Page 26 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“That was St. Patrick,” she said severely. “And yes. It’s what I was raised for.”

“To preach to heathens in some foreign clime? To convert them into good Christians?”

She glared at him. “To help people, my lord. To show them a better way through the teachings in the Bible.”

Tristan considered this. “And if you went to China or India, how many heathens do you suppose you might convert?”

“I don’t know.”

“A dozen? A half dozen? One?”

“I don’t know!” she said again, accentuating her words with a fruitless attempt to extricate herself from his grasp. “It may be one. It may be one dozen. The number doesn’t matter.”

“What need have you to travel halfway round the world to reform a single godless heathen? You might do the very same staying right here in England. Indeed, you could do the same. With me.”

Valentine stilled.

“You’ve already started, you know. Consider, Miss March. I’ve proposed to you on bended knee. I’ve foresworn other women. Two things I’ve never before done in my entire life. Two exceedingly honorable things. And that’s only after having known you for a single day. Imagine what changes you might effect in a week. A month.”

She shook her head in silent objection.

“I’m not making sport of you.” He stepped closer, releasing his hold on her arms and moving to encircle her waist. She stiffened in alarm, but he held her in complete stillness until she began to relax against his chest. He was close. So close. He hoped to God his father would not walk in and ruin everything. “Let me do the honorable thing, Valentine,” he said quietly. “Allow me to behave as a gentleman for once.”

“Oh, Tristan…”

“Unless you do in fact mind living in a rundown estate in Northumberland.”

She took a tremulous breath. “I don’t mind it.”

He bowed his head until his forehead rested lightly against hers. “Unless you mind marrying a gentleman with a reputation as black as mine.”

“I do not mind it. As long as you promise—”

“I promise,” he said huskily. “I’ll do better, Valentine. I’ll change. You do believe people can change, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Then let me do the honorable thing.”

“Very well.”

Tristan closed his eyes briefly against a staggering swell of relief. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Tristan. I will marry you.”

The next morning Valentine was awakened by the sound of two giggling maids outside her bedroom door. She couldn’t hear what they were saying. Nor did she need to. It was clear that the events of last night hadn’t been quietly hushed up. Indeed, she expected that the whole house was bubbling with gossip, from the master and mistress all the way down to the lowest scullery maid. She was tempted to pull her pillow over her head and go back to sleep, but a scratch at the door, followed immediately by the entry of one of the very same giggling maids, necessitated that she rise and begin a hurried toilette.

Tristan had sent word that she was to meet him for a morning drive. It sounded more of a summons than a request. As Valentine washed with ice-cold water and combed the tangles from her long hair, she wondered if he intended to tell her that he’d changed his mind. Not but that he hadn’t seemed sincere enough in his declarations last night. More than sincere, if she was honest. His promises to her had been in the manner of a solemn vow. However, she was swiftly coming to understand that the Viscount St. Ashton was a wildly impulsive gentleman. The sort of gentleman used to indulging his every whim—whether following a vulnerable lady’s companion to a conservatory or crushing a pair of spectacles under his boot heel.

And then there was the unfortunate fact that last night he’d been half-drunk or a trifle disguised, or whatever he’d called it. The cold light of dawn had likely brought sober common sense with it. He must realize now that he hadn’t needed to propose marriage at all.

He’d compromised her, true enough, but she was nothing but a lady’s companion. Only a step up from the silly parlor maids who sighed and swooned in Tristan’s wake, really. He would no doubt inform her that, upon reflection, he’d decided it would be best that she simply return to Surrey.

Though why he must take her for a drive in order to do it, she had no idea.

After pinning up her hair, she dressed quickly in an ill-fitting gown and knee-length wool mantle, buttoning the latter all the way up to her neck. It was early enough that she didn’t need to worry about running into Lady Brightwell or Felicity. They didn’t rise from bed until well past ten. Even so, as she ducked out of her third floor room and hurried down the stairs, she felt an overwhelming sense of urgency. Being called a devious slut and a common harlot had been a thoroughly unpleasant experience. One she didn’t care to repeat anytime soon.

Not that the name-calling had been the worst of it. There had first been the mortification of being caught in a compromising position with a known rake. And then the frank conversation about her mother and the ignominious circumstances of her birth. Either one of which would have been enough to render last evening one of the worst nights of her entire life.