Page 38 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Quite so,” Lord Lynden agreed.

“It’s become intolerable,” she said. “I want to leave as soon as possible.”

Lord Lynden nodded. “And so we shall. At dawn. As we should have done today.” He rose. “I must speak to my valet. And I must write to Lady Hermione. If you’ll excuse me, Miss March, I shall bid you good night.”

“Good night, my lord. And thank you.”

Lord Lynden acknowledged her thanks with an inclination of his head before levelling a quelling glance at his son. “St. Ashton. Pray don’t drink yourself into a stupor this evening.”

Valentine watched the Earl of Lynden walk from the room. When he was gone, she turned to Tristan. “You’re not really going to drink your dinner, are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” she said. “In truth, I wish you wouldn’t drink at all.”

“Don’t judge all drink by your unfortunate experience with the Fairfords’ sherry. Some alcohol is really quite good. Effective, too. It helps a man to round the corners, as they say. To plane away the asperities of existence.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what any of that means. It sounds like utter nonsense.”

“It means, my little innocent, that at times strong drink does a damned good job of making life more bearable.”

“Is life so unbearable for you, my lord?”

“My lord,” he repeated. “We regress.” He moved from the fireplace to take his father’s abandoned chair. Once seated, he fixed her with a brooding stare. “If you wanted to go to London to find a willing Caddington relation, why didn’t you come to me? Why approach my father?”

He looked like a great predatory cat sprawled in the leather armchair. All long, muscled limbs and coiled strength. But there was something else there, too. Some emotion intertwined amongst the magnificence of his physical presence. Was he disappointed in her? Was he…

Great goodness.

Was he hurt?

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I did come to you. I didn’t know your father would be here as well. How could I?”

“And now he’s taking you off to London without so much as a by-your-leave.” Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “You’re slipping away from me. I can see it. I can feel it happening, but I don’t know how in the devil I’m supposed to stop it.”

“I’m not slipping away from anyone. I’m right here.”

“You are now. And for a few moments today, I truly believed—” He broke off with a faint, wry smile. “Stupid of me, I know, but I thought I could make you happy. A great blow to my conceit, I’m sure.”

The butterflies in Valentine’s stomach stirred to life. “I enjoyed our time together today very much. Truly I did. But no one can make anyone else happy. Not really. We all of us are responsible for our own happiness. Our own contentment. We can’t seek it in other people.”

“Can’t we?” His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You make me happy.”

Her heart performed a queer little somersault. “Do I?”

“Very much.”

“But how? We hardly know each other.”

“I’ve kissed you,” he said. “I’ve held you fast in my arms.”

She could feel the heat of her blush as it swept from the collar of her Garibaldi blouse, up the column of her throat, and into her face. It burned like wildfire. “Yes, but…it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you…since our encounter in the conservatory. That’s scarcely any time at all.”

“Counting the minutes, are you?”

She frowned at him. “I wish you wouldn’t tease me.”

“I’m a brute and a bully. I thought we established that last night.”