Page 51 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“That’s good enough for me,” Tristan said. And with that, he grabbed hold of Phillip Edgecombe by his knotted cravat, hauled him up nearly off of his feet, and—forcibly—escorted him out the door.

Valentine stood on the front steps of Lady Hermione’s townhouse and watched, mouth agape, as Tristan tossed Phillip Edgecombe into the street. Phil staggered wildly, his arms circling like a windmill, but he didn’t fall. She felt a surge of relief. As odious as he’d been to her, she didn’t wish to see him seriously injured.

She caught Tristan’s arm. “Pray don’t hurt him.”

Tristan turned on her. A lock of raven black hair had fallen across his brow. It did nothing to soften the ferocity of his expression. “If you care for him, tell me now, madam. You needn’t mince words.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She tugged his arm. “Come inside. Lady Hermione will never forgive me if we make a spectacle of ourselves in the street.”

He allowed her to pull him back into the house. Ledsen shut the door behind them. Valentine couldn’t bring herself to meet the old butler’s eyes. In situations such as these, men almost always blamed the woman. And, in this instance, she supposed that it was her fault to some degree.

“I shouldn’t have said anything to either of you in the hall,” she said as she led Tristan into the morning room.

“Why the devil not?”

“Because Phil—I mean, Mr. Edgecombe—was being impossible. And I should have known that you would—”

“Behave true to character?”

“What?”

“A bully and a brute. You said that in Yorkshire once. Or something to that effect.”

She stopped in the center of the morning room and stared up at him. A glowing warmth suffused her chest. It had only been a few weeks, yet he was even more handsome than she remembered. And infinitely more dear. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Well, there you are.”

Her gaze drifted over his face. Smitten, that’s what she was. It was embarrassing really. Especially as the feeling was so obviously not mutual. Tristan returned her gaze with aristocratic indifference, or so it seemed to her. He appeared to be wholly unaffected by their reunion. While she was, by his very presence, transformed into a mass of melting treacle. “No one has ever stood up for me before,” she blurted out. “Not in my entire life.”

He gave her an arrested look. “Haven’t they?”

“Never. And what you did just now… It was simply magnificent.”

“It was brute strength. There’s nothing particularly—”

“You were magnificent.”

Tristan’s lips tilted in a fleeting smile. He appeared faintly amused. Mildly diverted. He also appeared to be turning a dull red about the collar.

Valentine’s eyes fell to his cravat. Good lord above! Had she just made the most notorious libertine in England blush like a schoolboy?

“You’re very easy to impress, Miss March,” he said.

She smiled up at him. “Why are you here? What are you doing in London? I didn’t think I would see you again until the New Year.”

“I came to meet with some gentlemen at my club. I had a rather pressing business proposition to discuss with them.”

Her smile dimmed a little. What had she expected? A passionate declaration of love? Of course he hadn’t come back for her. It was remarkably foolish of her to even entertain such thoughts.

She gestured to the silk damask settee. “Won’t you sit down?”

“I’m too restless. But you sit, please.”

She did, spending some little time arranging her skirts. She wished she’d worn a prettier dress. Something with a flounce or a few ribbons. Not that he seemed to notice what she was wearing. “What sort of business proposition? Is it something to do with Blackburn Priory?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He rubbed a hand along the side of his jaw. “These last weeks I’ve been making an inventory of the Priory, as well as beginning some of the less costly repairs. Replacing rotted roof tiles and digging drainage trenches and so forth.” He paused, frowning. “Are you at all familiar with the market town of Harbury Morton?”

She shook her head.