Page 11 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Up until the moment he learned how she’d behaved toward Valentine March.

Tristan raked a hand through his hair, remembering the look on Miss March’s face when that oaf Quinton had called him St. Ashton.

“Don’t say you’re in love with her,” Lord Lynden scoffed.

“What?”

“The Brightwell chit.”

“Oh. Her.” Tristan rubbed his jaw. “No. I’m not in love with anyone. But Miss Brightwell is here.”

“Here? In North Yorkshire?”

“Here in this house.” Tristan ignored his father’s exclamation of disapproval. “She’s come here in pursuit of me, apparently.”

“What the devil kind of unmarried female attends a gathering like this?”

“One who very much wants to be the next Countess of Lynden.”

The Earl of Lynden looked at his son with blank outrage. “I’ll not have it. Do you hear me? I’ll not have it.”

“You can hardly prevent it.”

“Don’t underestimate me, my boy.” Lord Lynden rose from his chair, signaling the end of their interview.

Tristan stood as well and, in grim silence, followed his father to the library doors. It occurred to him that he should say something more in his defense. That he should argue with his father or even make an impassioned plea for some little leniency. But reasoning with his implacable sire had never yielded any results in the past. And abject pleading had only ever earned him a greater measure of his contempt. “When do you return to Hampshire?” he asked.

“At first light.”

“And tonight? Has Lady Fairford arranged a room for you here?”

Lord Lynden’s lip curled with disdain. As if the very thought of spending a night in such a den of iniquity was repellent to him. “I have taken rooms at the Golden Hind.”

“Lord and Lady Fairford will expect you to stay for dinner at least.”

“Dine? Here? Don’t be absurd. I’ve a private parlor at the inn. I shall have my dinner there.”

They emerged from the library into the main hall of Fairford House. Tristan opened his mouth to respond to his father, but at the unexpected sight of Valentine March he swallowed his words.

She was hurrying down the staircase, the skirts of her gown clutched lightly in one hand and a folded Indian shawl in the other. She was without her spectacles, of course. She’d left them behind in the folly. But any improvement to her features was overshadowed by a new addition to her unflattering companion’s uniform—a dowdy little cap that covered all but a few locks of her pale golden hair.

As she descended, she raised her head and their eyes met. She immediately looked away, continuing down the final few steps with an added burst of speed. As if she could not get away from him fast enough. As if she believed she might escape him as easily as she had when she ran from the folly.

He strode toward her, his father temporarily forgotten. “Miss March.”

She came to an abrupt halt, the Indian shawl clutched tight to her bosom. “Lord St. Ashton.” She sounded a trifle breathless. Whether from the exertion of running down the stairs or the anxiety of seeing him again, he could not tell. “I beg you would excuse me. I must take Lady Brightwell her shawl.” She made a motion to walk past him.

Tristan moved instinctively to block her path. “A moment if you please.”

“My lord?”

My lord. There was a wealth of meaning in that simple address. No doubt she thought he’d lied to her. That he’d been having a private laugh at her expense or, even worse, that he’d been embarking on a seduction. Though how she could imagine he was trying to seduce her, he had no idea. He’d approached her in the folly with a startling lack of finesse. Indeed, he could not recall having ever been so clumsy and churlish with a woman.

“I have your…” What the devil to call it? Her drawing? Her psalms? “Your paper,” he said lamely. “The one you left behind in the folly.”

She lifted her gaze to his with obvious unwillingness. Her gray eyes were shadowed with wariness and more than a little hurt.

Tristan felt again that same peculiar twinge of remorse he had felt in the folly. He brutally suppressed it. “It’s safe in my room along with your spectacles,” he said, sinking his voice. “If you like, I’ll return them to you at dinner this evening.”