Page 32 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

He’d seen the look in her eyes as he informed her of the earl’s proposed solutions to their current dilemma. He could tell that the options were as unappealing to her as they had been to him. She didn’t want to go to London and marry at St. George’s, Hanover Square any more than she wanted to spend a prolonged period of time with John and Elizabeth in Devonshire. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted.

But she’d responded to his embrace last night with enough passion to set off all the fireworks at Cremorne Gardens. She’d kissed him and clung to him. She’d promised to marry him.

And in return he’d promised her that he would do better. That he would change.

Good Lord, but she’d believed him.

She’d believed him.

Knowing that, how in the world was he ever supposed to let her go?

Tristan folded his arms and settled farther back into the chair. He watched the shop assistants dart in and out of the back room with pattern books, ribbons, and bolts of fabric, trying his damnedest not to imagine Valentine standing only a few yards away in nothing but her shift.

All the things his father had said to him during that excruciating lecture in the library last night were true. His manners were execrable. His language did belong in the gutter. And he had handled Valentine March like a tavern doxy instead of a gently bred vicar’s daughter.

His father had definite ideas about how his heir should conduct himself now that he was at last contemplating marriage to a respectable young lady. According to the earl, he was, above all, to control his baser urges and address himself to his future wife—whomever she might be—with no more than respectful affection. Tristan had a grim idea of what that entailed. He was well acquainted with the sort of bloodless unions entered into by many of his peers. Respectful affection was composed of no more than civil dialogue, polite but restrained flirtation, and dutiful couplings under cover of darkness until at least two sons were produced to secure the line.

Is that how the Earl of Lynden had conducted his own marriage? Tristan couldn’t remember. He’d barely been two years old when his mother died. Except for a vague recollection of the scent of powder and lavender that had lingered on her soft white skin, he had no memory of her at all.

The portrait of her at Lyndwood Hall showed her as a graceful dark-haired woman dripping in jewels. As a boy, he’d gone up to the picture gallery more times than he could count and sat cross-legged on the floor in the front of that painting. His mother’s blue eyes, so similar to those of his brother John, had seemed to look down on him, her face lit with a benevolent, maternal glow. Like a Madonna, he once told his father. But at the mention of the late countess, the earl’s expression had hardened into a cold, impenetrable mask. And that was something of his childhood that Tristan did remember. That cold, remote look that had come into his father’s eyes in the years following his mother’s death. The years during which the earl had only seemed to smile when he was in the presence of his younger son.

He’d loved her. Loved her enough that it had been over a decade before he took a mistress. And yet, the earl had no such expectation for his heir. Tristan was to be consigned to a marriage in which he must always keep himself under rigid control. Not that he didn’t appreciate his father’s reasoning. The first time he’d had Valentine alone he’d bullied her. The second, he’d forced himself on her. And only this morning he’d brought up the subject of castration, of all things. What the devil had he been thinking?

But he knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He’d been thinking that she was blue-deviled about what had happened the night before. That she was anxious about the future. That he would do anything—say anything—to distract her. Not that his motives had been entirely altruistic. He’d wanted to make her blush. He’d wanted to see her gray eyes flash with righteous outrage. To hear one of her prim little sermons.

He was beginning to suspect that a brief, dutiful coupling with his future viscountess was not going to be nearly enough.

At half past one, Valentine emerged from the backroom clothed in a white muslin Garibaldi blouse paired with a skirt made of vibrant emerald-green silk. The color emphasized the flawless porcelain of her skin and the elegant silhouette—complete with a slim velvet belt and delicate gilt buckle—set off her neat little figure to magnificent effect. In her hand she held a straw spoon bonnet trimmed in green silk ribbons and a profusion of artificial flowers and lace. She was eyeing it dubiously as she approached him.

“May I speak with you?” she asked.

Tristan’s gaze roved over her, his mouth suddenly dry. “If you wish.” He motioned to the front of the shop, out of hearing range of Madame Gerrard and her assistants. “I take it that you don’t like that hat.”

“I do like it. Very much. Indeed, I like everything very much. Especially this beautiful skirt. But—”

“You look very becoming,” he said.

“Oh? Do you really think so?” She smoothed her silk skirts with an almost reverent touch, her objections temporarily forgotten. “It has a matching Zouave jacket. Madame Gerrard was making it up for another lady who’s near to my size. She’s given it to me along with some of the other lady’s gowns. It doesn’t seem very fair. To the other lady, I mean. But Madame Gerrard says this sort of thing is done all the time.”

“Madame Gerrard is right.”

“Still”—she sank her voice even lower—“I think it must all be very expensive.”

“What does that signify?”

“It’s too much, my lord.”

“It’s merely a few frocks, Miss March. Far less costly than outfitting a female for the season in London. In any event, I’m not yet a bankrupt.”

“Even so, you must conserve all your resources for Blackburn Priory, mustn’t you? And I could easily make do with half as many gowns or less.” Again, her voice fell to a whisper. “Not to mention that I hardly need so many pairs of stockings. And surely they needn’t all be silk? As for these new bonnets…” She looked down at the rather frivolous confection in her hand. “They’re far too fine. Indeed, my lord, I cannot accept them.”

Tristan wished to God she hadn’t mentioned her silk stockings. Damnation, did she think he was made of stone? “If there’s something you truly don’t like, I won’t compel you to keep it, but as far as cutting the order in half, the answer is no. As we’ve already discussed, it’s my right as your betrothed to buy you whatever I wish. And I might well add, Miss March, that it’s now your duty to dress in a manner befitting the next Viscountess St. Ashton.”

She was clutching her bonnet in both hands now, her brows drawn together in an anxious line. “You know there’s every chance we won’t marry at all.”

He went very still. “Have you made a decision, then?”

“No, but—”