The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter: A Victorian Romance Read online

  “I don’t care about your money.”

  “Then what?”

  Valentine swallowed convulsively. “You said your father forbade you marrying Miss Brightwell. A baron’s daughter. Trust me when I tell you that I’m a hundred times less suitable and ask me no more. If you’ll…” Her eyes clouded with tears. “If you’ll but lend me the money for the train to Surrey and enough for my meals along the way, I’ll leave at first light and you may forget you ever met me.”

  “The hell I will!”

  “St. Ashton.” His father’s voice was a low warning.

  Tristan looked up from Valentine only to see his father give a stern shake of his head. That single, peremptory gesture, so typical of his high-handed sire, filled him with barely suppressed rage. He released Valentine’s hands and got to his feet. He was frustrated and angry. In the grips of a painfully unfulfilled desire. But it was more than that. He was forced to admit that Valentine March’s refusal hurt him.

  With an effort, he summoned his familiar sardonic smile. “Well,” he said dryly, “so much for gallant gestures.”

  His father looked at him a moment, his expression infuriatingly unreadable. And then he moved to take the chair facing Valentine. Once settled, his eyes came to rest on her face. For a long while he said nothing.

  And then, to Tristan’s amazement, the Earl of Lynden’s stern features softened. “You look very much like your mother, my dear,” he said.

  Valentine exhaled slowly. Her shoulders slumped with something like defeat. “You knew her.”

  “Yes. I knew her.”

  Tristan watched the two of them with a growing sense of unease. His father had known Valentine March’s mother? What the devil! He sank into the chair by the fireplace, his imagination conjuring all sorts of shocking scenarios. Suddenly, he remembered a ramshackle fellow he’d been acquainted with at Oxford. The young idiot had gone to the country for the summer and seduced a girl on his father’s estate, only to later discover that the wench was one of his father’s by-blows.

  The memory was accompanied by a wave of nausea. Good Lord! Could Valentine March be his half-sister? He dismissed the idea as soon as it entered his mind. The Sinclair men put a recognizable stamp on their offspring. The eye color of their descendants might occasionally vary, but the hair was always black as a raven’s wing.

  Valentine March was far too fair to be any close relation, let alone an illegitimate half-sister.

  “I asked you at dinner why you sought employment as a companion,” Lord Lynden said. “You told me your father’s death compelled you.”

  “It’s the truth, my lord.”

  “I will ask you now what I didn’t ask you then.” He paused, his expression once again growing stern. “If you were in need of help, why didn’t you write to Caddington Park?”

  Tristan’s brow furrowed at the mention of the Marquess of Stokedale’s family seat in Kent. He knew Stokedale but little. He was an elegant man in his middle fifties, cold and implacable, with centuries of breeding behind him—something he let no one forget. “Why would she—?”

  And then he saw it.

  It was subtle, shimmering just beneath the surface, but by God it was there.

  The undoubted resemblance between Valentine March and the Marquess of Stokedale.

  “I did write, my lord,” she said. “On two separate occasions. Lord Stokedale didn’t see fit to answer me.”

  “Who is Stokedale to you?” Tristan asked sharply.

  Valentine met his eyes from across the room. “My mother’s elder brother.”

  Tristan swore softly, earning him a reproachful glare from his father. “Lady Sara Caddington was your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are—”

  “Illegitimate, my lord.” She brushed a tear from her cheek with an impatient flick of her hand. “Notoriously illegitimate. Now you see why marriage to me is impossible. No matter h-how badly you’ve compromised me.”

  Abruptly, Tristan stood. The action startled Valentine. She looked up at him wide-eyed, as if he might shout at her or storm from the room. But he made no move to go. Instead, he addressed his father. “Sir, I beg you would give me five minutes alone with Miss March.”

  His father frowned his disapproval, but he didn’t object. Tristan waited in silence for him to rise from his chair, and then walked with him to the library door. He shut it firmly after him. When he turned around, he found Valentine watching him warily. He went to her, pulling up his father’s vacated chair so it was facing hers. “Forgive me for not kneeling at your feet again like some heartsick young jackass,” he said as he sat down. “It’s late and I’ve had too much to drink.”

  “You’re angry with me.”

  “I’m angry with myself for falling into this godawful scrape.”

  “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t allowed you to kiss me in the conservatory—” Valentine broke off. “But I daresay my behavior will be no surprise to you. Not now that you know who my mother is. It’s in the blood, you see. This…this propensity for—”

  “For what?”

  “Wantonness,” she said bitterly. Her cheeks burned with a mortified blush.

  “You? Wanton?” He was sorely tempted to laugh. “My little innocent…” But he could see that she was having none of it. Who’d told her that her mother was wanton? Her father? “I didn’t know your mother,” he began, choosing his words with care. “I was too young. But I know of her. She’s still mentioned on occasion. Shall I tell you what I’ve heard?”

  “No.”

  He ignored her objection. “She was contracted from birth to wed the Duke of Carlisle. On her nineteenth birthday the betrothal was announced. Shortly after, it was discovered that she was with child. She refused to name the father—”

  “Because she didn’t know which of her lovers it was!”

  Tristan’s brows lifted. “Who the devil told you that? Your father?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “With all due respect to the estimable vicar, it’s my understanding that she knew exactly who the father was. That she refused to name him only to spare him the ignominy of being horsewhipped up and down the continent by the old marquess.”

  Valentine shook her head, refusing to believe it. “If that were so, why didn’t he come forward and marry her? Why did he allow her to be sent away in disgrace?”

  “I don’t know. My own father may have some idea. He seems to know more about this affair than I realized. Indeed, I…” Tristan raked a hand through his hair, remembering his father’s sudden decision to stay in Yorkshire. A decision that had come directly on the heels of his seeing Valentine in the hall. “Damn me for an idiot, I begin to think that he remained here at Fairford House because he recognized you.”

  “Of course he did. It’s why he questioned me all through dinner. He was plainly horrified to see me mingling amongst the guests as if I were a lady of respectable birth.”

  “Miss March, all of London society believes that your mother was exiled to the country, where she died giving birth to her illegitimate child. By all accounts, the child died with her. The old marquess is dead. Your uncle has the title now. Who knows what really happened all those years ago?” He gentled his voice. “Whatever occurred, I can assure you, even if your mother had one hundred lovers, such things don’t pass themselves down in the bloodstream. I can’t explain my father’s particular interest in you. Perhaps he’s merely curious. Whatever the reason, I promise you that he’s not so high in the instep as to refuse to dine with the illegitimate daughter of anyone.”

  She brushed another tear from her cheek. “How you must regret following me to the conservatory.”

  “There are many things I regret about this debacle, Miss March, but that’s not one of them.”

  Her brows drew together, her eyes finding his in an uncertain question. He felt a flicker of pathetic hope. She wanted to believe him. All that was needed was a word of reassurance. A sign that he was not merely
succumbing to an unpleasant duty.

  “I told you the truth,” he said. “I’ll take that kiss with me to Northumberland. I daresay I’ll live on the memory of it for a good long time.” He paused, trying to summon a witty phrase or dry remark. None were forthcoming. “Must I live on the memory of it?” he asked at last. “Or will you come with me?”

  “To Northumberland, do you mean?”

  Tristan nodded.

  “As y-your mistress?”

  His jaw tightened. “I told you I have no intention of making you my mistress. I ask you to come with me as my wife or not at all.”

  “You father would never allow it.”

  “He has no say in the matter. And even if he did, I can’t see why he’d object. No matter the circumstances of your mother, you came into this world the legitimate daughter of Mr. March, a vicar. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “He married your mother and gave her his name.”

  “Yes. He…he said it was his Christian duty. That she’d fallen low, like Mary Magdalene, but that she’d repented and was ready to start a better life.”

  Tristan was beginning to suspect that the estimable vicar was a dashed loose screw. Comparing Lady Sara Caddington to Mary Magdalene? Telling Valentine that she’d inherited her mother’s wantonness? No doubt there was more to the story, but now was not the time to prise it from her. “In any case,” he said, “you have the vicar’s name. You are Valentine March. The rest is so much ancient history.”

  “And yet your father recognized me. He knew who I was right away.”

  “I wouldn’t make the mistake of comparing the wits of the general populace to those of my father. He’s uncannily astute. As for those in Northumberland, there are few near Blackburn Priory who have seen a viscount, let alone anyone who would recognize the long-lost descendant of a marquess. Indeed, I expect to find the estate populated by poachers, vagrants, and criminals. We’ll be lucky to have any sort of society there. Believe me, the identity of your forebears won’t come up at all.” He was blathering, he knew it. In truth, he couldn’t remember when he’d last been so nervous. Winning her was suddenly everything.

  He cleared his throat. “Now, if you have no other objections—”

  “I don’t know you,” she said softly. “We’ve only just met today.”

  “That means nothing. Do you have any idea how many gentlemen offer for a lady after having met her only once or twice at a ball or a supper party?”

  She searched his face. “But you don’t wish to marry me, my lord. I don’t think you wish to marry anyone. And if you did, you’d better choose an heiress. You’ll need the money to repair your estate.”

  A hard truth, he had to admit. If he wed an heiress, perhaps he wouldn’t even have to remove to Northumberland. Perhaps he could remain in London.

  But as much as he hated the idea of living in rural exile at Blackburn Priory, the prospect of wedding anyone else but Valentine March was presently unthinkable. “I’ve spent most of my life evading women who’ve tried to trap me into marriage. Do you think I’ve ever offered for one of them before?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The answer is no, Miss March. And after your crushing rejection to my proposal, I don’t expect I’ll ever have the nerve to offer for anyone again. By rejecting me, you’ve sentenced me to a life of lonely bachelorhood and virtually assured that the title will pass on to my infernal younger brother. I can’t believe you would be so cruel.”

  She pressed her lips together in a reproving line. “I very much doubt your bachelorhood is a lonely one, my lord.”

  “And there you would be wrong.”

  “I also very much doubt that I’m the first female you have kissed in a conservatory.”

  “No. You’re not the first,” he admitted gravely. “But if you’ll marry me, I promise that you’ll be the last.”

  At his words, some of her resolve melted. She looked tired and confused and more than a little wistful. “You can’t promise me that.”

  “I just have.”

  “It’s not in your nature to be with only one woman. You told me yourself that you’re a terrible rake. The worst one, you said.” Her words fell to an embarrassed whisper. “I know you will grow bored with me.”

  “Valentine…” he began, his voice troubled.

  “It’s all right. I had no expectation otherwise. I only wish I hadn’t made myself so ridiculous.” She absently smoothed the rumpled skirts of her gown. “I’ll leave in the morning, my lord, but I fear I must impose upon you for my train fare. And really, considering that you crushed my spectacles, it’s not so much to ask.”

  “Where do you intend to go?”

  “Back to Hartwood Green in Surrey. I’m sure Mrs. Pilcher will allow me stay with her until I’ve secured another place somewhere.”

  “As a lady’s companion?” he asked. She nodded. “And is that how you mean to spend the rest of your life? Running and fetching shawls for henwits like Lady Brightwell?”

  “Not the rest of my life. Only for another year or so. I have a plan, you see.”

  Something in her expression put him on his guard. “What sort of plan?”

  “Well…” She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. Her gray eyes were suddenly earnest. “I’ve been corresponding for some time with a lady whose husband is a member of the London Missionary Society. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

  “The missionaries do very important work in India and in China. And Mrs. Tennant assures me that it’s quite unexceptionable for an unmarried lady to accompany—”

  “Good God! That’s your plan? To sail off to some heathen land with a bunch of missionaries?”

  “It may sound comical to you, my lord, but—”

  “Comical? It sounds bloody insane!”

  In an instant she was on her feet. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you!”

  Tristan stood, catching her by the upper arms before she could stride toward the door. He looked down into her eyes. “Why in the hell would you want to be a missionary?”

  “The usual reasons, my lord. Now if you would kindly let me go—”

  “I suppose that just because you’re named after a saint you feel you must go forth on some crusading mission. To what? Drive the snakes out of China and India just as St. Valentine drove them out of Ireland?”

  “That was St. Patrick,” she said severely. “And yes. It’s what I was raised for.”

  “To preach to heathens in some foreign clime? To convert them into good Christians?”

  She glared at him. “To help people, my lord. To show them a better way through the teachings in the Bible.”

  Tristan considered this. “And if you went to China or India, how many heathens do you suppose you might convert?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A dozen? A half dozen? One?”

  “I don’t know!” she said again, accentuating her words with a fruitless attempt to extricate herself from his grasp. “It may be one. It may be one dozen. The number doesn’t matter.”

  “What need have you to travel halfway round the world to reform a single godless heathen? You might do the very same staying right here in England. Indeed, you could do the same. With me.”

  Valentine stilled.

  “You’ve already started, you know. Consider, Miss March. I’ve proposed to you on bended knee. I’ve foresworn other women. Two things I’ve never before done in my entire life. Two exceedingly honorable things. And that’s only after having known you for a single day. Imagine what changes you might effect in a week. A month.”

  She shook her head in silent objection.

  “I’m not making sport of you.” He stepped closer, releasing his hold on her arms and moving to encircle her waist. She stiffened in alarm, but he held her in complete stillness until she began to relax against his chest. He was close. So close. He hoped to God his father would not walk in and rui
n everything. “Let me do the honorable thing, Valentine,” he said quietly. “Allow me to behave as a gentleman for once.”

  “Oh, Tristan…”

  “Unless you do in fact mind living in a rundown estate in Northumberland.”

  She took a tremulous breath. “I don’t mind it.”

  He bowed his head until his forehead rested lightly against hers. “Unless you mind marrying a gentleman with a reputation as black as mine.”

  “I do not mind it. As long as you promise—”

  “I promise,” he said huskily. “I’ll do better, Valentine. I’ll change. You do believe people can change, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then let me do the honorable thing.”

  “Very well.”

  Tristan closed his eyes briefly against a staggering swell of relief. “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, Tristan. I will marry you.”

  The next morning Valentine was awakened by the sound of two giggling maids outside her bedroom door. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. Nor did she need to. It was clear that the events of last night hadn’t been quietly hushed up. Indeed, she expected that the whole house was bubbling with gossip, from the master and mistress all the way down to the lowest scullery maid. She was tempted to pull her pillow over her head and go back to sleep, but a scratch at the door, followed immediately by the entry of one of the very same giggling maids, necessitated that she rise and begin a hurried toilette.

  Tristan had sent word that she was to meet him for a morning drive. It sounded more of a summons than a request. As Valentine washed with ice-cold water and combed the tangles from her long hair, she wondered if he intended to tell her that he’d changed his mind. Not but that he hadn’t seemed sincere enough in his declarations last night. More than sincere, if she was honest. His promises to her had been in the manner of a solemn vow. However, she was swiftly coming to understand that the Viscount St. Ashton was a wildly impulsive gentleman. The sort of gentleman used to indulging his every whim—whether following a vulnerable lady’s companion to a conservatory or crushing a pair of spectacles under his boot heel.