Page 7 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Indeed, he was outrageously handsome. Perhaps the most handsome man Valentine had ever seen. Not that she’d seen very many. But surely few could compete with Mr. Sinclair’s great height, broad shoulders, and smoldering dark eyes.

And she would have had to be blind not to notice that his breeches clung to long, powerfully made legs.

Or that his hands, when he snatched away her paper, had appeared to be twice the size of her own.

When he laughed, she’d even seen a flash of strong, white teeth. A bit wolfish, that laugh. A bit strange. But then, she didn’t pretend to understand subtle society humor. Not that Mr. Sinclair was anything like the foppish drawing room exquisites she’d encountered during her first month working for Lady Brightwell.

And he was certainly nothing at all like Phil. But then, Phillip Edgecombe was slight of build, with the vaguely sickly pallor of a romantic poet. It had been the very quality that set all the girls in the village swooning over him.

“You do understand, don’t you Val?” he’d said the last time they saw each other. “Some things are simply not meant to be.”

They’d been standing outside of the vicarage as two burly men unloaded a cart containing the furniture and various odds and ends belonging to the new vicar and his family. Valentine’s own small trunk sat at her feet. “Yes, Phil,” she’d said numbly. “I understand.”

“It doesn’t mean I love you any less. And it doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. Indeed, I shall write you as often as I can.” He’d caught hold of her hand then, clutching it fervently in his. “And if anything changes— If you should hear anything at all— You must write me immediately. Promise me, Val.”

No. Tristan Sinclair was nothing like Phillip Edgecombe. He didn’t disguise his true intentions with silky words and flattery. He was a brutally honest gentleman. A thoroughly masculine one, too. The kind Valentine suspected could only be found in the rural countryside. A gentleman farmer, she decided. God particularly approved of farmers. At least, Papa had always said so.

“Surely Lord St. Ashton can’t be as bad as you say,” she replied at last. “Else why would Lady Brightwell bring Miss Brightwell to meet him?”

“The Viscount St. Ashton is the Earl of Lynden’s son and heir. That fact alone makes him irresistible—and has done since he was a lad of eighteen.”

Valentine considered this with a furrowed brow. “Yes. I did hear Lady Brightwell likening him to some rare beast that has evaded capture for far too many years. I didn’t regard it. It’s simply how Lady Brightwell talks. She is…rather candid.”

“She’s vulgar.”

“Oh.” Valentine frowned. She’d thought all aristocratic ladies spoke in the manner of Lady Brightwell and her daughter. “Do you really think so?”

“Everyone in attendance at this house party of yours is vulgar.” He gave her a wry smile. “Everyone save yourself and one other.”

“Who is the other?”

“The Earl of Lynden.”

She blinked in surprise. “Lord St. Ashton’s father? I had no idea he’d be in attendance. Lady Brightwell hasn’t mentioned—”

“He wasn’t invited. Even if he had been, he would never attend this sort of party.”

“Then why…?”

“He’s come here for the sole purpose of surprising his wayward heir. I expect a confrontation later this afternoon. No doubt some ultimatum will be involved.”

“An ultimatum? I don’t understand.”

“The earl’s younger son married last year. His wife recently presented him with a son. Meanwhile, St. Ashton is still unmarried. He’s made no attempts to secure the line. I daresay Lynden fears his heir will never wed. Or that, if he does, it’ll be to some music hall performer. Or worse.”

“If that’s the alternative, then it’s lucky for Lord St. Ashton that Miss Brightwell is in attendance. He can simply make her an offer of marriage and—”

“Is that what you advise?” he asked sharply.

Valentine blushed. “I-I have no advice.”

“You must have. You’re acquainted with Miss Brightwell. Tell me, would she make a good wife? A good viscountess?”

Valentine had already said too much about Miss Brightwell. It was bad enough that she privately loathed her. To be airing her grievances to strangers was well-nigh unforgiveable. Not to mention profoundly unchristian. She was supposed to love her neighbor. Turn the other cheek and so forth. It was how she’d been raised. Oh, how disappointed Papa would be if he could see her now. Sitting with a strange man unchaperoned. Gossiping about the very employer whose wages kept her from the workhouse.

Well, perhaps not the workhouse. She wasn’t that badly off. Not yet, anyway.

“I’m sure she would make a creditable viscountess,” Valentine managed to say.