The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter Read online

  “Stokedale is very like his father was before him. Cold. Inflexible. Too proud for his own good.”

  “Well, I don’t ever wish to meet him,” Valentine declared. “And I won’t accept his help, even if your father persuades him to give it to me. I’d rather go to a workhouse. I’d rather starve.”

  “Ah. The famous Caddington pride.”

  “It’s not pride! It’s self-respect. Besides,” she added stiffly, “I’m nothing like them.”

  “No? Then I suppose I must beg your pardon again.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps it is a Caddington trait. If so, I can’t help it. But I’d never be cold or inflexible.” Something in Tristan’s face brought an immediate flush to her own. Was he thinking of their kiss? She’d certainly not been cold and inflexible then. “What I mean to say is that I’d never be unjust or unforgiving. Especially not to a person who’s in their present predicament through no fault of their own.”

  “I begin to think that the first option is not to your liking.”

  “The first option…? Oh, yes. I see.”

  “That leaves the second option. The one that culminates with you marrying me.”

  “At St. George’s, Hanover Square.” She frowned.

  “You don’t care for St. George’s?” He frowned as well. “I confess, neither do I. In any case, we have a year or more to accustom ourselves to the idea.”

  A year or more in which she would live with strangers who didn’t want her. Would it be so different from being a lady’s companion? Or a governess? Yes, she thought miserably. At least as a paid employee there would be clear expectations. There would be rules. As an unwanted guest, she would be there on sufferance. Never knowing from one moment to the next what she should be doing or not doing. And all the while feeling the full weight of her obligation. “Do you mind a long engagement?” she asked him.

  “Of course I mind it.”

  “I suppose it would give us time to get to know each other better.”

  He raised a brow. “With me in Northumberland?”

  “We could write to each other. Many friendships develop through correspondence. Romances, too. Just look at Héloïse and Abélard.”

  “A touching love story. I believe at the close of it Abélard was castrated.”

  Her face reddened. “That was only one small part of the tale,” she said in her most reproving tone.

  “One small part? My little innocent, trust me when I tell you that big or small has nothing to do with it. Once a fellow has been castrated, the story is over.”

  She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. She hadn’t known it was possible to blush so deeply. “You are awful.”

  Strangely enough, this made him grin. It was the first sign of genuine good humor she’d seen in him all morning. “Completely awful,” he agreed. He gathered up the reins and, with a touch of the whip, urged the horses forward in their traces, guiding them expertly back onto the road. “We have some time before we arrive in York. You may recite an improving psalm to me if you like.”

  “A psalm about the fate that awaits men who say scandalous things to ladies?”

  “Is there such a psalm?”

  Valentine racked her brain for some passage in the Bible that she might employ as a set-down, only to be immediately overcome with guilt that she’d consider using the Bible for such an unkind purpose. “No,” she said, chastened. “There’s not.”

  He cast her a measuring sidelong glance. “Very well then, recite the rest of that verse from the paper you had with you in the folly. I’ll start, shall I? ‘Arise, my love, my fair one and come away with me…to York.’”

  It was all she could do to repress a completely inappropriate gurgle of laughter. “You would make a joke of the Bible.”

  But Tristan must have seen her lips quiver, for he was at once remarkably cheerful and very like he’d been before the unfortunate incident in the conservatory. “Come now, Miss March. You must give me credit for remembering the first lines. Now you recite the rest. I’ll direct my attention to memorizing. And, with any luck, by the time we return to Fairford House, you’ll have made a Biblical scholar out of me.”

  The hours spent in York with Valentine March were some of the happiest moments in Tristan’s recent memory. He wasn’t accustomed to squiring a gently bred lady about town. He’d never properly courted anyone, nor had he troubled himself with playing the attentive admirer. His past visits to dressmakers, milliners, and jewelers had always been on behalf of some mistress or other. But Valentine March was no pampered courtesan accepting his gifts as just one of the many perks of her carnal employment. Valentine was a lady. More importantly, she was his lady.

  From the moment he lifted her down from the curricle, she’d set her hand on his arm and, for the bulk of the day, she hadn’t removed it. At times, he found himself covering that hand protectively with his own and more than one passing gentleman who admired her for a second too long was the recipient of his thunderous scowl.

  He took her first to a small dress shop off Bridge Street that he’d heard Mrs. Ravenscroft mention the previous night at dinner. It was a respectable establishment run by a very competent modiste. Madame Gerrard, as she introduced herself, fluttered about Valentine, examining her face and figure with a critical eye. As she murmured appreciatively in English accented French, Valentine informed her that she would need only three gowns—two for day and one for evening.

  Madame said nothing, merely summoned two assistant seamstresses who instantly appeared and, after a brief exchange with their employer, whisked Valentine into the back room where she was to be stripped and measured.

  “Three gowns, Monsieur?” Madame Gerrard asked. She shook her head, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “A shame! She is a beautiful lady. So fair. And with such a shape!”

  Tristan didn’t need to be reminded. “She’ll need more than three gowns, obviously.”

  Madame’s dark eyes became shrewd. “How many more?”

  “As many gowns as can be made ready today,” he said. “And everything that goes with them.”

  “Everything, Monsieur?”

  “Everything,” he repeated emphatically.

  Everything, it turned out, comprised corsets, crinolines, petticoats, stockings, shoes, bonnets, and gloves. Most were available through Madame Gerrard. The remainder, Madame informed him, must be purchased from the local draper and milliner. Tristan had a feeling Valentine would balk at additional shopping and, for an extortionate sum, persuaded the modiste to send out some of her girls to bring back the requisite items to the shop.

  Meanwhile, he established himself in one of the tastefully upholstered chairs in the corner of the showroom, prepared to wait however many hours it took. With his mistresses, he’d invariably taken himself off somewhere for a drink—either that or been invited into the backroom to watch the fitting—but with Valentine he was determined to be both respectful and attentive. Besides, she had no maid with her and he refused to leave her unprotected. Anything could happen.

  Though, at the moment, there was a greater likelihood of her bolting for freedom than of some random man accosting her.

  He’d seen the look in her eyes as he informed her of the earl’s proposed solutions to their current dilemma. He could tell that the options were as unappealing to her as they had been to him. She didn’t want to go to London and marry at St. George’s, Hanover Square any more than she wanted to spend a prolonged period of time with John and Elizabeth in Devonshire. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted.

  But she’d responded to his embrace last night with enough passion to set off all the fireworks at Cremorne Gardens. She’d kissed him and clung to him. She’d promised to marry him.

  And in return he’d promised her that he would do better. That he would change.

  Good Lord, but she’d believed him.

  She’d believed him.

  Knowing that, how in the world was he ever supposed to let her go?

  Tr
istan folded his arms and settled farther back into the chair. He watched the shop assistants dart in and out of the back room with pattern books, ribbons, and bolts of fabric, trying his damnedest not to imagine Valentine standing only a few yards away in nothing but her shift.

  All the things his father had said to him during that excruciating lecture in the library last night were true. His manners were execrable. His language did belong in the gutter. And he had handled Valentine March like a tavern doxy instead of a gently bred vicar’s daughter.

  His father had definite ideas about how his heir should conduct himself now that he was at last contemplating marriage to a respectable young lady. According to the earl, he was, above all, to control his baser urges and address himself to his future wife—whomever she might be—with no more than respectful affection. Tristan had a grim idea of what that entailed. He was well acquainted with the sort of bloodless unions entered into by many of his peers. Respectful affection was composed of no more than civil dialogue, polite but restrained flirtation, and dutiful couplings under cover of darkness until at least two sons were produced to secure the line.

  Is that how the Earl of Lynden had conducted his own marriage? Tristan couldn’t remember. He’d barely been two years old when his mother died. Except for a vague recollection of the scent of powder and lavender that had lingered on her soft white skin, he had no memory of her at all.

  The portrait of her at Lyndwood Hall showed her as a graceful dark-haired woman dripping in jewels. As a boy, he’d gone up to the picture gallery more times than he could count and sat cross-legged on the floor in the front of that painting. His mother’s blue eyes, so similar to those of his brother John, had seemed to look down on him, her face lit with a benevolent, maternal glow. Like a Madonna, he once told his father. But at the mention of the late countess, the earl’s expression had hardened into a cold, impenetrable mask. And that was something of his childhood that Tristan did remember. That cold, remote look that had come into his father’s eyes in the years following his mother’s death. The years during which the earl had only seemed to smile when he was in the presence of his younger son.

  He’d loved her. Loved her enough that it had been over a decade before he took a mistress. And yet, the earl had no such expectation for his heir. Tristan was to be consigned to a marriage in which he must always keep himself under rigid control. Not that he didn’t appreciate his father’s reasoning. The first time he’d had Valentine alone he’d bullied her. The second, he’d forced himself on her. And only this morning he’d brought up the subject of castration, of all things. What the devil had he been thinking?

  But he knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking that she was blue-deviled about what had happened the night before. That she was anxious about the future. That he would do anything—say anything—to distract her. Not that his motives had been entirely altruistic. He’d wanted to make her blush. He’d wanted to see her gray eyes flash with righteous outrage. To hear one of her prim little sermons.

  He was beginning to suspect that a brief, dutiful coupling with his future viscountess was not going to be nearly enough.

  At half past one, Valentine emerged from the backroom clothed in a white muslin Garibaldi blouse paired with a skirt made of vibrant emerald-green silk. The color emphasized the flawless porcelain of her skin and the elegant silhouette—complete with a slim velvet belt and delicate gilt buckle—set off her neat little figure to magnificent effect. In her hand she held a straw spoon bonnet trimmed in green silk ribbons and a profusion of artificial flowers and lace. She was eyeing it dubiously as she approached him.

  “May I speak with you?” she asked.

  Tristan’s gaze roved over her, his mouth suddenly dry. “If you wish.” He motioned to the front of the shop, out of hearing range of Madame Gerrard and her assistants. “I take it that you don’t like that hat.”

  “I do like it. Very much. Indeed, I like everything very much. Especially this beautiful skirt. But—”

  “You look very becoming,” he said.

  “Oh? Do you really think so?” She smoothed her silk skirts with an almost reverent touch, her objections temporarily forgotten. “It has a matching Zouave jacket. Madame Gerrard was making it up for another lady who’s near to my size. She’s given it to me along with some of the other lady’s gowns. It doesn’t seem very fair. To the other lady, I mean. But Madame Gerrard says this sort of thing is done all the time.”

  “Madame Gerrard is right.”

  “Still”—she sank her voice even lower—“I think it must all be very expensive.”

  “What does that signify?”

  “It’s too much, my lord.”

  “It’s merely a few frocks, Miss March. Far less costly than outfitting a female for the season in London. In any event, I’m not yet a bankrupt.”

  “Even so, you must conserve all your resources for Blackburn Priory, mustn’t you? And I could easily make do with half as many gowns or less.” Again, her voice fell to a whisper. “Not to mention that I hardly need so many pairs of stockings. And surely they needn’t all be silk? As for these new bonnets…” She looked down at the rather frivolous confection in her hand. “They’re far too fine. Indeed, my lord, I cannot accept them.”

  Tristan wished to God she hadn’t mentioned her silk stockings. Damnation, did she think he was made of stone? “If there’s something you truly don’t like, I won’t compel you to keep it, but as far as cutting the order in half, the answer is no. As we’ve already discussed, it’s my right as your betrothed to buy you whatever I wish. And I might well add, Miss March, that it’s now your duty to dress in a manner befitting the next Viscountess St. Ashton.”

  She was clutching her bonnet in both hands now, her brows drawn together in an anxious line. “You know there’s every chance we won’t marry at all.”

  He went very still. “Have you made a decision, then?”

  “No, but—”

  “Very well. Until you do, I’ll continue to act as your betrothed.” With that, he informed the modiste that they’d return in two hours for the rest of their order and, after directing Valentine to put on her new bonnet, ushered her out the front door of the dress shop.

  “Return in two hours from where?” Valentine asked as she took his proffered arm.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Famished,” she admitted.

  Tristan placed his hand over hers. “There’s an inn up ahead. I’ll bespeak a private parlor for us and we can have something to eat.” He smiled down at her. “Perhaps, if you’re very well-behaved, I’ll even allow you to have a sip of my ale.”

  By the time they returned to Fairford House, the sun was sinking behind the hills. Tristan stopped the curricle at the front steps and leapt down from his seat. A stable lad ran up to hold the horses’ heads and a young footman—the same, impudent fellow who had importuned Valentine the previous day—emerged to take charge of her packages.

  Valentine watched Tristan as he strode round to her side of the carriage. He looked different to her now. Less remote and coldly aristocrat. Indeed, after spending the better part of the day with him, he seemed much more than just a handsome rake. He’d teased her and made her laugh the entire journey home. He’d been kind and solicitous, too. At luncheon, he’d peeled and sectioned an orange for her. And he’d offered her not one but several sips of his ale.

  She hadn’t once felt as if he were attempting to seduce her or take advantage. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d been protective toward her. Rather like she imagined an elder brother might be.

  A small part of her owned to being slightly disappointed. Every time he touched her, she felt dozens of butterflies unfurl their wings in her stomach. Her pulse skipped and her palms dampened, the memory of his kisses and his powerful embrace making her a veritable puddle of silly, wilting femininity. Tristan, by contrast, seemed totally unaffected. Even when he quizzed her about some indecent thing or other, he managed to do so in a manner
that was far more humorous than lecherous.

  She caught up the bulk of her emerald-green silk skirts in her hand. They stood out wide from her body over a profusion of petticoats and a stiff horsehair crinoline. Thank goodness she hadn’t heeded Madame Gerrard’s advice about purchasing one of the newer varieties of cage crinoline. Made of hooped wires and fabric tape, it was a style favored by Lady Brightwell and her daughter—a style which made one’s skirts balloon out to the point of caricature. As it was, Valentine could scarcely turn in the seat of the curricle with so much fabric spilling all about her.

  Tristan gave her a slight smile as he reached up to catch her around the waist, lifting her out of the curricle and setting her feet down gently onto the paving stones. His large hands lingered a moment on the swell of her hips.

  He gazed down at her and she met his eyes, venturing a shy smile of her own. She could feel the warmth blooming in her cheeks. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “Now?” He dropped his hands, taking a step away from her. “I recommend a bath and a change of clothes. It’s impossible to travel in an open carriage without being covered all over with grime.”

  Valentine’s smile faded. Last night he had called her an angel and begged her to let him have her, but she was beginning to think that his sweet words and actions the previous evening owed more to excessive drink than any particular passion he may have felt for her. “And after that?”

  His expression grew somber. “Then we talk.”

  The footman cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, my lord. Shall I take these parcels to your rooms?”

  Valentine hurried forward. “I’ll take them.” She lifted the stack of white ribbon-tied boxes from the footman’s arms. She was thankful that neither the footman nor Tristan knew what was in them. At least, she didn’t think that Tristan knew. Then again, a practiced rake might well realize that boxes of a certain size could only contain a woman’s underthings.