Amidst murder and betrayal, destiny and hearts collide when scandal forces a viscount and a gypsy noblewoman to marry in this Regency romance, sprinkled with suspense, humor, and inspiration.
Half Romani, half English noblewoman, Evangeline Caruthers is the last woman in England Ian Hamilton, the Viscount Warrick, could ever love—an immoral wanton responsible for his brother’s and father’s deaths. She thinks he’s a foul-tempered blackguard, who after setting out to cause her downfall, finds himself forced to marry her—snared in the trap of his own making.
When Vangie learns the marriage ceremony itself may have been a ruse, she flees to her gypsy relatives, declaring herself divorced from Ian under Romani law. He pursues her to the gypsy encampment, and when the handsome gypsy king offers to take Ian’s place in Vangie’s bed, jealousy stirs hot and dangerous.
At last, under a balmy starlit sky, Ian and Vangie breech the chasm separating them. Peril lurks though. Ian’s the last in his line, and his stepmother intends to dispose of the newlyweds so her daughter can inherit his estate. Only by trusting each other can they overcome scandal and murderous betrayal.
“A brilliant tale combining Regency romance with exotic Romani culture.”
Goodreads Book Link - https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18300575-the-viscount-s-vow?ac=1
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Collette Cameron Bio
Multi-published historical romance author Collette Cameron has a BS in Liberal Studies and a Master's in Teaching. She only teaches part-time so she has time for her greatest passion: writing. Collette’s been married for 30 years, has 3 amazing adult children, and 5 dachshunds. Collette loves a good joke, inspirational quotes, flowers, the beach, trivia, birds, shabby chic, and Cadbury Chocolate. You'll always find dogs, birds, quirky—sometimes naughty—humor, and a dash of inspiration in her novels. Her motto for life? You can’t have too much chocolate, too many hugs, or too many flowers. She’s thinking about adding shoes to that list.
Collette would love hearing from you.
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Excerpt - The Viscount’s Vow-Wedding Night Scene
Why had Vangie hit him so hard? A welt, red and raw like a fresh branding, was clearly visible on his angled face. Standing before him, the intense, provocative glimmer in his eye sent a fresh dash of color across her cheeks.
“Ian. . .”
No, she would not apologize. He deserved it, the brute.
Faith, why is he grinning? Was her new husband dicked in the nob? She frowned at him, inching her way backward. Perhaps he’s mad. Mayhap it wasn’t bad temperament plaguing the man at all, but lunacy. She sent a sidelong glance to the open wardrobe.
Where was her blasted dagger?
Clasping her hands before her, she warily watched him. A muscle flexed in his jaw. She gasped when he stole closer, his gait purely predatory. She sucked in another wheezing lungful of air.
It was most difficult to breathe, or think, when one was being stalked.
Ian crept onward, step-by-step.
For every step he took forward, Vangie retreated until she was brought up short by the small bench she’d just vacated. She tried to skirt around it, not daring to take her eyes from him. Her hip grazed the dressing table, rattling the contents on top. Reaching beside her, her gaze fixated on him, she grasped wildly. Her hand closed on the handle of the silver hairbrush.
She sent it sailing at his head. He ducked, then laughed, a deep resounding echo in his chest. He was enjoying this, the cretin. She began tossing objects at him as fast as she could grab them.
Crystal perfume bottle. Engraved hand mirror. Jar of face cream. Jewel encrusted comb. Her wedding wreath. They all went careening past him.
He dodged each item, stealthy edging nearer. The floor was littered with broken glass, petals and leaves, globs of cream, and a puddle of perfume, which bathed the room with its citrusy scent.
In desperation, she tossed the last item, a filmy lace-edged handkerchief. A feral grin on his lips, he watched it flutter onto the rug, then raised mocking eyes to her.
The damned cur. He still laughed at her.
She frantically sought something else to throw at him. Ah, there it was. The jeweled dagger had been beneath the handkerchief the entire time. She snatched the blade, wielding it before her. He would gloat no more.
Ian’s gaze dipped to the knife. The lines of laughter on his face shifted into irritation. “Put down the blade.”
“No.”
“Vangie, give me the knife.”
She shook her head, daring to take a step forward, the blade tilted at a dangerous angle. The metal glinted in the candlelight. She knew how to use it. Puri Daj insisted upon it.
He retreated a cautious step, his dark gaze narrowed and trained on the knife.
“I won’t be called a lóoverni.”
Emboldened, she took another step his direction. No man, not even her husband, had the right to call her a whore.
His eyes slowly rose to meet hers, his expression unreadable. “Give it to me.”
His lips thinned, and he extended his hand, palm upward. “I won’t ask you again.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “Not likely, my lord.” She angled the dagger in the direction of the adjoining door. “Now get out.”
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