Page 30 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Phil?” Tristan interrupted sharply.

“Phillip Edgecombe. A gentleman from my village in Surrey.”

“An elderly friend of your fathers, I presume? A doddering septuagenarian who’s half blind and walks with the aid of two sticks?”

She sensed he was being sarcastic, but couldn’t for the life of her fathom why. “Mr. Edgecombe is all of eight and twenty, my lord. And he’s in perfect health. At least, he was when last I saw him.”

“Who is he?”

“I’ve just told you—”

“Who is he to you?”

“Oh. I see.” Her brow furrowed. “Well…if you must know…Mr. Edgecombe and I had a sort of understanding.”

“An understanding?”

“There’s no need to bellow at me, sir.”

“Was I bellowing? I do beg your pardon.” This time his sarcasm was unmistakable. “Please continue, Miss March.”

“Yes, well…we had an understanding, but nothing was ever formally announced. The fact is, Phil—Mr. Edgecombe, I mean—never had any intention of marrying me.”

“It was Edgecombe who pressed you to write to the Marquess of Stokedale,” Tristan said. It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“I suppose he thought there was a chance you might be in line for some of the Caddington fortune.”

“He never said so. But when the first letter went unanswered, he urged me to write again. For my own benefit, he said. Because they were my family and I shouldn’t be all alone. It was only when the second letter received no reply that he told me we couldn’t marry. Though he did say he would always love me and would forever be my friend.”

“He sounds like an unmitigated ass.”

Valentine felt the smallest thrill of pleasure at Tristan’s unkind remark. “As to that—”

“Did you love him?” he asked.

She exhaled a slow breath. “No. At least, not in the way I think you mean. He was my friend. I’ve known him most of my life, you see. But I realize now that no friend would ever have asked me to write those letters. To humble myself in such a way—and to such a man.” She gave a short, choked laugh. “Well, what does it matter now? I daresay the Marquess of Stokedale didn’t even read them.”

“Stokedale is very like his father was before him. Cold. Inflexible. Too proud for his own good.”

“Well, I don’t ever wish to meet him,” Valentine declared. “And I won’t accept his help, even if your father persuades him to give it to me. I’d rather go to a workhouse. I’d rather starve.”

“Ah. The famous Caddington pride.”

“It’s not pride! It’s self-respect. Besides,” she added stiffly, “I’m nothing like them.”

“No? Then I suppose I must beg your pardon again.”

She sighed. “Perhaps it is a Caddington trait. If so, I can’t help it. But I’d never be cold or inflexible.” Something in Tristan’s face brought an immediate flush to her own. Was he thinking of their kiss? She’d certainly not been cold and inflexible then. “What I mean to say is that I’d never be unjust or unforgiving. Especially not to a person who’s in their present predicament through no fault of their own.”

“I begin to think that the first option is not to your liking.”

“The first option…? Oh, yes. I see.”

“That leaves the second option. The one that culminates with you marrying me.”

“At St. George’s, Hanover Square.” She frowned.