Page 47 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

It was intolerable.

Tristan wasn’t accustomed to waiting for the things he wanted. In the past, he’d always succumbed to his impulses, exercised his masculine urges, and then moved on. Delayed gratification could be diverting on occasion, but this…

This wasn’t a game played with a mistress. It wasn’t flirtation. This was painfully real. And, even as he trudged through his days at Blackburn Priory, reviewing ledgers, talking to neighboring farmers, and planning repairs, he was aware that somewhere, three hundred miles away in London, Valentine March was gradually slipping from his grasp.

“There’s a steam mill in Morpeth,” Musgrove said as they approached the water mill.

“Not an easy distance,” Tristan observed.

“No, my lord.”

“Why doesn’t anyone build one here?”

“Lack of capital, I assume. And with there being no direct railway access to Harbury Morton, the town’s not ideal for industry. It could never compete with Morpeth or Hexham, for example.”

Tristan’s gaze took in the sprawling stone edifice of the water mill. It had a damaged vertical wheel that now stood, unmoving. “I don’t see why not.” he said. “It may do quite well, on a small scale, if everything else weren’t falling to pieces.”

“Perhaps if someone of consequence were to take charge of the matter,” Musgrove allowed. “Alas, everyone with ambition seems to have left the district. For greener pastures, as it were.”

Tristan glanced at his secretary with narrowed eyes. He knew when he was being managed. Even so, it did nothing to dim the spark of interest that had lit within him at the sight of the mill. After two weeks of cold drudgery, a distraction was welcome. And if that distraction could, by any slim chance, lead to his being independent from his father, all the better. “Not everyone, Musgrove.”

For the next three weeks, Valentine lived in Lady Hermione’s townhouse as a veritable prisoner. She was given a comfortable set of rooms. She had access to a well-stocked library. And she ate the finest meals on the finest porcelain plates, seated across from Lady Hermione at a carved mahogany dining table that had been polished by the servants until it shown like mirrored glass.

“You’re not ready,” Lady Hermione said whenever Valentine broached the subject of venturing out of doors. “And I’m still debating with Penelope and Euphemia about how best to manage your introduction into society.”

Valentine met Lady Penelope and Lady Euphemia during her first week in residence. They were two elderly spinster cousins of the late Marquess of Stokedale. Like Lady Hermione, they had flaxen hair and doe-like gray eyes—features Valentine discovered were shared by many a Caddington female. And, like Lady Hermione, they were considered to be rather eccentric in opinions, manners, and dress.

They stared at her, inspected her, and interrogated her in turns. They marveled at her resemblance to her mother. They wondered about the identity of her father. And they made plans.

Her Caddington relations were always making plans.

The trouble was, the three of them never agreed on anything. Lady Hermione wanted to put Valentine up at her clubs and introduce her to her radical friends. The ones who debated dress reform and equal rights for women.

“She’ll need to learn to make her own way in the world,” Lady Hermione said. “And what better allies in the battle for feminine independence?”

Lady Penelope thought it best to take Valentine on a discreet visit to see her uncle, the present Marquess of Stokedale, and—as she said—let the chips fall where they may.

“There’s no point in delaying it,” she declared. “If he accepts her, we may have done with the matter. And, if he rejects her, as he most certainly will, then we’ll all know how to proceed.”

Most alarming of all was the course of action suggested by Lady Euphemia. She envisioned a grand ball to introduce the long-lost daughter of Lady Sara Caddington to society.

“A Christmas ball,” she said. “With all the family in attendance.”

Initially, these sorts of dramatic ideas sent Valentine into an agony of emotion. However, by the end of the second week, she began to take them in her stride. Not only that, she fell into some semblance of a household routine. A lonely routine, but a routine nonetheless.

Through it all, she never once heard from the Viscount St. Ashton.

Which wasn’t a surprise, all things considered. She didn’t believe he’d forgotten her. Indeed, she still had a great deal of faith in him. Never mind that that faith was chipped away at each day by her well-meaning relations.

Lord Lynden, as well, seemed to have disappeared into the ether. As the days passed with no word from him, she began to suspect that—having successfully deposited her with Lady Hermione—his lordship had washed his hands of her.

Sometimes, when she was alone and idle, she felt a creeping melancholy eating away at the edges of her existence. She fell prey to fears and doubts about her future. She suffered embarrassment and regret over her past behavior. And she worried herself silly about whether or not Tristan cared for her.

The rest of the time, however, the solitude wasn’t so terribly difficult. In truth, it was quite welcome. She wrote to Mrs. Pilcher in Hartwood Green, informing her that she’d left Lady Brightwell’s employ and was now staying with one of her late mother’s relations in London. And she had plenty of opportunity to work on her book of Bible verses. She even began to try her hand at illustration, though, admittedly, she didn’t have a fraction of her late mother’s talent.

Her mother had begun the book while she awaited Valentine’s birth, or so Papa had always said. She’d copied out the verses and illustrated them with sketches of flowers and foliage, stags and lions, and eagles and unicorns. Most of the illustrations had been done in ink or pencil and then filled in with watercolors. They were complemented by her mother’s swirling script, quoting passages of her favorite Bible verses.

It had been an unfinished labor of love. A project that Valentine had hoped to one day complete herself. But now…