Page 43 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

She experienced a twinge of discomfort. Reticence about her mother was deeply ingrained. It felt wrong to go from never speaking about her to casually discussing her with strangers. “I fear that good sense had precious little to do with it. My mother was very beautiful. Or so I am told.”

“You’ve been told correctly. Sara Caddington was one of the great beauties of her time.”

“I never saw her. I wish I had, but there’s not even a likeness to remember her by. She died so suddenly. They’d only been married a few months. And then I was born and…she was gone.”

“If you would like to know what your mother looked like, you need only consult your glass. You resemble her to an extraordinary degree.”

“You’re very kind to say so, my lord. But I know very well that I’m not a great beauty.” She added, quickly, “And I’m not fishing for a compliment, sir. I’m simply stating a fact.”

“A fact of which St. Ashton must have disabused you within the first ten minutes of making your acquaintance.”

“No, indeed. He’s never remarked upon my appearance. That is…except to tell me how appalling he finds my clothing.”

It wasn’t completely true. He’d told her she looked becoming in her new dresses, hadn’t he? And he’d told her that she blushed very prettily. It wasn’t the same as calling her beautiful, but the memory of it pleased her nonetheless.

She settled back into her seat. They had been travelling for more than an hour. The sounds of the train had become so much background noise. The screech of metal. The hiss of steam. The deep vibration in the railway carriage as the wheels trundled over the track. “Was my mother truly betrothed to a duke?” she asked.

His lordship inclined his head in acknowledgment. “The Duke of Carlisle. He was an older man. Too old. They were poorly suited. Had her father chosen someone else for her—”

“Then I wouldn’t have been born.”

“Quite so. It’s one of the many vagaries of fate. A coincidence here. A missed opportunity there. A handful of serendipitous encounters. Just as was your presence at that reprehensible house party.”

“And yours, sir,” she reminded him.

Lord Lynden scowled. “But for my son, I wouldn’t have been there. St. Ashton shouldn’t have been there either. It’s been years since he last attended the Fairfords’ annual Bacchanalia. For that’s what those gatherings are, Miss March. I shan’t beat about the bush. The entire place and everyone in it is a scandal. I can’t think what prompted my son to return there.”

“I believe he’s unhappy, my lord.”

He gave an unsympathetic snort. “Unhappy, is he? If so, he has no one to blame but himself.”

“You take a hard view.”

“I take a realistic view. St. Ashton has spent the better part of his life sowing wild oats. Is it any wonder he should wake up one morning to discover he’s left with nothing but a fallow field? A depleted patch of barren soil? The problem is of his own making. And the remedy, as I see it, is a fairly plain one.”

Her mouth tilted with reluctant amusement. “Crop rotation?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“A human being is not a plant, my lord.”

“And a man is not an animal, Miss March. He has duties. Obligations. We all of us must shoulder our responsibilities. Those who fail to do so are little better than beasts.”

Her gaze dropped briefly to her hands. She mustn’t idealize Tristan. He was a scapegrace. A scoundrel. Still…

“I think it can’t be easy to live up to the expectations of the Earl of Lynden,” she said.

For some reason, this made his lordship chuckle. “Come now, my dear. That old excuse might pass muster if St. Ashton was a boy, but he’s a man of more than thirty years. My expectations have had no bearing on his conduct for two decades at least. That I can promise you.”

She half smiled. “I daresay you’re right. It’s only that my own father had a great deal of influence on my behavior. All the way up until his death. At times, I confess, it could be rather stifling.” Her smile turned faintly wistful. “How well did you know my mother, sir?”

“Not well at all,” he said.

“Oh, but I thought—”

“No, Miss March. It wasn’t I who was acquainted with Lady Sara. It was my wife, Eleonore.”

Valentine’s brows lifted. “Lord St. Ashton’s mother?”