Page 16 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

An angel, Tristan thought grimly. He took a large swallow of wine, half listening to Felicity Brightwell as she chattered in his ear. For the first time, he acknowledged what had been troubling him since the moment he laid eyes on Miss March. That peculiar feeling—as if he’d just been flattened by a runaway train or struck by a bolt of lightning. That feeling with a blasted phrase attached to it. A phrase which, until earlier this afternoon, had seemed to him so damnably laughable. So utterly impossible.

Love at first sight.

The devil! He was two and thirty, not some green lad. He’d learned long ago not to mistake physical desire for something more. If only he hadn’t crossed paths with Miss March today. If only it had been a month ago. Even a week ago. His heart would have remained untouched, he was sure of it.

But today he’d been blue-deviled. He’d been… Curse and confound it! He’d been vulnerable. And then he’d seen her. And she seemed to be everything he most needed in the world. Innocence. Truth. Beauty. All wrapped up in one angelic little package.

He took another swallow of his wine.

“Both of the cousins were sent straight back to the country in disgrace!” Miss Brightwell exclaimed with a burst of gleeful laughter. “What do you think of that, St. Ashton?”

“A very diverting tale.” Tristan motioned for a footman to refill his wine.

“I should say so. It was the scandal of the season.”

He glanced down the table again at his father and Miss March. They appeared to be engaged in grave conversation. If it could be called a conversation. Miss March’s face was stark white and she’d hardly eaten a thing since they sat down. Every so often, he saw her nod or utter a monosyllabic reply.

What could his father be saying to her? Was he warning her to stay away from his dissolute son? Informing her that her innocence—her very status as a gentlewoman—was no protection against such an unconscionable rake?

Tristan’s fingers tightened around the stem of his wineglass in a reflexive spasm of anger.

Years ago, his father and brother had accused him of ruining a young virgin on the marriage mart. He’d denied it, of course. He’d even given his word that he’d never, nor would he ever compromise a young lady of gentle birth.

Neither had believed him.

Tristan could still remember the scathing letter John had written him. It had been filled with words like “honor” and “duty.” By the time John and his father realized that the young lady was no different from any of the other adventuresses and fortune hunters who’d been pursuing Tristan since he came of age, it was too late. Tristan had broken with them, parting on the very worst of terms, and leaving London to commence a several-year stint of drunken debauchery that would have shamed the devil.

The three of them were civil now, largely as a result of Elizabeth’s well-intentioned interference, but Tristan didn’t think he could ever forgive John and his father for their lack of faith in him.

And if his father intended to blacken his name to Valentine March…

But that was absurd. His father would never hold up a Sinclair to public scorn. Any Sinclair. Even one as disappointing as his eldest son.

“I daresay I won’t have another season next year,” Miss Brightwell said. “There’s no need for it. Mama thinks I’ll be married by the spring. What do you say to that, St. Ashton?”

“What can I say, Miss Brightwell?”

“Do you have particular plans for the spring?” She gave him a secret smile. “I’ll wager you do.”

“And you’d be right.” Tristan drank deeply from his glass. “I’ll be in Northumberland.”

Her brow creased. “Northumberland?”

“I have an estate there. Blackburn Priory. I’m to live there.”

“Ah, a country home. But you’ll be back to London for the season, won’t you? You wouldn’t want to be away from certain of your friends for too long.”

“My dear girl, I won’t be able to afford London next season, nor the season after that. I’m meant for the wilds of Northumberland, to molder away in a drafty house out in the middle of nowhere.”

Miss Brightwell froze in the act of raising her water goblet to her mouth. “You’re to live in Northumberland?”

“If one can call it living.”

“And what do you mean you can’t afford to reside in London? What nonsense. Everyone knows you’re as rich as Croesus.”

“Do they? How charming.”

“To live in Northumberland all the year long? Ha!” She laughed. “Who would do so? Not you, my lord. You would die of boredom.”