Page 54 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Valentine’s stomach was trembling. She clasped her hands at her waist. When Tristan threw her a glance, she looked away. She couldn’t bear it.

“You have no cause to do anything I ask, my lady,” he said, “but I would beg you to notify my father. Allow him to accompany you.”

“To lend us countenance?” Lady Hermione scoffed.

“To lend support to Miss March. I would go myself, but—”

“You most certainly won’t!” Lady Hermione’s bosom swelled with righteous indignation. “When I think of what I’ve had to endure. The lengths to which I must go to shield my cousin from gossip. That orgy in Yorkshire. Those odious Brightwell creatures. And now, Ledsen tells me, you’ve pitched a country gentleman into the street outside my own home! A country gentleman who’s threatening lawsuits and scandal and having respectable people brought up on charges!”

“Oh no,” Valentine said in horror. “He didn’t, did he?”

Lady Hermione didn’t answer. She was in too much of a passion. “No, St. Ashton. You shall not accompany us to Caddington Park. You’ve done quite enough for my cousin, thank you.”

Tristan’s face had gone hard as stone. “You need say no more, madam. You’ve made yourself abundantly clear.”

“I trust I have.” Lady Hermione strode to the door of the morning room and pulled it open. “Miss March? See our guest out, if you please.”

Valentine did as she was bid, walking out the door and down the stairs, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She was aware of Tristan behind her. She could feel the warmth of his body, could hear the sound of his boots on the steps. But she didn’t address him. Not until they reached the front door.

She turned to face him then but couldn’t bring herself to lift her gaze any higher than the top button of his waistcoat. “I bid you good day, my lord. And I wish you good fortune in all of your business endeavors.”

“Miss March…”

“Please don’t. Lady Hermione is right. There’s no need for us to remain betrothed. And if you’d only…”

Her words disappeared in a tremulous breath at the feel of his fingers touching her beneath her chin. He gently raised her face until she was forced to look him in the eye. “Have you lost faith in me?”

She swallowed hard. “No, my lord.” It was the truth. He would marry her. He would keep his word if she let him. “I believe you will do the honorable thing. And so must I.”

Dawning realization registered on Tristan’s face. “Valentine—”

“Goodbye, Lord St. Ashton,” she said. “I release you from our engagement.”

Kent, England

Autumn, 1861

With every miserable mile of railway track they covered during their journey from London to Caddington Park in Kent, Valentine became more and more convinced that she had no one but herself to blame. If she’d been less scrupulous, she would have held Tristan to his promise. She would have insisted he marry her, even if he didn’t want her. Even if he didn’t love her. But she couldn’t do it. She would as soon keep a wild animal in a cage or try to turn a wolf into a lapdog.

Knowing that, it shouldn’t matter that Tristan had readily acceded to the termination of their engagement. It shouldn’t break her heart that he’d gone without putting up the slightest argument.

It was a very good thing, she reflected as she settled deeper into her seat, that she hadn’t acted in the hope of forcing a declaration from him. If so, she would have been sorely disappointed. He hadn’t uttered one word of affection. He hadn’t even touched her except to grasp her by the chin and force her to look at him.

She sighed. It was all quite unromantic. And he the biggest rake and reprobate of them all. Clearly there was something wrong with her. The only time he’d ever spoken or behaved in a passionate manner was that night in the conservatory. He’d said it had nothing to do with drink, but how could she believe it when he’d behaved with so much restraint afterward?

“We’re approaching the station,” Lady Hermione said.

Lord Lynden was seated beside her. He was wearing a heavy topcoat and held a carved ebony cane in his gloved hands. It was the first week of December and the cold weather had come in icy and damp. “We may yet have a white Christmas,” he had remarked earlier.

Mundane comments about the weather had been the limit of their conversation for the past forty miles at least. Valentine didn’t think any of them were particularly keen on visiting Caddington Park. The outcome was practically guaranteed to be a grim one.

But there was no avoiding it, especially now that Lady Brightwell and her daughter had arrived in town. If they shared the story of Valentine’s indiscretion in Yorkshire, the news would swiftly circulate through society and, inevitably, make its way to Caddington Park. And if the Marquess of Stokedale were to hear of it, his prejudice against her would be insurmountable.

“I will see to hiring the carriage,” Lord Lynden said.

“Nonsense,” Lady Hermione objected. “I didn’t invite you to accompany us so that we might hang on your sleeve, sir. We shall pay our own way.”

Lord Lynden glanced out the window. The train was slowing, the wooden platform at Bolton Heath Station rising up on either side of it. “You didn’t invite me at all, if you’ll recall.”