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

left a permanent stain.
    Ian stood. Yanking on his gloves, he met Stapleton’s irritated gaze. Pointing at the drying paper, Ian said, “You know this compulsory marriage won’t restore your niece’s reputation any more than it will halt the chatterboxes’ tongues.”
    Stapleton smiled then, a self-satisfied grin that crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. “Perhaps not, but I’ve recruited several powerful, influential peers and their wives to spread their own on dit. They’re busy at work even as we speak.”
    Levering to his feet, he faced Ian. “You’re aware how far my hand reaches when necessary.”
    The merest hint of a threat laced his words.
    “Indeed,” Ian snapped, slapping his topper on his head before turning on his boot-heels and striding from the room. Another minute and he’d be tempted to plant Stapleton a facer. Or shake his hand. The man was shrewd, diabolically shrewd. Even in his anger, Ian could appreciate a great strategist.
    Running down the stairs, he leapt into the curricle. Balanced on the buttoned, black leatherette seat, as he tooled the horse the length of Red Croft Street, he couldn’t prevent his lips from curving in admiration of the colossal fallacy Stapleton was spreading to preserve his niece’s character.
    Why there is nothing gossip worthy at all.
    Miss Caruthers and Lord Warrick are practically neighbors in Northumberland. They’ve known each other for a number of years and are secretly betrothed. Naturally, that’s why he only asked her to dance at the ball.
    The wedding was planned for late summer, but due to the recent tragic loss of his father and brother, all the details had yet to be finalized. Yes indeed, it’s a simple matter to procure a special license and move the wedding date forward.
    What balderdash. Was there a ninnyhammer gullible enough to believe that claptrap? Ian’s face split into a grin.
    Indeed. Most of le bon ton .
    Turning the equipage down another cobblestone street, he made for Berkley Square. He’d yet to inform his staff that on the morrow, they’d have a new mistress. His pulse quickened despite himself.
    Most likely, his staff already heard tattle of the marriage. What else might they have heard? Blister it. A January plunge in the Thames couldn’t have cooled his ardor any faster.
    He supposed it was acceptable, even expected, for one’s betrothed to see to their intended’s needs when an ill-fated situation presented itself. While some would argue he shouldn’t have been in the ladies’ retiring room no matter the cause, others could make an equally sound argument it was his duty, as Miss Caruthers’s intended, to see to her well-being.
    Stapleton was making sure that particular tidbit was planted in the right ears. As the tale circulated among elite circles, eyebrows would be raised of course, and Ian knew those hoping for a juicy scandal would be compelled to settle for something a mite less succulent.
    He snorted his contempt, maneuvering the curricle round a stable cart piled high with filthy straw and horse manure buzzing with flies. What rot. The ton believed what was convenient to believe. Now he was in a devil’s own scrape, soon to be leg-shackled to a flirtatious jade.
    The crack of the curricle’s wheel giving way rent the air.
    Bloody hell. What next?
    The horse stumbled. Ian was hurled from his seat and crashed headlong into the manure cart.

Chapter 9
    The eve of her wedding, Vangie stood before the door to Uncle Gideon’s study. She had a plan. Sucking in a calming breath, she rapped sharply on the heavy door.
    “Enter.”
    Her shoulders squared, she marched into the room prepared to do battle. Halting before his desk, she scanned her uncle’s face. A lone lamp, sitting atop his desk, lit the room. In the muted light, his expression was guarded, though she was sure warmth shown in his eyes. Encouraged, she relaxed her shoulders.
    “You’ve need of something, Vangie?” he asked, putting his quill aside.
    She