Page 31 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“You don’t care for St. George’s?” He frowned as well. “I confess, neither do I. In any case, we have a year or more to accustom ourselves to the idea.”

A year or more in which she would live with strangers who didn’t want her. Would it be so different from being a lady’s companion? Or a governess? Yes, she thought miserably. At least as a paid employee there would be clear expectations. There would be rules. As an unwanted guest, she would be there on sufferance. Never knowing from one moment to the next what she should be doing or not doing. And all the while feeling the full weight of her obligation. “Do you mind a long engagement?” she asked him.

“Of course I mind it.”

“I suppose it would give us time to get to know each other better.”

He raised a brow. “With me in Northumberland?”

“We could write to each other. Many friendships develop through correspondence. Romances, too. Just look at Héloïse and Abélard.”

“A touching love story. I believe at the close of it Abélard was castrated.”

Her face reddened. “That was only one small part of the tale,” she said in her most reproving tone.

“One small part? My little innocent, trust me when I tell you that big or small has nothing to do with it. Once a fellow has been castrated, the story is over.”

She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. She hadn’t known it was possible to blush so deeply. “You are awful.”

Strangely enough, this made him grin. It was the first sign of genuine good humor she’d seen in him all morning. “Completely awful,” he agreed. He gathered up the reins and, with a touch of the whip, urged the horses forward in their traces, guiding them expertly back onto the road. “We have some time before we arrive in York. You may recite an improving psalm to me if you like.”

“A psalm about the fate that awaits men who say scandalous things to ladies?”

“Is there such a psalm?”

Valentine racked her brain for some passage in the Bible that she might employ as a set-down, only to be immediately overcome with guilt that she’d consider using the Bible for such an unkind purpose. “No,” she said, chastened. “There’s not.”

He cast her a measuring sidelong glance. “Very well then, recite the rest of that verse from the paper you had with you in the folly. I’ll start, shall I? ‘Arise, my love, my fair one and come away with me…to York.’”

It was all she could do to repress a completely inappropriate gurgle of laughter. “You would make a joke of the Bible.”

But Tristan must have seen her lips quiver, for he was at once remarkably cheerful and very like he’d been before the unfortunate incident in the conservatory. “Come now, Miss March. You must give me credit for remembering the first lines. Now you recite the rest. I’ll direct my attention to memorizing. And, with any luck, by the time we return to Fairford House, you’ll have made a Biblical scholar out of me.”

The hours spent in York with Valentine March were some of the happiest moments in Tristan’s recent memory. He wasn’t accustomed to squiring a gently bred lady about town. He’d never properly courted anyone, nor had he troubled himself with playing the attentive admirer. His past visits to dressmakers, milliners, and jewelers had always been on behalf of some mistress or other. But Valentine March was no pampered courtesan accepting his gifts as just one of the many perks of her carnal employment. Valentine was a lady. More importantly, she was his lady.

From the moment he lifted her down from the curricle, she’d set her hand on his arm and, for the bulk of the day, she hadn’t removed it. At times, he found himself covering that hand protectively with his own and more than one passing gentleman who admired her for a second too long was the recipient of his thunderous scowl.

He took her first to a small dress shop off Bridge Street that he’d heard Mrs. Ravenscroft mention the previous night at dinner. It was a respectable establishment run by a very competent modiste. Madame Gerrard, as she introduced herself, fluttered about Valentine, examining her face and figure with a critical eye. As she murmured appreciatively in English accented French, Valentine informed her that she would need only three gowns—two for day and one for evening.

Madame said nothing, merely summoned two assistant seamstresses who instantly appeared and, after a brief exchange with their employer, whisked Valentine into the back room where she was to be stripped and measured.

“Three gowns, Monsieur?” Madame Gerrard asked. She shook her head, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “A shame! She is a beautiful lady. So fair. And with such a shape!”

Tristan didn’t need to be reminded. “She’ll need more than three gowns, obviously.”

Madame’s dark eyes became shrewd. “How many more?”

“As many gowns as can be made ready today,” he said. “And everything that goes with them.”

“Everything, Monsieur?”

“Everything,” he repeated emphatically.

Everything, it turned out, comprised corsets, crinolines, petticoats, stockings, shoes, bonnets, and gloves. Most were available through Madame Gerrard. The remainder, Madame informed him, must be purchased from the local draper and milliner. Tristan had a feeling Valentine would balk at additional shopping and, for an extortionate sum, persuaded the modiste to send out some of her girls to bring back the requisite items to the shop.

Meanwhile, he established himself in one of the tastefully upholstered chairs in the corner of the showroom, prepared to wait however many hours it took. With his mistresses, he’d invariably taken himself off somewhere for a drink—either that or been invited into the backroom to watch the fitting—but with Valentine he was determined to be both respectful and attentive. Besides, she had no maid with her and he refused to leave her unprotected. Anything could happen.

Though, at the moment, there was a greater likelihood of her bolting for freedom than of some random man accosting her.