The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) by Collette Cameron Page A

Warrick sarcastically. “I’d prefer coercion.”
    “Why?” Vangie interrupted. “Why are we to be forced into a union neither of us wants—marriage to a complete stranger?”
    Her voice was a rasping whisper from the tears she struggled to contain.
    “This is unjust. Nothing untoward occurred.” She fisted her hands in her lap in frustrated agitation. “Lord Warrick acted the perfect gentleman. He committed no offense.”
    Compassion simmered in Uncle Gideon’s eyes. “Be that as it may, dear, you shall wed.”
    Vangie stiffened. “And, what if I refuse?”
    She drew herself upward and squared her shoulders. She was no spiritless ninny. Unflinching, she met his gaze straight on and jutted her chin out in defiance.
    “I refuse to marry him.”
    Ian almost smiled. He pressed his lips together and mashed his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep them from curving upward. Despite himself, he admired Miss Caruthers’s fiery spirit. Her eyes narrowed and blue sparks flew from them when she defied her uncle.
    Ludicrous though it was, her adamant refusal irritated him. Not that he wanted to wed the uppity chit. He didn’t. But did she think her prospects so great, she could reject a viscount? With her breeding she wasn’t likely to get a better offer.
    Why did he care?
    He didn’t of course.
    Odd too, she’d not once mentioned her innocence, but had repeatedly declared his. He shifted to better view her. The movement caused another blinding explosion of pain in his head.
    Bloody hell.
    He closed his eyes until the pain passed. He really oughtn’t to have imbibed so freely last night. It only worsened his already disagreeable mood this morning. Or mayhap it was last night’s facer causing the pounding in his head.
    Opening his eyes half-way, he considered Miss Caruthers. Even upset she was stunning. He allowed his gaze to travel from her face to her heaving breasts. The flowery yellow frock with its rows of flounces became her. So did the ribbon tied at the nape of her neck.
    What would that ebony mass look like draped round her shoulders? Her rounded hips? What would it feel like to slip his hands through the silky midnight tresses?
    His gaze drifted to her pale face, registering the rebellion and distress she made no attempt to conceal. With focused determination, Ian repressed his sensual musings and hardened his heart. Why wasn’t she screaming her innocence? Screeching about her virtue?
    Because she didn’t have any to claim, that’s why .
    Most likely, Miss Caruthers was unwilling to curb her promiscuous ways this soon. Her innocent beauty concealed a wanton’s heart. She wasn’t prepared to settle for the confines of marriage yet, to limit her favors to one man’s bed. Perhaps she was one of those women whose carnal appetites couldn’t be satisfied with one man.
    The notion brought an angry scowl to Ian’s face and a sickening jolt to his gut.
    Well, she’d best prepare herself. He’d have no strumpet to wife. He could do nothing about her immoral behavior before marriage, but, devil take it, he’d curtail it afterward. She’d not cuckold him. The moment they were wed, it was off to Somersfield with her—under lock and key if need be.
    At his frown, Miss Caruthers seemed to renew her efforts. She shifted on the settee to face Stapleton. “I won’t be forced into marriage. I truly shall refuse, Uncle.”
    “You won’t,” Stapleton said firmly. “Already your name is being cast around. . .”
    She interrupted him, waving her hand back and forth as if clearing cigar smoke from the air. “Oh posh. The gossips always have someone’s name on their poisonous tongues. Puri Daj says, an evildoer listens to wicked lips, and a liar gives ear to a mischievous tongue.”
    Who, or what, in God’s holy name, was a Puri Daj?
    “Miss Caruthers,” Ian began.
    She sent him a surprised glance.
    Was there the tiniest bit of curiosity in her gaze? “Though apt, that truth is of little help to