Page 29 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Valentine bristled. The very idea of two gentlemen making decisions about what was to be done with her! As if she had no will or mind of her own. “We’ll discuss it now, if you please.”

Tristan looked at her for several moments. “As you wish.”

She waited, becoming more and more anxious the longer it took him to come to the point.

“According to my father, there are only two acceptable solutions to our present dilemma. The first, and the one he favors, would result in our not marrying.”

Her heart plummeted. “Go on.”

“My father proposes that he pay a visit to the Marquess of Stokedale on your behalf. Failing that, he says there are any number of Caddington relations scattered about who might be willing to take you in once they know that you’re Lady Sara’s daughter.”

“Is that true?” she asked, suppressing a pathetic flare of hope. “There really might be relatives of my mother who would want me?”

“It’s possible, yes. Though God knows how long it would take to find them.”

“And what would happen to me in the meantime? Would I go back to Hartwood Green? To Mrs. Pilcher?”

“No. My father would send you to Devonshire to stay with my brother and his wife. You would be safe enough there until something is sorted out with Stokedale or the Caddingtons.”

Her palms felt damp within her gloves. She pressed them flat on her lap. “And then you and I wouldn’t marry at all.”

“No. We would not.” He hesitated briefly before adding, “In time, my father believes the Caddingtons would find you a more appropriate husband.”

“More appropriate to my station, I suppose he means.”

“He means that they would find you a husband who’s not a hardened, conscienceless rake. A husband who can be relied on to protect you and provide for you. A husband, in short, who is not me.”

Valentine lifted her gaze to his face. She thought she heard a flicker of bitterness in his voice. Or perhaps even anger. But when she met his eyes, there was nothing there except the same frustratingly unreadable expression. “You said there were two options,” she reminded him.

“So there are.”

“Well?”

“In the second scenario, we would marry,” he said. “But it would be a very long engagement. A year, at least. During which you would be sent to Devonshire to stay with my brother and his wife and I would go to Northumberland. Once Blackburn Priory is both habitable and profitable, you and I would be married at St. George’s, Hanover Square. Everything respectable and above board with no hint of scandal. As befits the Earl of Lynden’s heir.”

The idea of a grand wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square left Valentine cold. And it surely couldn’t be a wise idea. Why, at such a venue all of society would likely be in attendance. All of them come to see the Viscount St. Ashton wed the bastard daughter of the infamous Lady Sara Caddington. How could the earl even consider such a thing? Unless…

“Such a long engagement,” she said. “It’s almost as if he’s hoping that, given enough time, you’ll change your mind.”

“On the contrary. The long engagement is for your protection, not mine.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “If you must know, my father expects me to behave dishonorably. To abandon my duties to Blackburn Priory. Fall into vice again or become enamored of some tart in a tavern and end up chasing her halfway to France. He reasons that it’s better such things happen during a long engagement—while you’re still free to extricate yourself from my clutches.”

This time the underlying bitterness and anger in his voice were unmistakable. What had the earl said to him last night? Whatever it was, it had hurt him. And he was capable of being hurt, of that she had no doubt. “Your father’s concerns seem to be very specific,” she said carefully. “Have you ever done any of those things before? Followed a…a female…halfway to France, I mean.”

“Years ago. Though I didn’t follow anyone anywhere. I left England with a mistress. But she was an actress, not a tavern wench. And it was Ireland, not France.”

Valentine opened her mouth only to promptly close it again. She wouldn’t demean herself by enquiring whether this actress was still his mistress, no matter how much she wished to know. “In each scenario I’m to go and live with your brother and his wife,” she said instead. “Yet I can’t imagine they’re so keen to have a complete stranger come to stay. And certainly not for a year or more.”

“Probably not. But my sister-in-law, Elizabeth, would make you welcome enough. They have a great deal of room there. You’d be in no one’s way. And they are annoyingly respectable. There would be no more risks to your reputation. No more gentleman deviling you in conservatories.”

“And this is what your father wishes for me,” she mused. “I don’t understand why he would put himself to the trouble.”

“I believe he feels somewhat protective of you. He hasn’t said why, but knowing him and his dashed sense of honor, I imagine he sees himself as righting some long-ago wrong done to your mother. You must know that there aren’t many who agreed with the way the old marquess handled things.”

A wrong done to her mother? She wasn’t used to looking at the situation in such a way. Especially when Papa had always presented the opposite view. According to him, her mother had been entirely at fault. “After Papa died, I wrote to the Marquess of Stokedale twice.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I told him I was alone in the world now. That I had no one else to turn to. I asked for his help.” She grimaced at the memory. “How I despised myself for writing those letters! I wouldn’t have done it except that Phil told me—”