Read Online The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance) by Collette Cameron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Collette Cameron
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wafted past her nostrils. Without a word, he reached over, then pried her clenched hands apart. He slid a heavy ring onto her third finger.
She stared at the jeweled band. Smaller and prettier than iron shackles, nevertheless, it signified imprisonment. He must have had it in his pocket.
“It’s warm,” she muttered aloud.
So was his hand. His fingers with their trimmed nails were sun darkened. A bit calloused too. Her gaze lingered on his injured hand. She stole a glance from beneath her lashes at the door. No, Uncle Gideon wasn’t unscrupulous. He wouldn’t have hired thugs—
“Those cuts and bruises weren’t there last night. Whatever occurred after we parted company?”
Lord Warrick didn’t answer.
“Have you engaged in fisticuffs with someone?” Vangie winced inwardly. She sounded like a harping wife already.
He remained silent, though he retained his hold on her hand.
Vangie raised her eyes until she met his disquieting gaze. She tried to read his mind. Was he trying to read hers as well?
He released her hand, then stood. He spun on his heels and left the room without uttering a word.
She remained immobile a long while after he’d gone, gazing blankly through the beveled window panes framed by heavy scarlet and ivory pleated coverings. The morning sun’s golden rays illuminated tiny dust bits floating about the room.
Beyond the window, in a small courtyard, a spot of grass celebrated spring with vivid emerald blades. The lush blossoms of pink and peach peonies burst forth in glorious color. Beneath them, jeweled-colored petunias and geraniums teased and tickled their neighbor’s leggy stems.
She appreciated none of it. Her mind reeled, silently protesting in disbelief and wounded rebellion.
“I’m to be married—in three days.” She spoke the words aloud, trying to convince herself of the awful reality.
Clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap, the awkward weight of the foreign object on her third finger reminded her of her fate. Vangie swung her gaze to the closed door. Odd, she’d almost expected his lordship to be there, staring at her with his penetrating, unfathomable silver gaze.
It was as if he could see straight into her thoughts, her soul, yet kept his own emotions shuttered, barring her from viewing any portion of his true self. Clasping her hands again, Vangie felt the ring he’d placed on her finger less than a half hour past. She stared at the emerald-cut sapphire framed by a double row of diamonds. It was a brilliant ring. She turned it round her finger. Its fit was a trifle loose.
She laughed then, a sad hiccupping rasp, saturated with unshed tears. “I should have heeded Puri Daj’s warning. Should have run as fast as my feet would carry me when I saw him, the black panther ,” she murmured in self-castigation.
Yet, how was she to know her life would irreversibly change because of one innocent dance? A solitary tear slipped down her cheek.
Slowly pushing to her feet, she wandered to the window and watched a hummingbird moth flit from flower to flower, greedy for the sweet nectar hidden in the blooms. Resting her head against the warm glass, she frowned, then shuddered. She stood precisely where he’d stood as both their lives were shattered. Lifting her face, she allowed a thin sunbeam to bathe her in its warmth. It gave her strength and hope.
A clock chiming in another part of the house brought her from her reverie. Her stomach growled reminding her she’d not yet broken her fast.
Vangie turned to stare at the door once more.
She wasn’t wed yet, and . . . she wasn’t marrying anyone against her will.
Chapter 8
Climbing from the curricle, Ian surveyed the weathered two-story brick building before him. A black-lettered sign, hanging from two hooks, Joseph Dehring, Solicitor , swayed and rattled in the damp breeze. Lifting his pocket watch from his waistcoat, Ian flicked it open.
Four minutes to three. He wasn’t
She stared at the jeweled band. Smaller and prettier than iron shackles, nevertheless, it signified imprisonment. He must have had it in his pocket.
“It’s warm,” she muttered aloud.
So was his hand. His fingers with their trimmed nails were sun darkened. A bit calloused too. Her gaze lingered on his injured hand. She stole a glance from beneath her lashes at the door. No, Uncle Gideon wasn’t unscrupulous. He wouldn’t have hired thugs—
“Those cuts and bruises weren’t there last night. Whatever occurred after we parted company?”
Lord Warrick didn’t answer.
“Have you engaged in fisticuffs with someone?” Vangie winced inwardly. She sounded like a harping wife already.
He remained silent, though he retained his hold on her hand.
Vangie raised her eyes until she met his disquieting gaze. She tried to read his mind. Was he trying to read hers as well?
He released her hand, then stood. He spun on his heels and left the room without uttering a word.
She remained immobile a long while after he’d gone, gazing blankly through the beveled window panes framed by heavy scarlet and ivory pleated coverings. The morning sun’s golden rays illuminated tiny dust bits floating about the room.
Beyond the window, in a small courtyard, a spot of grass celebrated spring with vivid emerald blades. The lush blossoms of pink and peach peonies burst forth in glorious color. Beneath them, jeweled-colored petunias and geraniums teased and tickled their neighbor’s leggy stems.
She appreciated none of it. Her mind reeled, silently protesting in disbelief and wounded rebellion.
“I’m to be married—in three days.” She spoke the words aloud, trying to convince herself of the awful reality.
Clenching and unclenching her hands in her lap, the awkward weight of the foreign object on her third finger reminded her of her fate. Vangie swung her gaze to the closed door. Odd, she’d almost expected his lordship to be there, staring at her with his penetrating, unfathomable silver gaze.
It was as if he could see straight into her thoughts, her soul, yet kept his own emotions shuttered, barring her from viewing any portion of his true self. Clasping her hands again, Vangie felt the ring he’d placed on her finger less than a half hour past. She stared at the emerald-cut sapphire framed by a double row of diamonds. It was a brilliant ring. She turned it round her finger. Its fit was a trifle loose.
She laughed then, a sad hiccupping rasp, saturated with unshed tears. “I should have heeded Puri Daj’s warning. Should have run as fast as my feet would carry me when I saw him, the black panther ,” she murmured in self-castigation.
Yet, how was she to know her life would irreversibly change because of one innocent dance? A solitary tear slipped down her cheek.
Slowly pushing to her feet, she wandered to the window and watched a hummingbird moth flit from flower to flower, greedy for the sweet nectar hidden in the blooms. Resting her head against the warm glass, she frowned, then shuddered. She stood precisely where he’d stood as both their lives were shattered. Lifting her face, she allowed a thin sunbeam to bathe her in its warmth. It gave her strength and hope.
A clock chiming in another part of the house brought her from her reverie. Her stomach growled reminding her she’d not yet broken her fast.
Vangie turned to stare at the door once more.
She wasn’t wed yet, and . . . she wasn’t marrying anyone against her will.
Chapter 8
Climbing from the curricle, Ian surveyed the weathered two-story brick building before him. A black-lettered sign, hanging from two hooks, Joseph Dehring, Solicitor , swayed and rattled in the damp breeze. Lifting his pocket watch from his waistcoat, Ian flicked it open.
Four minutes to three. He wasn’t
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