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

us.”
    He strode to stand before her, forcing her to tilt her head to look at him. She shook her head and opened her mouth, no doubt to argue her point, but he hurried on, done with the niceties.
    It was time she heard the vile truth. “The scandalmongers are spreading appalling falsehoods, grossly exaggerating the incident in the retiring room.”
    Flexing his injured hand, he ran the fingers of his other hand across the bruised knuckles before raising his eyes to meet hers. “Depending on whom you hear the account from, we’ve either been discovered in a licentious embrace, or caught naked-as-robins, openly copulating on one of the divans in full view of all.” 
    Ian watched the color drain from her face, her eyes growing wide as saucers. Her jaw dropped open, and she slapped her hand across it in apparent horror.
    He wasn’t through. Rage propelled him on. “I’m portrayed as a scoundrel, an unconscionable knave, while you, Miss Caruthers, have been relegated to the ranks of a lady-bird, a light o’ love.”
    His calculated finish was cruel and crude, “A common . . . strumpet.”

Chapter 7
    “That’s outside of enough, Lord Warrick!” Stapleton thundered. “Stubble it, else I decide to withdraw my offer and my niece’s hand. I can find her a more suitable match.”
    For a fortune—to an ancient, lecherous podger.
    Ian knew he’d ruined her. She’d likely never marry if he didn’t make things right—unless her uncle bought her a husband. Someone who was either desperate or decrepit, for no decent man would have her now.
    He sucked in a gusty breath, fisting his hands until the nails cut into his palms. He met Stapleton’s furious glare with far more calm than he was feeling. There was no escaping the parson’s mousetrap. They both knew it.
    His damnable sense of honor, even for a Cyprian as unworthy as Miss Caruthers, demanded he marry her. That and the threats posed by Stapleton and his peers. They were a formidable lot. One he couldn’t, one he daren’t, oppose. Not if he didn’t want to face financial and social ruin.
    He couldn’t do that to Charlotte.
    Hell, he was already well on to ruin with Prinny’s disapproval and retribution looming over head. Stapleton could . . . would . . . destroy him if he didn’t make an honest woman of the chit. Stapleton had been most clear on that.
    Cocking his head to the side, Ian watched Miss Caruthers struggle to retain her composure. She closed her eyes, her thick lashes fanning the tops of her cheeks. A plump tear slipped from beneath a lowered lid, then dripped its way over her smooth cheek while she bit her trembling bottom lip.
    His chest tightened.
    Damn, he hated it when a woman cried. He much preferred they rail at him, especially this woman. He didn’t want to feel pity for her. He shot a sidelong glance at Stapleton. Her uncle glared daggers at Ian.
    Releasing a breath of air, he strove for gentleness he was far from feeling. “You see why we must wed? Why we are permitted no other option?”
    Wounded sapphire eyes, framed by spiky lashes and pooled with tears, met his. He kept his expression carefully bland. If she even suspected he was suffering as much as she, she’d use it against him the first opportunity she was given. Her kind always did.
    His wrath was another matter. It created a barrier few men, let alone women, dared cross. Even so, self-recrimination gnawed at him. He’d allowed his fury to rule his tongue. It changed nothing and succeeded only in further lowering Stapleton’s estimation of him—something he could ill afford at present.
    Gripping the lapels of his coat, Ian’s resisted the urge to check his pocket for the ring he’d soon slip on Miss Caruthers’s hand. He swallowed an oath. The vows were as good as spoken and spewing his frustration in a verbal tirade served no purpose.
    It mattered not that she acted like flirtatious, loose-moraled demi-rep. He daren’t further voice his contempt in front of her uncle.