Page 20 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Yes, you. Don’t ask me why. I can think of one hundred reasons, most of them bad ones and none of them suitable for repeating.” His fingers loosened on her forearm, his hand sliding down to hers. “If I offend you, it’s not done on purpose. Pray, don’t go.”

Her eyes fell for an instant to where his hand covered her own. “I won’t. Not yet.” And quite against her will, she turned her hand, settling it more comfortably in his.

Some of the tension went out of St. Ashton’s shoulders then. “Thank you.”

Valentine could feel the warmth of her blush as it heated her cheeks and chest. It was impossible to appear composed in such a situation. Nevertheless, she tried. “Your father was asking about me. He asked about the village where I grew up and about my mother and father. That sort of thing.”

“And you answered him.”

So she had—as vaguely as possible. Not that it had put the earl off. He’d seemed to know just what to ask and just how to ask it without seeming rude or intrusive. Valentine had had no defense against such an expert technique. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I answered him.”

“As a result, I suppose he now knows everything about you.”

“Not everything, my lord.”

“He knows more about you than I do. I daresay more than I ever will.”

“There’s nothing worth the knowing. I was a vicar’s daughter. And now I’m a lady’s companion. That’s all.” Her heart was thumping painfully again. “I’m surprised your father would wish to stay here.”

“He doesn’t wish it. He’s only here to prevent me from contracting what he considers to be an unsuitable marriage.”

“With Felicity Brightwell?”

“Who else?”

Any secret hopes Valentine might have cherished promptly withered and died. “Yes. I see.”

“He’s taken it in his head that she’s not good enough for me. In point of fact, he’s strictly forbidden the match. He believes he can stop it somehow. And knowing him as I do, he probably can. Though, I can’t see how. Especially not when he spends all of his time in conversation with you. But then my father’s methods have ever been a mystery to me.”

Valentine listened in numb silence. She’d always been a remarkably good listener. A quality of which Phillip Edgecombe had once taken full advantage. She’d been his friend and confidante. The person he’d come to when his cares had overwhelmed him.

“The name Edgecombe doesn’t mean much around these parts anymore. Not after the way father treated everyone. And the debts! You have no idea the extent of them, Val. Mortgages on the house. Lines of credit with more banks than I can count. I mean to put it right again now he’s gone, but how can I when nobody will lend me a bean?”

“Can’t you just leave, Phil?” she’d asked him. “Go somewhere else? Start over?”

He’d given her an indulgent smile. “And marry you? Leave Hartwood Green and traipse the globe like a pair of penniless beggars?”

“Not beggars,” she’d objected. “Squire Pilcher mentioned a gentleman acquaintance of his with an estate in the West Country. If you were serious about going into the church—about taking orders—perhaps he might be able to arrange a living for you there.”

“It’s the dearest wish of my heart,” Phil had replied with seeming sincerity. “But no. I must find a way to raise some capital, Val. When I’ve paid down my father’s debts and have something more to offer you than my good name, then you and I shall marry. You have my word on it.”

His word. What a fool she’d been.

But that was two months ago. The morning she’d boarded the train in Surrey to the Brightwell’s estate in Hertfordshire and her new life as a lady’s companion, she’d vowed that she’d never again act the fool for any man. And she didn’t intend to break her promise to herself now. No matter how much Lord St. Ashton might need a compassionate ear.

“If that’s so, my lord,” she said, “you must go join the others in the drawing room. I know Miss Brightwell is waiting for you most impatiently and—”

St. Ashton’s fingers closed more firmly over her hand. “Are you so anxious to be rid of me?”

She exhaled a tremulous breath. When she spoke, her voice was equally unsteady. “Please let me go.”

The sardonic humor disappeared from St. Ashton’s face. “What is it? What have I said?”

“Nothing, only I still haven’t found Lady Brightwell’s shawl and—” She tugged at her hand. “Please. Let me find it and you may take it back with you to the drawing room.”

“I’m not going back to the blasted drawing room.”

“But Miss Brightwell—”