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

and acceptance, could there even be a wedding?
    She’d not spoken of it to her uncle. The humiliation was crushing. If others were aware—well, she had endured all the pitying looks and tsking a body could tolerate.
    Uncle Gideon grasped both her shoulders, bathing her in a loving look. “You’ve much of my sister in you, Vangie.”
    He kissed her on the forehead, then admonished gently, “The wedding will take place tomorrow. I’ll hear no more talk of it.”
    Pouting and complaining would change nothing. She had her pride. She would not beg. Head bowed, lips compressed, she nodded again. If it were only her reputation at stake, she would refuse the match. The Roma would take her in. But her aunt, uncle, and Yvette had much to lose too.
    She could not . . . would not . . . bring censure upon them.
    “That’s my girl.” Uncle Gideon folded her into a warm, what should have been comforting, hug. Instead, it felt like imprisonment.
    Tears blocked Vangie’s throat. She couldn’t speak. Jerking from his grasp, she bolted to her bedchamber. Throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to her heartache and wept until sleep’s forgetfulness claimed her.   
    A bird’s chirps woke her the next morning. She opened her eyes, curving her lips at the cheerful streams of sunshine slanting across the bedchamber’s rugs and wooden floor. What a glorious day. Stretching her arms overhead, she froze.
    An unpleasant memory shattered her happiness.
    Today she’d wed.
    Her arms fell to her sides with a thump. The smile eased from her face, replaced by a frown of despair. She sat up, then hugged her knees to her chest. Her unbound hair circled about her shoulders. Resting her chin on her knees, she considered the pandemonium of the past couple of days. Everyone had been in a dither, rushing around, preparing for the nuptials.
    Such silliness.
    Why bother with the falderal when neither party wanted to wed at all? Vangie had watched the fanfare with numb detachment, uttering short, monosyllabic replies when her aunt asked for her opinion.
    “Peonies or roses?”
    “Peonies.” 
    “The peach silk or the white muslin for Yvette?”
    “Peach.”
    “Bonnet or wreath?”
    “Wreath.”
    “Tongue or ham?”
    Tongue or ham?
    At last, she could take no more. Yesterday, she’d slipped into the wingback chair before her balcony window and rested her aching head against the smooth, silk back. “Aunt Adélaid,” she’d said, her voice barely above a whisper, “you and Yvette do what you think best.”
    She’d raised a hand to her brow and closed her eyes against the nagging twinge. “I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”
    “But, Vangie, don’t you want. . .?” Yvette began.
    Vangie had lowered her hand and turned her head, resting her cheek against the soft, smooth fabric. She’d met Yvette’s, round, worried eyes. “I truly don’t care a whit what you decide.”
    She’d known without being told the sparkle was gone from her eyes. She could have no more summoned a smile than she could have conjured a spell to prevent the travesty of a marriage to Lord Warrick. Turning her head to gaze out the window once more, she had breathed a small, silent, and altogether hopeless sigh.
    Now, the dreaded day was upon her.
    Vangie shoved off the heavy coverings. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before sliding to the floor. Her gown was a wrinkled mess from having been slept in. Grabbing her shawl from a chair by the window, she threw it round her shoulders and padded to the French windows on bare feet.
    Opening them, she stepped onto the balcony disturbing a jay grooming itself on the rail. It scolded her soundly while flying away. A pinkish-brown feather floated slowly from the sky, swirling round and round to settle on the landing beside her foot. She retrieved the fallen feather, then ran her fingers along the crisp edge.
    Lucky creature. It can fly away from its troubles.
    For a fanciful moment after leaving Uncle