Page 35 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“If he’s proposed to you, it’s only because his father is here. The Earl of Lynden saw the two of you together in the conservatory, didn’t he? There was nothing else for St. Ashton to do but make an honorable gesture.” Felicity took another step forward. “Everything he’s done for you is only for show. He doesn’t mean any of it. St. Ashton never means anything. It’s all sport to him.”

Valentine’s eyes were beginning to smart. “Is that all? Have you anything else to say to me?”

“Only this.” Felicity was a breath away from her now. Close enough to strike her if she wished. Or to pull her hair if she wished. She did neither, choosing instead to do something—to promise something—far worse. “I’m going to tell everyone I know what a slut you are,” she said, smiling. “No one in society will ever hire you again, not even as a scullery maid. The only work you’ll be able to find in England is on your back.”

Valentine lifted her chin. Her cheeks were burning and she could feel her pulse beating an erratic rhythm in her throat. “If you’re quite finished,” she said.

Felicity reached for the doorknob, opening the door with a hard jerk.

Valentine moved out of her way just in time. Had she lingered, she knew Felicity Brightwell wouldn’t have scrupled to knock her down. As it was, Valentine could only stand there and watch the daughter of her former employer stride away down the hall, her enormous wire crinoline swinging wildly with every angry step.

After a long moment, she shut the door and latched it. And then she sank down on the edge of her narrow bed. The mattress sagged beneath her and the heap of white, ribbon-tied boxes tilted and fell. Several packages slid to the floor at her feet. She took a deep breath, and then another. By the time she regained her composure, any lingering happiness from her journey with Tristan—any pleasure at her beautiful new things—was gone. It had all turned to ashes in her mouth. Burned away by Felicity’s words and by her own resurgent sense of right and wrong.

She looked numbly around the cramped bedroom. Only yesterday morning she’d been copying a psalm into her mother’s book of Bible verses and longing for the day when she could join a mission in India or China. Goodness sake, she’d been contemplating learning Hindustani! And then, less than twelve hours later, she was in the arms of man. A veritable stranger. Clinging to him and kissing him.

What in heaven was wrong with her?

Sometime later Valentine descended from her room. The house was bustling with preparations for dinner, servants trotting up and down the threadbare halls in answer to the summons of their masters and mistresses. She walked briskly past them, her head down. She was so intent on avoiding any curious stares or impudent remarks that she didn’t see Mrs. Ravenscroft emerging from her room near the second floor landing.

“Oh!” Mrs. Ravenscroft’s much larger form collided with Valentine, nearly knocking her off of her feet. “Do be careful!”

Valentine staggered back a step before swiftly regaining her balance. “I beg your pardon!”

Mrs. Ravenscroft was only partially dressed, her embroidered silk dressing gown worn open over her corset and petticoats. “Where are you off to in such a rush?” she asked. “Dinner’s not for another hour.”

“Nowhere,” Valentine said. “I’m only… That is…I—”

“If you’re looking for Lord St. Ashton, you’ll find him in the billiards room.”

Valentine’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, but I’m not—”

“And if you should see my maid along the way, do send her along to my room. She’s supposed to be pressing my dinner dress but has been gone nearly half an hour.” Mrs. Ravenscroft sighed. “What a disaster this house party has become. I’ll be leaving in the morning on the eleven o’clock train to London. If you care to accompany me to the station, Miss March, you’re quite welcome.”

Valentine blinked in surprise. She didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Ravenscroft’s offer was kind. Unexpectedly so. But there was nothing for her in London—no friends, no family, and certainly no prospect of employment. Her only alternative to marrying Tristan was a third-class ticket back to Mrs. Pilcher in Hartwood Green who would, in turn, probably bundle her off to be companion to an elderly tyrant somewhere at the edge of the world. Or worse.

“I’m obliged to you, ma’am,” she said at last. “But—”

“But you’ll take your chances with St. Ashton.” Mrs. Ravenscroft’s red-rouged mouth tilted up in an indulgent smile. “I can’t fault you. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? But I wouldn’t depend on him, Miss March. St. Ashton has a well-earned reputation for being unreliable with the ladies. We none of us hold his interest for very long and I’ve seen many a broken heart that might have been avoided.”

“My heart is not in danger,” Valentine said quickly.

Mrs. Ravenscroft gave her a pitying look. “No, indeed. Forgive the advice. It was kindly meant.” She inclined her head and then, after one last look down the hall for her errant maid, withdrew back into her bedchamber, shutting the door behind her.

Valentine was shaken by the exchange. She stood there a moment, staring blankly at the intricate inlaid pattern of the closed door.

And then she resumed her journey down the stairs.

She didn’t know where the billiards room was and had to ask a passing footman for directions. He pointed her toward a room just beyond the Fairfords’ library. It was down a dark, narrow hallway. Fairford House had not yet been fitted for gas, and the candles in the wall sconces stood unlit.

A faded Aubusson runner muffled her footfalls as she approached the door. She heard the sound of wooden balls clacking accompanied by the deep murmur of male voices.

“You can hardly cut off my allowance now,” St. Ashton was saying in a bored, drawling voice. “Not now I’m engaged to be married.” The balls clacked again. “What would people say?”

Valentine stopped in her tracks.

“You won’t marry her,” Lord Lynden replied. He sounded cross. And very, very tired. “If I doubted it last night, I know it today.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.” There was another loud clack as a billiard ball was hit with force.