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Sighing a trembling breath, she fixed her gaze on her slipper toe, avoiding Lord Warrick’s withering glare. He was right of course. She’d known what the outcome would be, must be, but she’d hoped—no prayed—otherwise.

“This is grossly unfair,” she whispered, more to herself than the men in the room. How could she bear this?

Toying with the soft fringe edging the silk pillow scrunched beside her, Vangie stifled a ragged sob. Her throat ached from the effort. She swallowed hard against the sting, then swallowed again as a cry of protest welled up, trying to force its way past her compressed lips. She clasped her hands together in a silent prayer. Surely God wouldn’t allow this injustice to take place.

Lord Warrick could walk away from the alleged indiscretion, couldn’t he? Rakehells who cared nothing for their honor did so quite often, in fact. Her reputation, however, was tarnished beyond repair. To all intents and purposes, she’d been despoiled, at least verbally. Without an immediate marriage, she’d no hope for anything but a lifetime of condemnation and malevolent gossip.

If she were a woman of means, she’d refuse the match. She’d travel, paint, do…do whatever she wished. Be free at last. But as things stood, she was a penniless orphan. Hands gripped tight, she closed her eyes against the anguish tearing at her heart and mind.

Lord Warrick sacrificed himself for her; a woman he didn’t know. It spoke of his character, of his decency and honor. She should feel gratitude—supposed somewhere in the recesses of her heart she did. Nevertheless, the only emotions she could summon at present were desolation and despair, tempered with a good deal of horror. She sucked in an unsteady breath. He would never forgive her for being forced into marriage. Not like this. How could he?

Would she be able to forgive Uncle Gideon? Perhaps, but not anytime soon.

Marriage without love. There are worse fates. Not for a woman with Romani blood running through their veins. A woman who, from girlhood, prayed she would make a love-match.

Uncle Gideon stood, offering a smile somewhere between sorrow and encouragement. “I hope someday you’ll understand why I insist on this course, Vangie, and be able to forgive me.” He shifted his attention to Lord Warrick, including him in the request as well.

The viscount met her uncle’s gaze squarely, though no answering warmth lit his eyes. Instead, his mouth curved into a contemptuous arc. Despite the roaring fire, she shivered and sank deeper into the settee’s cushions.

Uncle Gideon strode to the door. He grasped the brass handle before he turned around. His solemn gaze shifted between her and his lordship for a disquieting moment. “Lord Warrick, please, do proceed with the proposal. Vangie, you will accept his offer.” He opened the door. “I’ll allow you privacy.” He slipped from the room, closing the door behind him with a firm, final-sounding thunk.

Vangie sat stunned. Run, everything in her cried. Escape. Flee. Why then did she remain inexplicably fixed and mute as her uncle exited the room, leaving her to the viscount’s mercy. Or lack thereof?

Except for the purple finches’ muted scolding in the lilac bush beside the sunlit window, the room remained tomb-silent. Death had indeed visited today. With the decree she must marry Lord Warrick, her dreams had died. The demise of her heart’s desire left a bitter stench in her nostrils, and she twitched her nose, mashing her lips together.

She refused to lift her gaze from her clenched hands. A single unkind look or word from him and the last vestige of her self-control would crumble. She felt his gaze upon her, and it unnerved her to no end. The man truly should acquire some decorum. Holding her breath to calm her stampeding heart, she listened to the viscount’s steady breathing.

He rustled about, and she started when he sat beside her on the settee. His cologne, crisp and woodsy, wafted past her nostrils. Without a word, he reached over and pried her icy, clenched hands apart. He slid a heavy ring onto her third finger. He must’ve had it in his pocket.

She stared at the jeweled band. The sign of his ownership. Smaller and prettier than iron shackles, nevertheless, the circle signified imprisonment. “It’s warm,” she muttered. So was his hand cradling hers.

His fingers, the nails neatly trimmed, were sun-darkened, and a bit calloused too. Her regard lingered on his injured hand. From beneath her lashes, she stole a covert glance 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?”

Eyes downcast and a muscle ticking in his jaw, he didn’t answer.

“Have you engaged in fisticuffs?” 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. Did he attempt to read hers as well?

He abruptly released her hand and 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.

In a small courtyard beyond the window, a spot of vivid emerald grass celebrated spring. 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 attention to the closed door. Odd, she’d almost expected his lordship to be there, staring at her with his penetrating, unfathomable quick-silver gaze.

It was as if he could see straight into her thoughts, her soul, yet he kept his 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, its fit a trifle loose. She turned it round her finger.

She laughed, a sad hiccupping rasp, saturated with unshed tears. “I should’ve heeded Puri Daj’s warning. Should’ve 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.

After slowly pushing to her feet, she wandered to the window. A hummingbird moth flitted 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. The golden ray gave her strength and hope.

A clock chiming in another part of the house brought Vangie from her reverie. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d not broken her fast. She angled to stare at the door once more. She wasn’t wed yet and, by God, she wasn’t marrying anyone against her will.