Page 25 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“That means nothing. Do you have any idea how many gentlemen offer for a lady after having met her only once or twice at a ball or a supper party?”

She searched his face. “But you don’t wish to marry me, my lord. I don’t think you wish to marry anyone. And if you did, you’d better choose an heiress. You’ll need the money to repair your estate.”

A hard truth, he had to admit. If he wed an heiress, perhaps he wouldn’t even have to remove to Northumberland. Perhaps he could remain in London.

But as much as he hated the idea of living in rural exile at Blackburn Priory, the prospect of wedding anyone else but Valentine March was presently unthinkable. “I’ve spent most of my life evading women who’ve tried to trap me into marriage. Do you think I’ve ever offered for one of them before?”

“I don’t know.”

“The answer is no, Miss March. And after your crushing rejection to my proposal, I don’t expect I’ll ever have the nerve to offer for anyone again. By rejecting me, you’ve sentenced me to a life of lonely bachelorhood and virtually assured that the title will pass on to my infernal younger brother. I can’t believe you would be so cruel.”

She pressed her lips together in a reproving line. “I very much doubt your bachelorhood is a lonely one, my lord.”

“And there you would be wrong.”

“I also very much doubt that I’m the first female you have kissed in a conservatory.”

“No. You’re not the first,” he admitted gravely. “But if you’ll marry me, I promise that you’ll be the last.”

At his words, some of her resolve melted. She looked tired and confused and more than a little wistful. “You can’t promise me that.”

“I just have.”

“It’s not in your nature to be with only one woman. You told me yourself that you’re a terrible rake. The worst one, you said.” Her words fell to an embarrassed whisper. “I know you will grow bored with me.”

“Valentine…” he began, his voice troubled.

“It’s all right. I had no expectation otherwise. I only wish I hadn’t made myself so ridiculous.” She absently smoothed the rumpled skirts of her gown. “I’ll leave in the morning, my lord, but I fear I must impose upon you for my train fare. And really, considering that you crushed my spectacles, it’s not so much to ask.”

“Where do you intend to go?”

“Back to Hartwood Green in Surrey. I’m sure Mrs. Pilcher will allow me stay with her until I’ve secured another place somewhere.”

“As a lady’s companion?” he asked. She nodded. “And is that how you mean to spend the rest of your life? Running and fetching shawls for henwits like Lady Brightwell?”

“Not the rest of my life. Only for another year or so. I have a plan, you see.”

Something in her expression put him on his guard. “What sort of plan?”

“Well…” She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. Her gray eyes were suddenly earnest. “I’ve been corresponding for some time with a lady whose husband is a member of the London Missionary Society. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

“The missionaries do very important work in India and in China. And Mrs. Tennant assures me that it’s quite unexceptionable for an unmarried lady to accompany—”

“Good God! That’s your plan? To sail off to some heathen land with a bunch of missionaries?”

“It may sound comical to you, my lord, but—”

“Comical? It sounds bloody insane!”

In an instant she was on her feet. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you!”

Tristan stood, catching her by the upper arms before she could stride toward the door. He looked down into her eyes. “Why in the hell would you want to be a missionary?”

“The usual reasons, my lord. Now if you would kindly let me go—”

“I suppose that just because you’re named after a saint you feel you must go forth on some crusading mission. To what? Drive the snakes out of China and India just as St. Valentine drove them out of Ireland?”