Page 2 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Damnation, but she was not an older lady at all. In fact, she appeared to be a relatively young woman. Her overlarge gown hung over what his practiced eye recognized as a slender and altogether pleasing frame. And the severe knot at the nape of her neck did nothing to disguise the light golden splendor of her hair. It was glossy and fair, several strands escaping their imprisonment to fall forward over her face and hands.

Small, elegant hands with delicately tapered fingers.

“Come now,” Tristan said gruffly, “this won’t do. You’re weeping directly into your hands. Have you no handkerchief?” He extracted his own from the inner pocket of his greatcoat and offered it to her. “Here. Take mine.”

She took it from him with trembling fingers, immediately clutching it to her face.

“Give me your spectacles,” he commanded.

“M-my spectacles?” she asked.

He extended his hand. “I shall clean the lenses while you compose yourself.”

She responded to his peremptory tone with the automatic obedience he expected from those in subordinate positions, removing her spectacles and dropping them into his outstretched hand. She then covered her face with his handkerchief once again.

Tristan examined the metal-framed spectacles with vague interest. They were bent and misshapen and, quite obviously, too large for her face. Secondhand, he decided, just like everything else she was wearing. He polished the wet lenses on the edge of his sleeve. When he had finished, he held them up to ascertain his handiwork, squinting as he looked through the lenses. They were as clean as he could get them. So clean that he could see right through them to the surrounding woods. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Either you and I suffer from the same abnormality of vision…or these lenses are made of clear glass.”

“Oh, please go away, sir,” she said on a sob.

He folded the spectacles and tossed them carelessly onto the seat beside him, well out of her reach. “I assume Lady Brightwell gave them to you.”

That got her attention. She lowered the handkerchief, peering up at him over the edge of it with the loveliest pair of gray eyes Tristan had ever had the privilege to behold. “Do you… Do you know Lady Brightwell?” she ask in a husky, tear-clogged whisper.

And then her hands slowly dropped to her lap, taking the handkerchief with them.

Tristan stared at her, temporarily struck dumb. To say that her face was beautiful would not be entirely accurate. He had seen many beautiful women in his lifetime. Veritable goddesses.

The woman sitting in front of him now was no goddess.

She was, he realized somewhat nonsensically, more in line with being an angel.

Her face was ever so slightly heart-shaped. Her mouth full, soft, and unexpectedly kissable. Gently sculpted cheekbones, a straight, elegant nose, and gracefully winged brows several shades darker than her hair finished the picture.

And then there were those eyes. Wide, fathomless eyes. As stormy and tempest-tossed as the rain across an uncertain sea.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, I know Lady Brightwell,” he said, far more harshly than he had intended. “And I recognize your breed as well. A companion, are you?”

“Yes.”

“And these?” Tristan motioned to the spectacles. “Did they come with this revolting gown and this wretched…I dare not call it a coiffure.” He frowned at her hair. “It’s a sort of uniform, I take it. Lady Brightwell’s uniform for a lady’s companion.”

“Yes,” she admitted. She brought his handkerchief to her face and, quite energetically, blew her nose.

Tristan had never seen a lady attend to the business in such a matter-of-fact manner. “No woman would wear them by choice,” he said. “Especially not a young lady like yourself.”

“I’m not a young lady.”

He raised his brows. “No? How old are you then, madam? Thirty? Forty?”

“Six and twenty.”

He knew he was being rude to her, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Six and twenty? So, not a young woman after all.”

She completed drying her tears and then, for the first time, turned to look at him directly. What must, under better circumstances, be a rather enviable porcelain complexion was splotchy with weeping and her perfectly proportioned little nose shone red as a beacon. “How old are you, sir?” she enquired sharply. “Fifty? Sixty?”

Tristan was surprised into a crack of laughter.

She did not smile. She merely looked at him, her expression as reproving as a schoolteacher’s.