Page 27 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

And yet, amongst all the humiliation, there were moments she knew she’d hold close to her heart forever. Tristan’s low-pitched voice as he begged her to let him do the honorable thing.

And that kiss.

That scorching, all-consuming kiss.

It had ignited something in her. Something wanton, she’d thought later. But in the moment, it had been wonderful. Beautiful. Was it how he kissed all his women? A lowering thought!

She descended the final flight of stairs to find Tristan pacing in the front hall. His thick black hair was disheveled, his face shadowed and grim. If it were not for the immaculate state of his clothes, she might have suspected that he’d been up all night. As it was, his black cravat was neatly tied and his top boots polished to a mirror shine. His caped greatcoat succeeded in making him appear altogether larger and far more intimidating than he already was.

When he caught sight of her, he frowned. “Miss March,” he said, sounding as cross as he looked.

“My lord.” She ignored his irritation, focusing instead on retying the wayward strings of her bonnet. Her gloved fingers were awkward and clumsy, refusing to cooperate. And no wonder. Her heart was thumping so heavily she thought she might expire.

He’d changed his mind.

It was as plain as anything.

She told herself that she should be relieved, but as she followed Tristan out to the drive, she felt an all too familiar weight descend upon her. Such a feeling had been her almost constant companion since the death of her father. When she accepted Tristan’s proposal, she’d begun to believe, for just a moment, that she would once again have a proper place in the world. That she would no longer be alone. More fool her! She should have known that marriage wouldn’t be the answer to her troubles. Especially not a marriage to a gentleman like the Viscount St. Ashton.

“We’ll be lucky if the wheels don’t fall off,” Tristan muttered as he handed her up into the curricle.

Valentine cast an absent glance at the rickety vehicle. It was attached to two very fine-looking chestnuts, which succeeded in making it appear even shabbier by comparison. “To whom does it belong?”

Tristan vaulted up into the carriage seat beside her and gathered the reins. “The curricle belongs to Fairford. The horses belong to me.” He shouted at the groom to release their heads and gave the horses the office to start. They leapt forward in their traces, causing Valentine to clutch nervously at the side of her seat.

“I left my own curricle behind in London,” he explained, his eyes straight ahead on the road. “I didn’t plan to do any driving here in Yorkshire.”

She inhaled a breath of cold air. It was a frosty morning, the fog sitting heavily on the hills. It didn’t look like it would rain, but one never knew. “You needn’t have bothered taking me for a drive.”

“No?”

“If you have something you wish to tell me, you might just as easily have said it in the library.”

“I’ve spent the better part of the night in Fairford’s library. If I never see it again, it will be too soon.”

Valentine was aware that he’d stayed in the library in order to speak privately with his father. She hadn’t remained for that conversation. Indeed, as soon as Tristan had received her acceptance to his proposal, he’d compelled her to go to bed and she’d been more than willing to oblige him. As he’d escorted her from the room, all traces of dry humor in his expression had been gone. In their place was a grim strength of purpose. As if he were about to fight a duel—or face a firing squad.

“The better part of the night?” she echoed faintly. “Doing what?”

“Talking with my father.”

“Oh.” She could think of nothing else to say. Had Lord Lynden convinced him of the unsuitability of the match? It certainly sounded that way.

Valentine stared numbly at the passing scenery. She didn’t know how many minutes passed in silence. Not that Tristan appeared to mind the lack of conversation. The horses were going at a remarkably quick clip and he was addressing himself solely to the task of driving them.

When they reached the end of the long drive, she expected him to turn left through a bank of trees at the edge of the estate. Instead, he guided the horses out onto the main road.

She looked up at him in vague alarm. “I thought you were taking me for a drive around the park?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“It seemed a reasonable guess.” She sat up taller in her seat, craning to see ahead. “Where are we going?”

“To York.”

“What?”

“York, Miss March. The nearest town in this godforsaken wilderness.”