Page 41 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“You need say no more, my lord,” Tristan had said sharply. “I comprehend your meaning.”

When his father had gone, he’d swept the cases from his bed in a crashing burst of anger. And then he’d sat down at the writing desk and dashed off a letter to Musgrove, directing him to board the next train to Northumberland.

If he was to be barred from returning to London, he might as well travel to Blackburn Priory and see what could be done with the place. And if he must go into exile, so too must his meddling secretary.

As for Valentine March…

His father had said he’d explain things to her. That it was better not to linger. Better not to enact a dramatic farewell scene. Tristan had reluctantly agreed. He’d instead taken his leave of Valentine in a hastily scrawled note. Not because he didn’t wish to say goodbye to her in person, but because he couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment in her eyes when he did so.

He was a coward.

“I’ll write to her again,” he’d told his father as he handed him the note. “Often. I’ll not have her think me inconstant.”

The Earl of Lynden had shaken his head. “She can’t receive letters from you while staying with one of the Caddingtons. Not you or any man. It would be gravely improper.”

“Under other circumstances, perhaps. But Miss March and I are engaged to be married.”

“Your betrothal has not yet been announced. Nor will it be. Not for six months at least.”

Tristan had gone perfectly still.

“You’ve overwhelmed the gel in your usual fashion,” his father had continued. “Now you must leave her be awhile.”

“Or else,” Tristan had replied. “That’s the threat, isn’t it? Do as you say in this matter or risk being cut off from all means of support.”

“Damn you, boy, I would have thought you’d want to protect Miss March. To do everything in your power to shield her good name. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You have a tenderness for her. Or am I mistaken?”

He’d glowered at his father, inwardly cursing the old devil for being so damned perceptive. “You’re not mistaken,” he’d said.

“Because she’s an innocent.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then why?”

Tristan had tried to make his father understand something he still didn’t entirely understand himself. “She’s different from the others. Sweet and earnest. She believes in things. Has faith in things.” He’d looked away from his father before adding, “She has faith in me.”

“And you don’t want to disappoint her.”

“I won’t.”

The coach jolted over another rut in the road, rattling the interior of the carriage and Tristan’s bones along with it. He folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, his tall, beaver hat tipped down low over his eyes. He did have a tenderness for Valentine March. And what his father had said this morning made a good deal of sense.

Not that that made his advice any more palatable.

Nevertheless, he would go to Northumberland—something he’d done exactly once in the eleven years since his father had given him Blackburn Priory. He would go to Northumberland and he would attempt to make a success of his property. He only wished that doing the honorable thing wasn’t so bloody uncomfortable.

Valentine sat across from the Earl of Lynden in the first-class railway carriage. His lordship was thoroughly absorbed in his newspaper—and had been since they boarded the train. On her own lap, a leather-bound book lay open. It was an old but obviously well-loved edition of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese, lent to her by the earl to read during the journey. She’d got no further than the first sentence before her mind had begun to drift.

Tristan hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye.

The realization had left her angry and heartbroken by turns. Was this what he’d meant when he promised to do the honorable thing? To send her away from him without a word? After last night, when he’d pressed his lips to her forehead and held her hand, she’d thought…

But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? She’d thought. When, in fact, Tristan hadn’t said anything about his feelings. She’d informed him that he had her heart. And in exchange he’d said…what? That she made him happy? It was a lovely sentiment, to be sure, but it was hardly a declaration of enduring affection.

Valentine sighed heavily as she stared down at her book. She felt oddly deflated. Here she was, sitting across from Tristan’s father and wearing clothing Tristan had given her, but she’d never felt farther away from him. The ache in her heart told her that he’d abandoned her. While the knots in her stomach warned her that soon, for the first time in her life, she would be facing a Caddington relation. Someone who had known her mother. And she would be doing so without the support of the man who had promised to marry her.

The man she very much feared she was falling in love with.