Page 36 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“I am,” Lord Lynden said. “You would not have been so reckless with a lady you intended to marry. Driving her to York? Accompanying her to a dressmaker as if she were one of your doxies? By God. You’re determined to ruin the gel.”

“What would you have had me do?” Tristan asked. “Avoid her? Pretend last night never happened?”

“I would have had you here. Ready to leave at dawn as we agreed.”

“Leave for where exactly?” Another billiard ball clacked—this time with all the ominous fury of a rifle shot.

Valentine nearly jumped out of her skin. It was enough to startle her out of her stillness. She was no eavesdropper. And she’d already heard quite enough. The exchange between Tristan and his father, coupled with the words of Felicity Brightwell and Mrs. Ravenscroft, made her sound like the most unwanted, pathetic creature in the world. But she refused to be made to feel that way. She’d behaved injudiciously—wantonly, even—but she wasn’t pathetic.

She walked through the open door of the billiards room.

Tristan was in his shirtsleeves, his black cravat loose round his neck. He was leaning over the billiards table, in the midst of lining up his cue, when his gaze lifted toward the doorway. The expression in his eyes was hard to read, but she knew she must have startled him for, in the next instant, he fumbled his shot.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve distracted you.”

Tristan straightened. “You have.” He set aside his cue and walked around the table. “And I hope you’ll stay awhile and distract me again. My father’s company has grown tedious.”

The Earl of Lynden rose from his chair and made her a bow. “We’ve been discussing marriage, Miss March. A damnable topic.” He offered her his arm and, when she took it, led her past the billiards table toward a cluster of leather armchairs at the opposite end of the room. “We’ve also been discussing your good self. But perhaps you heard?”

She refused to pretend ignorance. “A very little.”

“Would you care for a drink, Miss March?” Tristan asked. “A glass of sherry?”

“If you please.” She seated herself in the chair nearest the fireplace. The flames had dwindled to embers, and a faint cloud of smoke drifted out into the room. It had likely been an age since the chimneys were properly swept.

Lord Lynden took a seat across from her. Beside his chair was a marble-topped table on which sat three crystal decanters filled with spirits. Tristan unstopped one of them and poured her out a small glass of pale amber liquid.

“Here you are,” he said.

She took the proffered glass, giving the contents a dubious look. She knew what sherry was. Of course she did. But she’d never actually tasted it. Papa hadn’t kept anything stronger than seasonal cordial at the vicarage and, since her time in Lady Brightwell’s employ, she’d subsisted mainly on weak cups of tea.

Today, however, she’d already tasted ale. A shocking thing, in and of itself. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She raised the glass to her lips and took a healthy swallow.

And instantly grimaced at the bitter, burning taste of alcohol in her mouth.

“Don’t tell me the Fairfords’ sherry has gone off,” Tristan said.

“I beg your pardon?” Valentine choked.

He was watching her with keen interest. “Your face is screwed up as if you’ve just sucked on a lemon. Is it the sherry?”

She fixed him with a reproving glare. His own face remained utterly inscrutable. Except for his eyes. They were quite plainly laughing at her.

“I can pour you a glass of something else if you like,” he said. “The brandy here is first-rate, I can attest.”

Oh, the wretched man!

She made an effort to compose her features when what she really felt like doing was running back upstairs and rinsing her mouth out over the washbasin. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said, setting aside her glass.

“Never liked sherry myself,” Lord Lynden remarked. “Awful stuff.”

“It’s a lady’s drink,” Tristan said dismissively. He didn’t sit down with them, merely stood against the mantelpiece, his arms folded in front of him. It wasn’t a very welcoming posture. “You’re not dressed for dinner, Miss March. I take it you don’t plan to join Lord and Lady Fairford at table.”

“Indeed not,” she said. “And you, my lords?” She looked between Tristan and Lord Lynden. “Will you be dining with the other guests this evening?”

“Not I,” Lord Lynden said. “I’ll be ordering a tray in my room.”

“A decision the whole party will undoubtedly thank you for,” Tristan said.