Page 33 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Very well. Until you do, I’ll continue to act as your betrothed.” With that, he informed the modiste that they’d return in two hours for the rest of their order and, after directing Valentine to put on her new bonnet, ushered her out the front door of the dress shop.

“Return in two hours from where?” Valentine asked as she took his proffered arm.

“Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” she admitted.

Tristan placed his hand over hers. “There’s an inn up ahead. I’ll bespeak a private parlor for us and we can have something to eat.” He smiled down at her. “Perhaps, if you’re very well-behaved, I’ll even allow you to have a sip of my ale.”

By the time they returned to Fairford House, the sun was sinking behind the hills. Tristan stopped the curricle at the front steps and leapt down from his seat. A stable lad ran up to hold the horses’ heads and a young footman—the same, impudent fellow who had importuned Valentine the previous day—emerged to take charge of her packages.

Valentine watched Tristan as he strode round to her side of the carriage. He looked different to her now. Less remote and coldly aristocrat. Indeed, after spending the better part of the day with him, he seemed much more than just a handsome rake. He’d teased her and made her laugh the entire journey home. He’d been kind and solicitous, too. At luncheon, he’d peeled and sectioned an orange for her. And he’d offered her not one but several sips of his ale.

She hadn’t once felt as if he were attempting to seduce her or take advantage. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d been protective toward her. Rather like she imagined an elder brother might be.

A small part of her owned to being slightly disappointed. Every time he touched her, she felt dozens of butterflies unfurl their wings in her stomach. Her pulse skipped and her palms dampened, the memory of his kisses and his powerful embrace making her a veritable puddle of silly, wilting femininity. Tristan, by contrast, seemed totally unaffected. Even when he quizzed her about some indecent thing or other, he managed to do so in a manner that was far more humorous than lecherous.

She caught up the bulk of her emerald-green silk skirts in her hand. They stood out wide from her body over a profusion of petticoats and a stiff horsehair crinoline. Thank goodness she hadn’t heeded Madame Gerrard’s advice about purchasing one of the newer varieties of cage crinoline. Made of hooped wires and fabric tape, it was a style favored by Lady Brightwell and her daughter—a style which made one’s skirts balloon out to the point of caricature. As it was, Valentine could scarcely turn in the seat of the curricle with so much fabric spilling all about her.

Tristan gave her a slight smile as he reached up to catch her around the waist, lifting her out of the curricle and setting her feet down gently onto the paving stones. His large hands lingered a moment on the swell of her hips.

He gazed down at her and she met his eyes, venturing a shy smile of her own. She could feel the warmth blooming in her cheeks. “What happens now?” she asked.

“Now?” He dropped his hands, taking a step away from her. “I recommend a bath and a change of clothes. It’s impossible to travel in an open carriage without being covered all over with grime.”

Valentine’s smile faded. Last night he had called her an angel and begged her to let him have her, but she was beginning to think that his sweet words and actions the previous evening owed more to excessive drink than any particular passion he may have felt for her. “And after that?”

His expression grew somber. “Then we talk.”

The footman cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, my lord. Shall I take these parcels to your rooms?”

Valentine hurried forward. “I’ll take them.” She lifted the stack of white ribbon-tied boxes from the footman’s arms. She was thankful that neither the footman nor Tristan knew what was in them. At least, she didn’t think that Tristan knew. Then again, a practiced rake might well realize that boxes of a certain size could only contain a woman’s underthings.

She glanced at Tristan. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord.”

Tristan bowed. “Miss March.”

Ignoring the footman’s impertinent stare, she turned and ran up the front steps into the house. The main hall was empty; however, she could hear ribald laughter rippling out from the direction of the conservatory. A jolt of alarm quickened her pace. She’d seen none of Lord and Lady Fairford’s guests since last night.

Nor did she wish to.

She bounded up the stairs to her third floor bedroom, the stack of boxes in her arms and her heavy skirts clutched in one hand. Tristan hadn’t followed her into the house. She suspected he’d stayed behind to lecture the stable lad about how to care for his horses or some such thing. Not that it mattered. He’d made it plain that he had no desire to talk at the moment.

It was frustrating, really. Nothing had been settled between them during their trip to York. If anything, she had even more questions.

And even more doubts.

What had she been thinking to allow him to buy her so many beautiful things? Good gracious, he must have spent a small fortune! She should have refused him outright. Insisted that her own gowns were quite good enough, thank you very much.

But he hadn’t approved of her clothing. It was a poor reflection on him, he’d said. Or something to that effect.

She steadied her stack of boxes beneath her chin, freeing her right hand to twist the doorknob to her bedroom. The door swung open. She stepped inside, poised to drop her packages onto the bed, only to come to an abrupt and very startled halt.

“Well, well.” Felicity Brightwell was standing with her back to the wooden chest-of-drawers in the corner. Behind her, two drawers stood open, their meager contents spilling out. “You’ve returned at last.”

Valentine’s took in the scene before her in one comprehensive glance. “Have you been rifling through my things?”

“What things? Your darned stockings? Your threadbare undergarments?” She cast a poisonous look at the packages in Valentine’s arms before sweeping her with the same, contemptuous glare from the top of her spoon bonnet to the hem of her emerald-green skirts. “I see that St. Ashton is attempting to make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. You may tell him for me that he’s failed miserably.”