Page 14 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“What about Miss March’s spectacles, Mama?” Felicity demanded. “You can’t let her go down to dinner barefaced.”

“There’s nothing that can be done about that now. We must all make the best of it.” Lady Brightwell rose from her chair and shook the skirts of her gown over her wire crinoline. “That doesn’t mean you’re absolved, Miss March. Tomorrow morning, you must go out into the woods and locate your spectacles. Pray they’re not lost or damaged, for I’ll have to take the cost out of your wages.”

Valentine opened her mouth to object and then promptly shut it again. There was no need to protest the unfairness of such a decree. St. Ashton had her spectacles, after all. He’d promised to return them to her at dinner. Though she didn’t see how he could. The likelihood of the two of them having a moment alone was less than zero.

“Mama, did you speak to Lady Fairford about the seating arrangements?”

“You have nothing to worry about, pet,” Lady Brightwell assured her. “You’ll be on St. Ashton’s right and Mrs. Ravenscroft will be on his left.”

Mrs. Ravenscroft was a well-preserved widow of fifty and, according to the Fairfords’ cook, Mrs. Gaunt, only attended the annual house parties to meet with Lord Horsham, her elderly married beau.

“That Mrs. Ravenscroft don’t engage in any of them lewd games her ladyship puts on,” Mrs. Gaunt had gossiped cheerfully as she sat with Valentine in the kitchen that afternoon sharing a pot of tea. “She’s only here for Lord Horsham and him for her.”

Mrs. Gaunt had told Valentine about the other guests as well, warning her which gentlemen she must stay away from at all costs and which of the ladies it would be best to avoid. Afterward, Valentine had felt guilty for sitting and gossiping with a servant. She was a gentlewoman and, as a lady’s companion, not technically a servant herself. It would not do to fall into bad habits. But Mrs. Gaunt had been so kind.

And her disclosures about St. Ashton had been impossible to resist.

“As handsome a devil as ever there was,” she’d said. “He’s not one who has to force anyone to his bed. They come willingly enough, by twos and threes, or so I’ve heard.”

“By twos and threes?” Valentine’s eyes had widened. “Do you mean…two and three ladies in his bed all at once?”

Mrs. Gaunt had given a knowing nod. “It was before my time, mind you. I only come here two years ago. But I heard the stories from every giggling housemaid who ever crossed his path.”

“Oh, but surely he doesn’t…?”

“Meddle with the servants?” Mrs. Gaunt had cackled. “No fear of that, dearie. He’s one of them lords as is too high in the instep for the likes of us.”

The likes of us.

Valentine had heard the words with a decided pang in her heart, knowing she’d been automatically included in the group of servants and other unsuitable females St. Ashton considered beneath him. Not that it mattered a jot. She hadn’t taken employment only to fall victim to some rake. She had a plan for her future. A respectable, virtuous plan that only required a small bit of money. The annual sum of her wages as a lady’s companion, in fact. In ten more months she would have it.

And then…

“St. Ashton will have nothing to say to Mrs. Ravenscroft,” Felicity said, her sullen voice recalling Valentine back to the present. “She’s a dried-up old crone.”

“She’s my age, my love,” Lady Brightwell said. “I hope you don’t think me an old crone.”

“No, but Mama, I thought I was to sit between St. Ashton and his father.”

“Perhaps tomorrow. He’ll be staying the week, I understand. Maria Fairford is up in arms. Her party games can’t commence while he’s present.” Lady Brightwell sighed. “It’s regrettable. Lord Penworthy’s here, and he and I have always been on especially good terms.”

“Mama!”

“Come, my love,” Lady Brightwell said, oblivious to her daughter’s scandalized gasp. “We must make an appearance in the drawing room before dinner. Miss March? Don’t dawdle.”

Valentine followed in their wake as they exited Lady Brightwell’s bedroom and swept down the stairs to the second floor. They arrived in the drawing room amidst a crush of other guests who were dressed in their evening finery. There were over a dozen gentlemen, ranging from their middle twenties to as old as seventy, if Valentine was any judge, while most of the ladies in attendance seemed to be upwards of forty. They made a merry party, all appearing to know each other and falling swiftly into murmured reminiscences of prior house parties.

“St. Ashton!” Felicity called suddenly. “Look, Mama! There he is with the Earl of Lynden.” She raised her hand and wiggled her gloved fingers. “St. Ashton!”

He towered head and shoulders over most of the gentlemen in the room. Valentine could easily make him out. For a moment, she considered ducking out of the drawing room and sprinting back upstairs. But it was too late. The Viscount St. Ashton was already making his way toward them.

He was clad in the most elegant evening attire she’d ever beheld. A fitted black evening coat and trousers, embroidered waistcoat, and snowy white linen that sparkled in the candlelight. His black hair was brushed into meticulous order, his side-whiskers trimmed short beneath the hard planes of his cheekbones. His face was composed into lines of fashionably bored indifference. Only his mouth betrayed any emotion. It was edged with what she could only describe as a sardonic smile.

It sent a shiver of unease through her.

“St. Ashton, how very bad of you to hide yourself away all afternoon,” Felicity chastised the viscount when he came to stand before them. “Didn’t you know I was here? You might have sent for me. We could have gone for a drive or taken a walk.”

St. Ashton greeted mother and daughter with civility, if not friendliness. “The weather would hardly have supported either,” he said.