Page 24 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Wantonness,” she said bitterly. Her cheeks burned with a mortified blush.

“You? Wanton?” He was sorely tempted to laugh. “My little innocent…” But he could see that she was having none of it. Who’d told her that her mother was wanton? Her father? “I didn’t know your mother,” he began, choosing his words with care. “I was too young. But I know of her. She’s still mentioned on occasion. Shall I tell you what I’ve heard?”

“No.”

He ignored her objection. “She was contracted from birth to wed the Duke of Carlisle. On her nineteenth birthday the betrothal was announced. Shortly after, it was discovered that she was with child. She refused to name the father—”

“Because she didn’t know which of her lovers it was!”

Tristan’s brows lifted. “Who the devil told you that? Your father?”

“It’s the truth.”

“With all due respect to the estimable vicar, it’s my understanding that she knew exactly who the father was. That she refused to name him only to spare him the ignominy of being horsewhipped up and down the continent by the old marquess.”

Valentine shook her head, refusing to believe it. “If that were so, why didn’t he come forward and marry her? Why did he allow her to be sent away in disgrace?”

“I don’t know. My own father may have some idea. He seems to know more about this affair than I realized. Indeed, I…” Tristan raked a hand through his hair, remembering his father’s sudden decision to stay in Yorkshire. A decision that had come directly on the heels of his seeing Valentine in the hall. “Damn me for an idiot, I begin to think that he remained here at Fairford House because he recognized you.”

“Of course he did. It’s why he questioned me all through dinner. He was plainly horrified to see me mingling amongst the guests as if I were a lady of respectable birth.”

“Miss March, all of London society believes that your mother was exiled to the country, where she died giving birth to her illegitimate child. By all accounts, the child died with her. The old marquess is dead. Your uncle has the title now. Who knows what really happened all those years ago?” He gentled his voice. “Whatever occurred, I can assure you, even if your mother had one hundred lovers, such things don’t pass themselves down in the bloodstream. I can’t explain my father’s particular interest in you. Perhaps he’s merely curious. Whatever the reason, I promise you that he’s not so high in the instep as to refuse to dine with the illegitimate daughter of anyone.”

She brushed another tear from her cheek. “How you must regret following me to the conservatory.”

“There are many things I regret about this debacle, Miss March, but that’s not one of them.”

Her brows drew together, her eyes finding his in an uncertain question. He felt a flicker of pathetic hope. She wanted to believe him. All that was needed was a word of reassurance. A sign that he was not merely succumbing to an unpleasant duty.

“I told you the truth,” he said. “I’ll take that kiss with me to Northumberland. I daresay I’ll live on the memory of it for a good long time.” He paused, trying to summon a witty phrase or dry remark. None were forthcoming. “Must I live on the memory of it?” he asked at last. “Or will you come with me?”

“To Northumberland, do you mean?”

Tristan nodded.

“As y-your mistress?”

His jaw tightened. “I told you I have no intention of making you my mistress. I ask you to come with me as my wife or not at all.”

“You father would never allow it.”

“He has no say in the matter. And even if he did, I can’t see why he’d object. No matter the circumstances of your mother, you came into this world the legitimate daughter of Mr. March, a vicar. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, but…”

“He married your mother and gave her his name.”

“Yes. He…he said it was his Christian duty. That she’d fallen low, like Mary Magdalene, but that she’d repented and was ready to start a better life.”

Tristan was beginning to suspect that the estimable vicar was a dashed loose screw. Comparing Lady Sara Caddington to Mary Magdalene? Telling Valentine that she’d inherited her mother’s wantonness? No doubt there was more to the story, but now was not the time to prise it from her. “In any case,” he said, “you have the vicar’s name. You are Valentine March. The rest is so much ancient history.”

“And yet your father recognized me. He knew who I was right away.”

“I wouldn’t make the mistake of comparing the wits of the general populace to those of my father. He’s uncannily astute. As for those in Northumberland, there are few near Blackburn Priory who have seen a viscount, let alone anyone who would recognize the long-lost descendant of a marquess. Indeed, I expect to find the estate populated by poachers, vagrants, and criminals. We’ll be lucky to have any sort of society there. Believe me, the identity of your forebears won’t come up at all.” He was blathering, he knew it. In truth, he couldn’t remember when he’d last been so nervous. Winning her was suddenly everything.

He cleared his throat. “Now, if you have no other objections—”

“I don’t know you,” she said softly. “We’ve only just met today.”