Page 18 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

His eyes never leaving her face, he reached into his coat and pulled out the carefully folded piece of paper. He extended it to her in his hand, but as she reached out to take it, his fingers closed around the paper. “Perhaps I should keep it.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because it means more to you than anything in the world,” he said.

Valentine’s heart commenced a heavy, almost painful thumping. “That makes no sense at all.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Only because you’re foxed, my lord.”

“Not foxed, Miss March. A trifle disguised. There’s a world of difference, I assure you.”

She held out her hand, palm up. “It’s mine, sir. Please give it back.”

“And what will you do if Miss Brightwell falls into another tantrum and throws it onto the fire? Then you’ll have nothing left of your precious book of verses. Let me keep it for you, Miss March. I won’t let anything happen to it, I promise you.”

Valentine had the sense that something was wrong with him. Was he drunk? Was he mad? She thrust her hand closer. “I insist you give it back to me, my lord. You know I hold it very dear.”

“Which is precisely why I wish to keep it.”

The heavy thumping in her chest was a positive ache now. Good heavens, but he was serious! There was no hint of silky flattery or subtle seduction in his words. They were stark and raw. Brutally honest. But that couldn’t be, could it? He was a practiced rake, after all. A man skilled at this sort of thing. Hadn’t he confessed to following her to the conservatory? It was as if he knew of her particular weakness. Like a predator. A predator with an injured lamb.

The very idea filled her with indignation.

“I won’t allow you to make a joke of me, sir. Nor will I allow you to make sport of my feelings. Just because you—”

She broke off with a sharp intake of breath as St. Ashton caught her hand in his.

He moved his thumb over the curve of her palm and then, before she could jerk away from him, he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a kiss.

A quiver went through her. “My lord, you go too far,” she protested. But she didn’t attempt to liberate her hand. Instead she watched, wide-eyed as he kissed it once more.

“My lord,” he repeated. “Miss March didn’t I warn you to stop my lording me? My name is St. Ashton. Call me that if you must. Though, I would far prefer it if you called me Tristan.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.” She extricated her hand from his grasp with one sharp tug. She was mortified to see that it was trembling. “Give me my paper and my spectacles and—”

“Ah, your spectacles. That may be a bit difficult.”

“What?” She took a step away from him. “Why? You said you had them.”

“And so I did. But I confess at some point this afternoon I may have succumbed to the unholy temptation to grind them under my boot heel.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Your eyes are as bright as the moonlight, Miss March. I couldn’t bear to see them hidden by those abominable spectacles for even one more moment.”

“How dared you? You… You…” Tears sprang to her eyes. “You unfeeling bully!” She turned her back on him, moving to stand at the edge of the wide glass window. She was trembling with anger. But not only with anger. He’d flustered her with that kiss. He’d confused her. And he’d made her wish… made her hope…that his advances might be real. That he might actually care something for her.

Which he very obviously didn’t.

Nor how could he? They’d only met for the first time that afternoon. And by his own admission he was the worst rake and reprobate of this entire wretched house party. Hadn’t Mrs. Gaunt said he brought women to his bed two and three at a time?

She heard him close the distance between them. Felt his imposing presence as he once again came to stand at her side. He was silent for a long moment, as if he couldn’t find the words. “Forgive me,” he said at last. “I’m a damnable brute.”

“Yes,” she said. “You are.”

His hand found hers. He pressed the folded paper into it. “Your psalm, Miss March. With my compliments.”