of the gowns. “I’ve never owned more than two or three gowns at once,” she admitted.

She paused as the maid lifted a green confection over her head. She eyed the garments strewn on the chair and bed. How could she choose which one to wear? They were all beautiful. At last, she selected a pale teal masterpiece trimmed in primrose. Its cheery colors matched her mood.

She was taller than Charlotte, but overall, the gowns fit reasonably well. A trifle loose at the waist and snug at the bodice, but certainly, a vast improvement over the rags she’d arrived in. The slippers, on the other hand, were another matter. While Vangie’s feet weren’t overly large, Charlotte’s were as petite as a child’s. It didn’t seem right wearing the stunning gowns with her worn slippers, but there was no help for it.

The next ten days passed in idyllic peace. Vangie’s appetite improved, and the odd odors previously accompanying her meals disappeared. The dowager truly must have been feeding her food on the verge of spoiling. The knowledge neither surprised nor made her more inclined to feel charitable toward the woman.

Her stomach continued, however, to object on occasion to the delicacies Cook prepared. Truth be told, Vangie wasn’t accustomed to rich fare in such abundance. Aunt Eugenia had hoarded the most delectable foodstuffs for herself and Uncle Percival. She twisted her mouth into a droll smile. To gaze upon Uncle’s emaciated form caused a person to wonder if the man ever consumed nourishment.

A few neighbors called to pay their respects, and she slipped into the role of lady of the manor with a great deal more ease than she’d anticipated. To her surprise, she’d become cautiously content in her position as Lady Warrick.

With Ian’s encouragement, she’d sent word to her Roma relatives that she was well, and arranged for Puri Daj to pay a visit Saturday. Vangie wanted to ask her grandmother to concoct the medicine from the yews which would ease the housekeeper’s rheumatism pain. Vangie wouldn’t attempt the mixture herself. One had to be extremely careful with yew. In the wrong dosage, it could be deadly.

Of the Dowager Viscountess Warrick, Vangie saw nothing, for which she was eternally grateful. She never wanted to encounter that spiteful woman again. Ian hadn’t sent her away yet, but as long as Vangie didn’t have to ever see her, she could almost forget the woman lived nearby.

Ian proved a doting and attentive spouse. He didn’t make any husbandly demands, but he made no qualms regarding his desire for her either. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. If he desired her, why didn’t he seek her bed?

She made no objections to his overtures, for she quite liked his attentiveness. And he was oh so, charming in his attempts to woo her. A tender, fleeting caress here. A skimming touch of his fingertips there. Multitudes of feather-light kisses dropped on her nape or shoulder while she was bent upon a task. Yes, he pursued her with feline persistence and cat-like patience.

She never thought she’d enjoy being his prey. If only he would snare her.

Had he known how effective his attentions were, she was sure he’d have been wallowing in masculine pride. She often woolgathered, immersed in fanciful musing, of which her handsome husband was the cause. On more than one occasion, her daydreaming brought a bloom of color to her cheeks.

Faith, he had her at sixes and sevens, she admitted to herself after dinner two evenings later. She and Ian sat in the drawing room in companionable silence. He read while she crocheted a fichu.

She tried to concentrate on the stitches and loops, but his close proximity and the sheer maleness he exuded, caused her to tear out missed stitches several times. She paused, eyeing the piece. Drat, it was much too long on the end.

That’s what comes of trying to crochet while wondering whether one’s husband sleeps naked.

Vangie began counting the stitches then stopped abruptly, her jaw sagging.

She hadn’t.

Yes, she had.

No, she couldn’t have.

She peered at her work. But I did.

It was the same length and general shape as his…disfigurement. She began frantically unraveling it, wrapping the yarn around and around her hand.