Page 13 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Tristan almost felt sorry for Maria Fairford. The house party would hardly be able to continue as normal under the Earl of Lynden’s disapproving eye. Unfortunately, given his present circumstances, Tristan was in no position to do anything about it. He was as much at his father’s mercy as everyone else was.

“How could you be so thoughtless?” asked Lady Brightwell again. “To run out into the woods and lose your spectacles in such a careless manner?”

“I wasn’t thinking particularly clearly at the time,” Valentine replied.

She stood at the edge of Lady Brightwell’s bedroom, watching as a browbeaten lady’s maid put the final touches on Lady Brightwell’s hair. Felicity Brightwell lounged in a chair, her frothy pink evening gown glaringly at odds with the faded furnishings.

Valentine had been given a small room of her own on the third floor. A room that couldn’t be much larger than a medieval nun’s cell. It had a narrow little iron bed, a rickety washstand, and a wooden chest of drawers, which had given her a splinter in her finger the second she touched it. There was no mirror, of course. Not that she couldn’t guess what it would have revealed.

She’d dressed for dinner in a gown of serviceable gray silk. And it truly was her own gown. The village seamstress had made it for her three years ago in Hartwood Green. She could still remember how Papa had grumbled at the expense. But though it fit her a great deal better than Lady Brightwell’s shapeless sacks, it was still far from fashionable. The color was plain, the neckline overly modest, and it had a conspicuous lack of flounces and frills. Indeed, she feared she looked very much like what she was.

A vicar’s daughter.

She told herself she did not care. And why should she? What difference did it make if the guests here thought she was a drab little dowd? They were no friends of hers. And she’d never taken undue pride in her looks. Although…

Although she’d spent an inordinate amount of time brushing her hair to a flaxen shine and smoothing the wrinkles from her silken skirts, all the while wondering what Lord St. Ashton would think when he saw her.

No doubt it was a weakness inherited from her mother. How else to explain it? She was not a wanton. And Papa had raised her better than to lower her guard at the first advance of a practiced rake. Not that St. Ashton had advanced. Indeed, the more she reflected on their encounter the more she recognized how abominably rude he had been to her.

Except that he had given her his handkerchief.

And he had draped his greatcoat over her shoulders with something very like reverence.

Oh, what a fool she was to even entertain such thoughts! The Viscount St. Ashton had no interest in her. Well…perhaps he was mildly interested, but only in the way a cat might be interested in batting at an injured mouse. And she was not so naïve as to mistake cruel amusement for anything like genuine interest in her as a person.

Not for the first time, she called up an image of how he’d appeared when he approached her in the hall. Any resemblance to country gentry had vanished. Instead, he’d looked urbane and aristocratic. Altogether intimidating.

“And why were you away so long?” Lady Brightwell demanded. “It must have been an hour before you returned to the house.”

“Longer, Mama,” Felicity said under her breath. “For you summoned her and she couldn’t be found.”

“Longer than an hour?” Lady Brightwell gave a pout of displeasure. “Whatever could you have been doing for such a time?” She met Valentine’s eyes in the mirror of her looking glass. “I trust you were not dallying with one of the footmen.”

Valentine colored. “Indeed not, ma’am.”

It was not entirely a lie. The Viscount St. Ashton was no footman. And the two of them had certainly not been dallying.

“I suppose you were upset over that silly business with your little sketches.” Lady Brightwell sighed. “I warned you that Felicity was high spirited, didn’t I? I can’t think why you provoked her. Especially when she’s so overwrought about this business with St. Ashton.”

“I’m not overwrought, Mama,” Felicity objected. “Why should I be?”

“No reason, my darling. But do listen, I beg you. You must keep a tighter rein on your temper. These tantrums of yours are terribly unbecoming. I insist you apologize to Miss March so we can put the whole business behind us.”

Felicity folded her arms and scowled. It seemed, for a moment, as if she wouldn’t obey her mother. However, after a prolonged pout, she did as she was bid. “I beg your pardon, Miss March. But Mama is right. You shouldn’t have provoked me. If you’d only come when I called to you, I wouldn’t have lost my temper.”

A poor apology. A non-apology, in fact. Valentine bowed her head in silent acknowledgment.

“There now,” Lady Brightwell said, patting her curls into place. “We’ll speak of it no more.”

Valentine clasped her hands in front of her. She couldn’t so easily forget what had happened. Indeed, the very thought of thirty pages’ worth of her mother’s sketches and Bible verses damaged beyond repair was enough to bring tears to her eyes once again. But she’d resolved not to cry anymore. It accomplished nothing. She would do better to look to her future.

“Miss March?” Lady Brightwell gestured with an imperious hand. “Fetch my jewel case. I think I will wear my ruby necklace this evening. Or perhaps my brooch.”

Valentine obediently collected the small case of jewels and brought it for Lady Brightwell’s perusal. Felicity leapt up to join her mother, and the two of them were soon well occupied with the serious business of jewelry selection. Valentine withdrew to the corner of the room again as Lady Brightwell and her daughter preened in front of the glass.

They were as alike in looks as any mother and daughter could be. Both with the same sable hair and dark flashing eyes. Both with well-shaped figures and milky skin. The only dissimilarity, besides their obvious difference in age, was that Lady Brightwell had a perpetually vacant expression whereas Felicity always appeared as if she’d just encountered a bad smell.

Would St. Ashton truly consider marrying her? Lady Brightwell certainly thought he would. And Felicity shared her mother’s opinion. But when Valentine had talked with him earlier, he’d professed a dislike for Lady Brightwell and her daughter. Not that anything he’d said in the folly had been the truth.