The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter Page 10

  She glanced at Tristan. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

  Tristan bowed. “Miss March.”

  Ignoring the footman’s impertinent stare, she turned and ran up the front steps into the house. The main hall was empty; however, she could hear ribald laughter rippling out from the direction of the conservatory. A jolt of alarm quickened her pace. She’d seen none of Lord and Lady Fairford’s guests since last night.

  Nor did she wish to.

  She bounded up the stairs to her third floor bedroom, the stack of boxes in her arms and her heavy skirts clutched in one hand. Tristan hadn’t followed her into the house. She suspected he’d stayed behind to lecture the stable lad about how to care for his horses or some such thing. Not that it mattered. He’d made it plain that he had no desire to talk at the moment.

  It was frustrating, really. Nothing had been settled between them during their trip to York. If anything, she had even more questions.

  And even more doubts.

  What had she been thinking to allow him to buy her so many beautiful things? Good gracious, he must have spent a small fortune! She should have refused him outright. Insisted that her own gowns were quite good enough, thank you very much.

  But he hadn’t approved of her clothing. It was a poor reflection on him, he’d said. Or something to that effect.

  She steadied her stack of boxes beneath her chin, freeing her right hand to twist the doorknob to her bedroom. The door swung open. She stepped inside, poised to drop her packages onto the bed, only to come to an abrupt and very startled halt.

  “Well, well.” Felicity Brightwell was standing with her back to the wooden chest-of-drawers in the corner. Behind her, two drawers stood open, their meager contents spilling out. “You’ve returned at last.”

  Valentine’s took in the scene before her in one comprehensive glance. “Have you been rifling through my things?”

  “What things? Your darned stockings? Your threadbare undergarments?” She cast a poisonous look at the packages in Valentine’s arms before sweeping her with the same, contemptuous glare from the top of her spoon bonnet to the hem of her emerald-green skirts. “I see that St. Ashton is attempting to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. You may tell him for me that he’s failed miserably.”

  Valentine deposited her boxes on the edge of the bed and proceeded to untie the wide silk ribbons of her new bonnet. She was amazed at the steadiness of her hands. “You have no right to go through my things. Nor to be in my room.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Felicity replied.

  “To what purpose?”

  “So that we might speak in private.”

  Valentine placed her bonnet on the bed along with her packages. She’d hoped to avoid any more unpleasantness with Lady Brightwell and her daughter. “I can’t imagine we have anything useful to say to each other.”

  “I don’t care what you have to say.” Felicity’s voice rose in volume with every word. “But I am determined to speak my mind.”

  Valentine moved to shut the door to her room. Unless she was very much mistaken, Felicity Brightwell was about to subject her to an outpouring of vitriol and she’d much rather the servants not hear it. They’d already heard quite enough last night. “Speak if you must. And then go.”

  Felicity’s face flushed with anger. “You wouldn’t have dared use such a tone with me yesterday.”

  “Yesterday I was still your mother’s companion.”

  “And today you aren’t, is that it? She’s let you go without a reference—and without your last month’s wages, too.”

  “She has.”

  “Because you’re a slut who’s no better than she ought to be.”

  Valentine leaned back against the closed door, her hands clasped loosely at her waist. Her heart was beating swift as a hummingbird’s. She despised confrontations. “Such vulgarity does you no credit.”

  Felicity snorted. “They’re Mama’s words, not mine. She says you and St. Ashton have come to some sort of sordid arrangement.” She walked alongside the bed, giving the packages an angry flick with her hand. The topmost box toppled to the floor. “Did he give you all of these things?”

  Valentine’s gaze dropped briefly to the smallish package on the ground. It contained five pairs of silk stockings in shades of black, white, pink, cream, and gray. The sixth pair was currently on her legs, as fine as cobwebs, secured above her knees with a new pair of embroidered French garters. She raised her eyes back to Felicity’s face. The knowing expression she found there provoked a sudden twinge of shame.

  A sordid arrangement.

  Is that what it was? Something sordid?

  She cataloged the events of the past night in her mind.

  An infamous rake had embraced her. Kissed her. And she’d succumbed to his advances with an appalling display of eagerness. Not only succumbed. She’d returned his kisses in full measure.

  Because he’d talked to her as if she were a real person and not a servant. Because he’d shown her kindness and affection—two things that were sorely lacking in her life. And because he was, quite simply, the most magnificent-looking gentleman she’d ever seen.

  It was pitiful, really.

  And now she was allowing him to buy her gifts. Not only dresses and millinery, but stockings, chemises, and a new corset, too. Intimate gifts that touched her naked limbs. The kind of things a decent woman would never, ever accept from anyone save her wedded husband.

  “St. Ashton always did keep his mistresses in high style,” Felicity said. “He can’t abide an unfashionable female. Everybody knows it.”

  Valentine tightened her hands in front of her. She reminded herself that Tristan had asked her to marry him. That the two of them had been discussing the future. Their future. She would not allow Felicity to plant seeds of doubt in her mind. Heaven knew there were enough there already. “My relationship with Lord St. Ashton is none of your business.”

  Felicity’s dark eyes flashed. “Relationship,” she repeated, covering the word with scorn. “Is that what you call it? How pathetic you are. There is only one kind of relationship St. Ashton has with women like you. He—”

  “He has proposed to me.” Valentine heard the words before she realized that she’d said them. No doubt she looked as shocked as Felicity. They both seemed to have lost their color. And they were both standing stock-still, staring at each other with wide, startled eyes.

  “You’re a liar!” Felicity said.

  Valentine attempted to affect an air of unconcern. She wasn’t certain she succeeded. “Believe what you will.”

  Felicity took a step toward her. The enormous flounced skirts of her pink-and-white-striped afternoon dress brushed the edge of Valentine’s own skirts, pressing them back against her legs. “You stupid little cow. If you think he cares for you, you’re a bigger fool than ever I thought you were.”

  “I daresay I am.” Valentine folded her arms at her waist to stop her trembling.

  “If he’s proposed to you, it’s only because his father is here. The Earl of Lynden saw the two of you together in the conservatory, didn’t he? There was nothing else for St. Ashton to do but make an honorable gesture.” Felicity took another step forward. “Everything he’s done for you is only for show. He doesn’t mean any of it. St. Ashton never means anything. It’s all sport to him.”

  Valentine’s eyes were beginning to smart. “Is that all? Have you anything else to say to me?”

  “Only this.” Felicity was a breath away from her now. Close enough to strike her if she wished. Or to pull her hair if she wished. She did neither, choosing instead to do something—to promise something—far worse. “I’m going to tell everyone I know what a slut you are,” she said, smiling. “No one in society will ever hire you again, not even as a scullery maid. The only work you’ll be able to find in England is on your back.”

  Valentine lifted her chin. Her cheeks were burning and she could feel her pulse beating an erratic rhythm in her throat. “If yo
u’re quite finished,” she said.

  Felicity reached for the doorknob, opening the door with a hard jerk.

  Valentine moved out of her way just in time. Had she lingered, she knew Felicity Brightwell wouldn’t have scrupled to knock her down. As it was, Valentine could only stand there and watch the daughter of her former employer stride away down the hall, her enormous wire crinoline swinging wildly with every angry step.

  After a long moment, she shut the door and latched it. And then she sank down on the edge of her narrow bed. The mattress sagged beneath her and the heap of white, ribbon-tied boxes tilted and fell. Several packages slid to the floor at her feet. She took a deep breath, and then another. By the time she regained her composure, any lingering happiness from her journey with Tristan—any pleasure at her beautiful new things—was gone. It had all turned to ashes in her mouth. Burned away by Felicity’s words and by her own resurgent sense of right and wrong.

  She looked numbly around the cramped bedroom. Only yesterday morning she’d been copying a psalm into her mother’s book of Bible verses and longing for the day when she could join a mission in India or China. Goodness sake, she’d been contemplating learning Hindustani! And then, less than twelve hours later, she was in the arms of man. A veritable stranger. Clinging to him and kissing him.

  What in heaven was wrong with her?

  Sometime later Valentine descended from her room. The house was bustling with preparations for dinner, servants trotting up and down the threadbare halls in answer to the summons of their masters and mistresses. She walked briskly past them, her head down. She was so intent on avoiding any curious stares or impudent remarks that she didn’t see Mrs. Ravenscroft emerging from her room near the second floor landing.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Ravenscroft’s much larger form collided with Valentine, nearly knocking her off of her feet. “Do be careful!”

  Valentine staggered back a step before swiftly regaining her balance. “I beg your pardon!”

  Mrs. Ravenscroft was only partially dressed, her embroidered silk dressing gown worn open over her corset and petticoats. “Where are you off to in such a rush?” she asked. “Dinner’s not for another hour.”

  “Nowhere,” Valentine said. “I’m only… That is…I—”

  “If you’re looking for Lord St. Ashton, you’ll find him in the billiards room.”

  Valentine’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, but I’m not—”

  “And if you should see my maid along the way, do send her along to my room. She’s supposed to be pressing my dinner dress but has been gone nearly half an hour.” Mrs. Ravenscroft sighed. “What a disaster this house party has become. I’ll be leaving in the morning on the eleven o’clock train to London. If you care to accompany me to the station, Miss March, you’re quite welcome.”

  Valentine blinked in surprise. She didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Ravenscroft’s offer was kind. Unexpectedly so. But there was nothing for her in London—no friends, no family, and certainly no prospect of employment. Her only alternative to marrying Tristan was a third-class ticket back to Mrs. Pilcher in Hartwood Green who would, in turn, probably bundle her off to be companion to an elderly tyrant somewhere at the edge of the world. Or worse.

  “I’m obliged to you, ma’am,” she said at last. “But—”

  “But you’ll take your chances with St. Ashton.” Mrs. Ravenscroft’s red-rouged mouth tilted up in an indulgent smile. “I can’t fault you. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? But I wouldn’t depend on him, Miss March. St. Ashton has a well-earned reputation for being unreliable with the ladies. We none of us hold his interest for very long and I’ve seen many a broken heart that might have been avoided.”

  “My heart is not in danger,” Valentine said quickly.

  Mrs. Ravenscroft gave her a pitying look. “No, indeed. Forgive the advice. It was kindly meant.” She inclined her head and then, after one last look down the hall for her errant maid, withdrew back into her bedchamber, shutting the door behind her.

  Valentine was shaken by the exchange. She stood there a moment, staring blankly at the intricate inlaid pattern of the closed door.

  And then she resumed her journey down the stairs.

  She didn’t know where the billiards room was and had to ask a passing footman for directions. He pointed her toward a room just beyond the Fairfords’ library. It was down a dark, narrow hallway. Fairford House had not yet been fitted for gas, and the candles in the wall sconces stood unlit.

  A faded Aubusson runner muffled her footfalls as she approached the door. She heard the sound of wooden balls clacking accompanied by the deep murmur of male voices.

  “You can hardly cut off my allowance now,” St. Ashton was saying in a bored, drawling voice. “Not now I’m engaged to be married.” The balls clacked again. “What would people say?”

  Valentine stopped in her tracks.

  “You won’t marry her,” Lord Lynden replied. He sounded cross. And very, very tired. “If I doubted it last night, I know it today.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself.” There was another loud clack as a billiard ball was hit with force.

  “I am,” Lord Lynden said. “You would not have been so reckless with a lady you intended to marry. Driving her to York? Accompanying her to a dressmaker as if she were one of your doxies? By God. You’re determined to ruin the gel.”

  “What would you have had me do?” Tristan asked. “Avoid her? Pretend last night never happened?”

  “I would have had you here. Ready to leave at dawn as we agreed.”

  “Leave for where exactly?” Another billiard ball clacked—this time with all the ominous fury of a rifle shot.

  Valentine nearly jumped out of her skin. It was enough to startle her out of her stillness. She was no eavesdropper. And she’d already heard quite enough. The exchange between Tristan and his father, coupled with the words of Felicity Brightwell and Mrs. Ravenscroft, made her sound like the most unwanted, pathetic creature in the world. But she refused to be made to feel that way. She’d behaved injudiciously—wantonly, even—but she wasn’t pathetic.

  She walked through the open door of the billiards room.

  Tristan was in his shirtsleeves, his black cravat loose round his neck. He was leaning over the billiards table, in the midst of lining up his cue, when his gaze lifted toward the doorway. The expression in his eyes was hard to read, but she knew she must have startled him for, in the next instant, he fumbled his shot.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve distracted you.”

  Tristan straightened. “You have.” He set aside his cue and walked around the table. “And I hope you’ll stay awhile and distract me again. My father’s company has grown tedious.”

  The Earl of Lynden rose from his chair and made her a bow. “We’ve been discussing marriage, Miss March. A damnable topic.” He offered her his arm and, when she took it, led her past the billiards table toward a cluster of leather armchairs at the opposite end of the room. “We’ve also been discussing your good self. But perhaps you heard?”

  She refused to pretend ignorance. “A very little.”

  “Would you care for a drink, Miss March?” Tristan asked. “A glass of sherry?”

  “If you please.” She seated herself in the chair nearest the fireplace. The flames had dwindled to embers, and a faint cloud of smoke drifted out into the room. It had likely been an age since the chimneys were properly swept.

  Lord Lynden took a seat across from her. Beside his chair was a marble-topped table on which sat three crystal decanters filled with spirits. Tristan unstopped one of them and poured her out a small glass of pale amber liquid.

  “Here you are,” he said.

  She took the proffered glass, giving the contents a dubious look. She knew what sherry was. Of course she did. But she’d never actually tasted it. Papa hadn’t kept anything stronger than seasonal cordial at the vicarage and, since her time in Lady Brightwell’s employ, she’d subsisted mainly on weak cups of tea.

&nbs
p; Today, however, she’d already tasted ale. A shocking thing, in and of itself. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She raised the glass to her lips and took a healthy swallow.

  And instantly grimaced at the bitter, burning taste of alcohol in her mouth.

  “Don’t tell me the Fairfords’ sherry has gone off,” Tristan said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Valentine choked.

  He was watching her with keen interest. “Your face is screwed up as if you’ve just sucked on a lemon. Is it the sherry?”

  She fixed him with a reproving glare. His own face remained utterly inscrutable. Except for his eyes. They were quite plainly laughing at her.

  “I can pour you a glass of something else if you like,” he said. “The brandy here is first-rate, I can attest.”

  Oh, the wretched man!

  She made an effort to compose her features when what she really felt like doing was running back upstairs and rinsing her mouth out over the washbasin. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said, setting aside her glass.

  “Never liked sherry myself,” Lord Lynden remarked. “Awful stuff.”

  “It’s a lady’s drink,” Tristan said dismissively. He didn’t sit down with them, merely stood against the mantelpiece, his arms folded in front of him. It wasn’t a very welcoming posture. “You’re not dressed for dinner, Miss March. I take it you don’t plan to join Lord and Lady Fairford at table.”

  “Indeed not,” she said. “And you, my lords?” She looked between Tristan and Lord Lynden. “Will you be dining with the other guests this evening?”

  “Not I,” Lord Lynden said. “I’ll be ordering a tray in my room.”

  “A decision the whole party will undoubtedly thank you for,” Tristan said.

  “While your presence, I’m sure, would be sorely missed,” Valentine retorted.

  “By one or two ladies at least,” he replied without batting an eye. “Regrettably, I’ll have to disappoint them. I intend to drink my dinner.”

  Lord Lynden frowned his disapproval. “With that,” he said, moving to rise from his chair, “I will bid you both goodnight.”