Page 1 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

North Yorkshire, England

Autumn, 1861

Tristan Sinclair, Viscount St. Ashton, strode through the woods that bordered the ramshackle estate of his hosts, Lord and Lady Fairford. His father, the Earl of Lynden, was waiting for him back at the house. To beard him in his proverbial den, no doubt. Why else would he have tracked him to the wilds of Yorkshire, seeking him out at one of the most notorious house parties of the season?

“Your father is here, my lord,” his groom had whispered as Tristan dismounted from his horse and tossed him the reins. “He is taking tea with Lady Fairford and has asked to be informed the moment you arrive.”

Tristan was tired and irritable. He’d spent all day in the saddle. His servants had travelled ahead in the carriage, leaving the posting inn at the crack of dawn, while he’d remained abed, sleeping off the effects of a night of heavy drinking. And now, here he was, hiding out in the woods as if he were a boy of ten instead of a man of two and thirty.

He struck a low-hanging branch with his riding whip, severing the wet leaves with a loud, satisfying crunch. “Damn and blast!”

And then he heard it.

The unmistakable sound of a woman weeping in the woods.

Tristan stopped where he stood and listened. Yes. It was, indeed, a woman. He would recognize that muffled sound anywhere. He’d certainly heard it enough in his lifetime. More often than not, he’d been the cause of it. And yet…this weeping woman did not sound at all like the distraught mistresses, angry actresses, and spoiled heiresses he’d often provoked to tears.

This woman sounded as if her heart was breaking.

It seemed to be coming from within a cluster of trees just up ahead. There had been a broken down little folly there once, a popular location for lovers’ trysts, as well as the many and varied debaucheries that were the hallmark of Lord and Lady Fairford’s house parties. He’d once met a raven-haired widow there in the moonlight. Meg something? Or was it Mary? He couldn’t recall. It had been years ago when such anonymous, amorous adventures still held some appeal for him.

Perhaps that was what he was hearing now? A liaison gone wrong? It wouldn’t be unthinkable that a gentleman might bring his lover here to break things off with her. That would certainly explain the tears.

He would do better to ignore it and continue on his way. A random weeping woman was none of his affair.

Unless she was hurt.

Tristan was far less compassionate toward women than he’d been in his youth. He’d spent too many seasons being pursued by marriage-minded mamas and young ladies determined to wed the heir to one of the wealthiest earldoms in the country. For years he’d avoided the canniest tricks and the most outlandish traps, all the while becoming more and more jaded about the female sex.

Nevertheless, something about that pitiful sound compelled him forward.

He was vaguely conscious of the state of his appearance. His greatcoat and breeches were stained from travel. His cravat was a wilted disgrace and his boots, normally polished to a mirror-shine, were scuffed and filthy. Good God, but he must look like some shabby country squire! And, as if that image were not repulsive enough, he was well aware that he reeked of horses, sweat, and the aftereffects of a night of heavily liquored self-pity.

Not that any of that had ever mattered to a woman before.

Tristan came to a gap in the trees and, turning his large frame sideways, ducked through it. Wet leaves brushed his greatcoat, the smell of damp wood and sodden grass permeating the air. His eyes found the folly at the edge of the small clearing, exactly as he remembered it. Like much on the Fairfords’ estate, it was in desperate need of repair. Half the roof had rotted away and the steps leading up to it were splintered and broken.

There inside, he saw the small, hunched figure of a woman in a drab, ill-fitting gown. A ray of sunlight through the branches of the trees glinted and sparkled off of something on her face.

Spectacles.

Tristan grimaced. He didn’t need to go any closer to identify one of the ranks of colorless, bespectacled lady’s companions who trailed meekly in the wake of Lady Hortensia Brightwell. Every year, Lady Brightwell had a new one. And yet, somehow, they always looked the same. Hair scraped back into a tight little knot. Shapeless, drooping gowns. And, on every single one of them, spectacles.

He’d long suspected that Lady Brightwell chose her companions specifically for their lack of charm and beauty.

Tristan hesitated only a moment before striding forward to the folly. He had no interest in comforting a dreary little spinster, but if the alternative was returning to the house where his father was waiting to read him a lecture, comfort her he would. And who better? If there was one thing the Viscount St. Ashton understood, it was women.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said as he vaulted up the broken steps.

At the sound of his deep voice, the woman sprang up from her seat. A crumpled paper fell from her lap onto the ground. She looked at it and then looked up at him. For an instant, Tristan thought she might bolt.

He raised a staying hand. “Don’t be uneasy,” he said. “I mean you no harm. Indeed, I meant to offer you some assistance.”

She stared at him through spectacles that were steamed from her tears and then, with a choking sigh, she sank back onto the wooden bench and covered her face with her hands.

A rare pang of sympathy briefly softened his expression. The poor little antidote. One might think that she had just discovered that her entire world had come to an end. Perhaps she had been given the sack? Or perhaps one of Lady Fairford’s less reputable houseguests had attempted to steal a kiss?

Moving as carefully as he would if he were approaching a wild animal, Tristan crossed the folly to stand at her side. He did not wait for an invitation. This was not a drawing room in Mayfair and she was not a gently bred young lady. He sank down beside her on the bench, close enough that his thigh brushed presumptuously against her skirts. And then he looked at her. Really looked at her.