Items related to The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition:...
The Viscount’s Vow: Enhanced Second Edition: A Historical Scottish Romance (Castle Brides) - Softcover
He intended to ruin her...
...instead, he fell in love.
Ian’s a vengeful lord...
Notorious for his stern demeanor and inflexible honor, he journeys to London for one purpose—the permanent and irreversible downfall of the siren who caused his brother’s death.
Instead of an immoral seductress, he discovers a soft-spoken, raven-haired beauty. Against all reason, he finds himself irresistibly drawn to the last woman in England he could ever love.
Evangeline’s a spirited gypsy lady...
She endures the bon ton’s disdain and numerous indecent propositions with grace and poise. But when a dastardly lord plots her ruination, she’s finished with propriety and politeness.
To make matters worse, he becomes caught in his own snare, forcing them into a marriage neither wants...or do they?
A love that transcends betrayal...
When their lives are suddenly in danger, Ian and Vangie must trust each other and their love.
But can she forgive Him?
Will his regrets keep them from finding the happiness they both crave?
This enemies to lovers tale by a USA Today bestselling author will make you laugh and cry and cheer Ian and Vangie on to their hard-won happily-ever-after.
If you enjoy forced marriage stories with a hint of intrigue, a dash of humor, and emotionally gripping romance then you’ll adore Collette Cameron’s riveting second chance CASTLE BRIDES SERIES. Buy THE VISCOUNT’S VOW for a swoon-worthy tale that will keep you up past your bedtime!
CASTLE BRIDES:
The Viscount's Vow
Heart of a Highlander - prequel to Highlander's Hope
Highlander's Hope
The Earl's Enticement
Though this book can be read as a stand-alone, most readers prefer to read the series in order.
Be sure to check out the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series, a spin-off of the Castle Brides series. You'll see some familiar characters!
Check out Collette’s other series:
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot
Heart of a Scot ~ Coming soon!
Seductive Scoundrels Series
The Honorable Rogues (Formerly A Waltz with a Rogue)
The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses
Wicked Earls’ Club
...instead, he fell in love.
Ian’s a vengeful lord...
Notorious for his stern demeanor and inflexible honor, he journeys to London for one purpose—the permanent and irreversible downfall of the siren who caused his brother’s death.
Instead of an immoral seductress, he discovers a soft-spoken, raven-haired beauty. Against all reason, he finds himself irresistibly drawn to the last woman in England he could ever love.
Evangeline’s a spirited gypsy lady...
She endures the bon ton’s disdain and numerous indecent propositions with grace and poise. But when a dastardly lord plots her ruination, she’s finished with propriety and politeness.
To make matters worse, he becomes caught in his own snare, forcing them into a marriage neither wants...or do they?
A love that transcends betrayal...
When their lives are suddenly in danger, Ian and Vangie must trust each other and their love.
But can she forgive Him?
Will his regrets keep them from finding the happiness they both crave?
This enemies to lovers tale by a USA Today bestselling author will make you laugh and cry and cheer Ian and Vangie on to their hard-won happily-ever-after.
If you enjoy forced marriage stories with a hint of intrigue, a dash of humor, and emotionally gripping romance then you’ll adore Collette Cameron’s riveting second chance CASTLE BRIDES SERIES. Buy THE VISCOUNT’S VOW for a swoon-worthy tale that will keep you up past your bedtime!
CASTLE BRIDES:
The Viscount's Vow
Heart of a Highlander - prequel to Highlander's Hope
Highlander's Hope
The Earl's Enticement
Though this book can be read as a stand-alone, most readers prefer to read the series in order.
Be sure to check out the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series, a spin-off of the Castle Brides series. You'll see some familiar characters!
Check out Collette’s other series:
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot
Heart of a Scot ~ Coming soon!
Seductive Scoundrels Series
The Honorable Rogues (Formerly A Waltz with a Rogue)
The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses
Wicked Earls’ Club
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
From the Author:
Dear Reader!
Though THE VISCOUNT'S VOW is the first in my Castle Brides Series, it was actually written after I wrote HIGHLANDER'S HOPE. While I tapped away at Highlander's Hope, Vangie and Ian kept pestering me to write their tale. I worried a little about dating their story prior to Highlander's Hope since that book had already been released, but in order for the series to flow, I had no choice.
And Vangie and Ian were most insistent.
My research into the Roma people was fascinating and delightful. I was so taken with them, I have another heroine in HEARTBREAK AND HONOR who was raised as a Scottish gypsy, otherwise known as travelers or black tinkers.
HEART OF A HIGHLANDER is the prequel to HIGHLANDER'S HOPE and it's free! If you've enjoyed the Castle Brides Series, I encourage you to read the spin-off series, HIGHLAND HEATHER ROMANCING A SCOT SERIES. You'll see many familiar characters.
From the Back Cover:
Though THE VISCOUNT'S VOW is the first in my Castle Brides Series, it was actually written after I wrote HIGHLANDER'S HOPE. While I tapped away at Highlander's Hope, Vangie and Ian kept pestering me to write their tale. I worried a little about dating their story prior to Highlander's Hope since that book had already been released, but in order for the series to flow, I had no choice.
And Vangie and Ian were most insistent.
My research into the Roma people was fascinating and delightful. I was so taken with them, I have another heroine in HEARTBREAK AND HONOR who was raised as a Scottish gypsy, otherwise known as travelers or black tinkers.
HEART OF A HIGHLANDER is the prequel to HIGHLANDER'S HOPE and it's free! If you've enjoyed the Castle Brides Series, I encourage you to read the spin-off series, HIGHLAND HEATHER ROMANCING A SCOT SERIES. You'll see many familiar characters.
Excerpt - The Viscount's Vow
London, England, Late April, 1814
Vengeance isn't sweet.
Ian Warrick tipped his champagne flute and took a lengthy swallow. He'd far prefer whisky or brandy. He eyed the pale amber liquid in his still half-full glass. The insipid wine masquerading as champagne did little to wash away the bitterness lingering in his soul.
A young woman partnered by a fusty old lord whirled by, and Ian's gaze followed her.
Evangeline Caruthers.
After seeking her the better part of an hour, he'd finally found the chit. Or more on accurately, she'd been pointed out to him. A half-smile tugged his lips upward as he watched the aged poger attempt to steer her into a secluded alcove behind a wall of potted greenery. Even across the ballroom, he couldn't miss her tromping on the ancient fellow's foot.
That had been no accident.
For a fleeting moment, his smile stretched into a grin of genuine amusement. It vanished just as quickly. He wasn't here to be amused. Especially by her.
Lounging against the intricately-carved doorframe, he glanced around the opulent ballroom. Candlelight glistened off the crystal chandeliers and framed mirrors gilding the room's far side. The glass reflected the dancers in a blur of pulsing colors.
This was the first social event he'd attended since resigning his commission in His Majesty's army. The first since he'd assumed the duties of the seventh Viscount Warrick. The first since his father had succumbed to heart failure brought on by Geoff's death.
Ian sought Miss Caruthers again, and his gaze lingered. His younger brother was dead. Because of her. Like a rapier between his ribs, pain stabbed him sharp and fierce, hitching the air in his lungs. He exhaled--a slow, deliberate breath. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the flute to his lips.
A lieutenant reeking of strong spirits staggered from the ballroom and plowed into him. Ian choked on the wine trickling down his throat. "Good--God--man," he said between strangled coughs.
"'Scuse me, milord. Don' feel well. Too hot."
Swallowing against the stinging in his throat, Ian beckoned to a liveried servant. "Help that chap, please."
He indicated the lieutenant weaving his way through the doorway and careening into any guest unfortunate enough to be in his path. The crimson-uniformed soldier traveled but a dozen more steps before casting up his accounts on the glossy marble floor. Gentlemen raised their voices in protest as ladies squawked their outrage and yanked their skirts aside.
Ian curved his lips again. Poor sot. He'd done it up brown--literally. The ballroom was much too warm; the crush of guests intolerable. He inhaled, and his nostrils twitched. The place stank of sweat, unwashed bodies, and an abundance of cloying perfume. He smirked. No doubt the ball would be touted a haut ton success despite the lieutenant's messy mishap.
He cared little. Everything about this falderal left him cold. If the circumstances weren't pressing, he wouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here with his brother dead and buried less than a month, his father scarcely a fortnight. Ian's breech of mourning protocol bordered on ruinous--not that he gave a damn.
Miss Caruthers' retribution could not wait.
Nor could the explanation Prinny demanded for Geoff's role in the Duke of Paneswort's death. Ian twisted his lips into a grimace. Paneswort, a royal pain in the arse, had been a particular favorite of the Prince Regent's.
Lecherous cohorts.
At any rate, Prinny was irate. So, Ian had cast off propriety, abandoned the peace and quiet of Somersfield, his country house, and ventured into this fray despite the ton's disapproval of his presence. He'd deal with Miss Caruthers, pacify His Majesty, and then return home.
He rested his shoulder against the wall, the deep saffron-colored wallpaper, a similar shade to the mess on the floor in the process of being cleared away by two footmen. With a jaundiced eye, he scrutinized the room once more. Lord, how he despised these garish affairs. The pretentiousness. The fake smiles. The gossip. The social climbing. All of it added to the bad taste in his mouth.
As he'd snooped around to determine who Miss Caruthers was, he'd felt an absolute fool. My God, he'd actually stooped to eavesdropping on the spinsterish misses gossiping along the dance floor's periphery. When they'd turned their eager, expectant faces to him, he'd fled like a frightened dog with its tail between its legs.
He was the worst sort of knave, raising their pitiful hopes then dashing off without so much as a, "How do you do?" Had the toxic mixture of grief and ire addled him? His tightened his grip around the etched flute's stem.
The idea wasn't that far-fetched.
He'd resorted--without success until now--to asking acquaintances to identify Miss Caruthers. At his less than subtle probing, more than one male mouth had stretched into a rakish grin.
"Want a taste of that, eh, Warrick?"
"Prime mort, she is."
Ian raised his glass to take a sip. Empty. The devil take it.
Searching the room for a servant bearing more spirits, he tried to ignore the tittering debutantes and their match-making mamas vying for his attention. He supposed he was ripe for the Marriage Mart now--rather like a piece of prime horseflesh at Tattersalls. Everyone present knew he recently came into his title.
More than one affronted dame glared at him. He'd bet his favorite hunting hound they were more vexed with him for ignoring their transparent attempts to parade their calf-eyed daughters before him than his blatant disregard for mourning customs.
He cared not. Not tonight, leastways.
This evening, Miss Caruthers commandeered his attention. Drawing his eyebrows together and flattening his lips, Ian considered her. Adorned in a shimmering white gown, with some sort of filmy silvery overskirt, she was--he grudgingly admitted--exquisite. A tiara entwined with a filigree circlet adorned her raven hair piled atop her head. The gems twinkled mischievously each time she moved.
She appeared angelic.
He knew better.
Her alluring eyes and seductive smile couldn't gull him. Miss Caruthers might be a diamond of the first water, but he knew the truth concerning her. He was immune to her charms. His gaze sharp, he cocked his head. She appeared regal, poised, accepting dance request after dance request. A demure, almost shy, smile curved her rosy lips.
Did she rouge them?
He curled his lip in derision. Likely.
Arms folded, languidly holding his glass, he relaxed against the wall. The young bloods buzzing 'round her like bees to golden honey only confirmed what he'd been told.
His sister, Charlotte, eyes red-rimmed from crying, had wailed, "Miss Caruthers collects men like souvenirs."
Ian grimaced again, his attention never straying from Miss Caruthers as she stepped and dipped to the music. Oh, yes, he knew her kind.
She epitomized the type of women he disdained. Fast women, who bewitched unsuspecting swains, like Geoff, and who stole beaus from innocents like Charlotte. Sirens who cast their admirers off with the same regard as a soiled serviette or used tea leaves. Seductresses ever intent on pursuing their new conquests, uncaring of the hearts they crushed or lives they left in ruins as a consequence of their Jezebel triumphs.
Jezebel triumphs.
A familiar twinge stung his heart--or mayhap it was only his pride. Amelia was such a woman, though he hadn't known it until she'd tossed him aside for a bigger prize. Why settle for him, the heir to a mere viscountcy, when there was a duke to be seduced? Ironically, the same duke who now lay dead from the lead ball Geoff had planted in his chest.
Exchanging his empty glass for a full one offered by a passing servant, Ian suppressed a sigh. He didn't want to be here--loathed being here. He'd only come on his brother's and sister's behalf, to set things to right. In one quaff, he polished off the weak wine, barely suppressing a shudder.
Vile stuff, that.
London, England, Late April, 1814
Vengeance isn't sweet.
Ian Warrick tipped his champagne flute and took a lengthy swallow. He'd far prefer whisky or brandy. He eyed the pale amber liquid in his still half-full glass. The insipid wine masquerading as champagne did little to wash away the bitterness lingering in his soul.
A young woman partnered by a fusty old lord whirled by, and Ian's gaze followed her.
Evangeline Caruthers.
After seeking her the better part of an hour, he'd finally found the chit. Or more on accurately, she'd been pointed out to him. A half-smile tugged his lips upward as he watched the aged poger attempt to steer her into a secluded alcove behind a wall of potted greenery. Even across the ballroom, he couldn't miss her tromping on the ancient fellow's foot.
That had been no accident.
For a fleeting moment, his smile stretched into a grin of genuine amusement. It vanished just as quickly. He wasn't here to be amused. Especially by her.
Lounging against the intricately-carved doorframe, he glanced around the opulent ballroom. Candlelight glistened off the crystal chandeliers and framed mirrors gilding the room's far side. The glass reflected the dancers in a blur of pulsing colors.
This was the first social event he'd attended since resigning his commission in His Majesty's army. The first since he'd assumed the duties of the seventh Viscount Warrick. The first since his father had succumbed to heart failure brought on by Geoff's death.
Ian sought Miss Caruthers again, and his gaze lingered. His younger brother was dead. Because of her. Like a rapier between his ribs, pain stabbed him sharp and fierce, hitching the air in his lungs. He exhaled--a slow, deliberate breath. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the flute to his lips.
A lieutenant reeking of strong spirits staggered from the ballroom and plowed into him. Ian choked on the wine trickling down his throat. "Good--God--man," he said between strangled coughs.
"'Scuse me, milord. Don' feel well. Too hot."
Swallowing against the stinging in his throat, Ian beckoned to a liveried servant. "Help that chap, please."
He indicated the lieutenant weaving his way through the doorway and careening into any guest unfortunate enough to be in his path. The crimson-uniformed soldier traveled but a dozen more steps before casting up his accounts on the glossy marble floor. Gentlemen raised their voices in protest as ladies squawked their outrage and yanked their skirts aside.
Ian curved his lips again. Poor sot. He'd done it up brown--literally. The ballroom was much too warm; the crush of guests intolerable. He inhaled, and his nostrils twitched. The place stank of sweat, unwashed bodies, and an abundance of cloying perfume. He smirked. No doubt the ball would be touted a haut ton success despite the lieutenant's messy mishap.
He cared little. Everything about this falderal left him cold. If the circumstances weren't pressing, he wouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here with his brother dead and buried less than a month, his father scarcely a fortnight. Ian's breech of mourning protocol bordered on ruinous--not that he gave a damn.
Miss Caruthers' retribution could not wait.
Nor could the explanation Prinny demanded for Geoff's role in the Duke of Paneswort's death. Ian twisted his lips into a grimace. Paneswort, a royal pain in the arse, had been a particular favorite of the Prince Regent's.
Lecherous cohorts.
At any rate, Prinny was irate. So, Ian had cast off propriety, abandoned the peace and quiet of Somersfield, his country house, and ventured into this fray despite the ton's disapproval of his presence. He'd deal with Miss Caruthers, pacify His Majesty, and then return home.
He rested his shoulder against the wall, the deep saffron-colored wallpaper, a similar shade to the mess on the floor in the process of being cleared away by two footmen. With a jaundiced eye, he scrutinized the room once more. Lord, how he despised these garish affairs. The pretentiousness. The fake smiles. The gossip. The social climbing. All of it added to the bad taste in his mouth.
As he'd snooped around to determine who Miss Caruthers was, he'd felt an absolute fool. My God, he'd actually stooped to eavesdropping on the spinsterish misses gossiping along the dance floor's periphery. When they'd turned their eager, expectant faces to him, he'd fled like a frightened dog with its tail between its legs.
He was the worst sort of knave, raising their pitiful hopes then dashing off without so much as a, "How do you do?" Had the toxic mixture of grief and ire addled him? His tightened his grip around the etched flute's stem.
The idea wasn't that far-fetched.
He'd resorted--without success until now--to asking acquaintances to identify Miss Caruthers. At his less than subtle probing, more than one male mouth had stretched into a rakish grin.
"Want a taste of that, eh, Warrick?"
"Prime mort, she is."
Ian raised his glass to take a sip. Empty. The devil take it.
Searching the room for a servant bearing more spirits, he tried to ignore the tittering debutantes and their match-making mamas vying for his attention. He supposed he was ripe for the Marriage Mart now--rather like a piece of prime horseflesh at Tattersalls. Everyone present knew he recently came into his title.
More than one affronted dame glared at him. He'd bet his favorite hunting hound they were more vexed with him for ignoring their transparent attempts to parade their calf-eyed daughters before him than his blatant disregard for mourning customs.
He cared not. Not tonight, leastways.
This evening, Miss Caruthers commandeered his attention. Drawing his eyebrows together and flattening his lips, Ian considered her. Adorned in a shimmering white gown, with some sort of filmy silvery overskirt, she was--he grudgingly admitted--exquisite. A tiara entwined with a filigree circlet adorned her raven hair piled atop her head. The gems twinkled mischievously each time she moved.
She appeared angelic.
He knew better.
Her alluring eyes and seductive smile couldn't gull him. Miss Caruthers might be a diamond of the first water, but he knew the truth concerning her. He was immune to her charms. His gaze sharp, he cocked his head. She appeared regal, poised, accepting dance request after dance request. A demure, almost shy, smile curved her rosy lips.
Did she rouge them?
He curled his lip in derision. Likely.
Arms folded, languidly holding his glass, he relaxed against the wall. The young bloods buzzing 'round her like bees to golden honey only confirmed what he'd been told.
His sister, Charlotte, eyes red-rimmed from crying, had wailed, "Miss Caruthers collects men like souvenirs."
Ian grimaced again, his attention never straying from Miss Caruthers as she stepped and dipped to the music. Oh, yes, he knew her kind.
She epitomized the type of women he disdained. Fast women, who bewitched unsuspecting swains, like Geoff, and who stole beaus from innocents like Charlotte. Sirens who cast their admirers off with the same regard as a soiled serviette or used tea leaves. Seductresses ever intent on pursuing their new conquests, uncaring of the hearts they crushed or lives they left in ruins as a consequence of their Jezebel triumphs.
Jezebel triumphs.
A familiar twinge stung his heart--or mayhap it was only his pride. Amelia was such a woman, though he hadn't known it until she'd tossed him aside for a bigger prize. Why settle for him, the heir to a mere viscountcy, when there was a duke to be seduced? Ironically, the same duke who now lay dead from the lead ball Geoff had planted in his chest.
Exchanging his empty glass for a full one offered by a passing servant, Ian suppressed a sigh. He didn't want to be here--loathed being here. He'd only come on his brother's and sister's behalf, to set things to right. In one quaff, he polished off the weak wine, barely suppressing a shudder.
Vile stuff, that.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherBlue Rose Romance
- Publication date2019
- ISBN 10 1950387372
- ISBN 13 9781950387373
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages440
- Rating
(No Available Copies)
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