Page 49 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

Perhaps it was merely charity. Or merely infatuation. Whatever his reasons, he hadn’t turned her away. He would never have let her and her unborn child starve in the streets. And he would never have allowed Valentine to be born without a name.

She looked down at her latest attempt at recreating her mother’s book of verses with a critical eye. The lion did look a little like a pug dog, but the script was rather pretty. She’d managed to copy her mother’s writing exactly, down to the last loop and swirl.

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you.

Now, if only she could remember the verses and illustrations for all the rest of the pages that Felicity had destroyed.

“Ma’am?”

Valentine turned in her seat at the sound of the butler’s voice. He stood at the door to the morning room, his face as expressionless as it had been on the day of her arrival. “Yes, Ledsen? What is it?”

“You have a caller. A young gentleman. Most insistent. I’ve put him in the drawing room.”

Valentine’s pulse leapt into her throat. Tristan. He’d finally come for her. She stood. “Oh! Thank you, Ledsen!”

“Ma’am—” he began as she rushed past him out the door, “her ladyship wouldn’t approve—”

“It’s perfectly all right.” Valentine lifted her skirts as she darted down the hall. The drawing room was on the second floor. After ascending the stairs, she slowed her stride and gave herself a chance to catch her breath. She mustn’t appear overeager, despite the fact she’d been longing to see him for more than three weeks straight. She must appear calm and composed. Indifferent, even.

She smoothed her hands over her woolen day dress. And then she opened the door and entered.

A slender man of medium height was standing by the bank of windows, hat and gloves in hand. The morning sunlight turned his fair hair to gold. “Val,” he said, smiling.

Her mouth fell open in horror. “Phil?”

At precisely eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning, Tristan arrived at Lady Hermione’s residence in Belgrave Square in a hired hansom. He’d taken the train down from Northumberland the previous day. A bloody miserable journey. But it had been worth it. He’d spoken to Lords Wroxham and Clithering, two of his old comrades in debauchery. They were always up for a gamble, whether it be gaming, racing, or women. Earlier that morning, ensconced in a private, smoke-filled room at his club, he’d attempted to persuade them to apply their adventurous spirits to the realm of business. Or, more precisely, to apply their money.

The meeting had been more successful than he ever could have hoped. He suspected this was owing, in part, to the fact that he’d approached both men after a night of heavy drinking and ribaldry. Indeed, he didn’t believe either had even been to bed yet. Why else would they be awake at half nine in the morning?

Frankly, it was a miracle he was awake himself. But he’d become accustomed to rising early at Blackburn Priory. It wasn’t only that a blasted cock crowed outside his window every morning at dawn, but that, with so many things to see to on the estate, it was necessary to make the most of the daylight hours.

Now back in London, he knew that morning calls didn’t really take place until afternoon. But after all he’d gone through during the past weeks, he had to speak with Valentine. It would all be worth it if he could see her. If he could hear just one of her prim little sermons. It had been nearly a month since they had parted in Yorkshire. And he’d been pining for her like a dratted schoolboy ever since. It was ridiculous. Pathetic.

It was utterly intolerable.

He’d thought that, with time and distance, his attraction to her would fade. His father had believed it would. It was the sole reason he’d insisted on a long engagement. But, instead of fading, Tristan’s feelings for her seemed to have grown stronger. To have solidified into something lasting and real.

Of course, there was every chance that, in her absence, he’d idealized her. Set her on a pedestal. And there was an equal chance that, in his absence, she’d come to her senses. That she’d realized that he wasn’t a man worthy of her affections. That she’d discovered she no longer cared for him.

Tristan didn’t like to think of that possibility. It made his heart ache in a completely unacceptable manner.

His heart.

And that was the hell of it.

He disembarked from the hansom cab and, after flipping a few coins to the jarvey, he bounded up the front steps of Lady Hermione’s townhouse. A nervous excitement quickened his pulse. Perhaps he should have sent word that he was coming? Something to tell her when she might expect him? For all he knew, she might not even be at home.

But it was too late for second-guessing. He raised his hand and gave an impatient rap on the door with the brass knocker. The door was opened almost immediately by an elderly man in a dusty black suit. Lady Hermione’s butler, presumably.

“Yes, sir?”

Tristan didn’t wait for an invitation. He strode past the butler into the marble-tiled entryway. “Tell Miss March that St. Ashton is here to see her,” he said as he divested himself of his hat and gloves

“Yes, my lord.” The butler took his things and ushered him toward a modest room off the hall. “If you would be so kind as to wait in the morning room? Miss March is…” He trailed off, his eyes darting toward the second floor landing.

“Really, Val.” A man’s voice floated down the stairs. “That’s not the way I remember it at all.”

Tristan’s followed the butler’s gaze to the staircase in time to see a pale, fair-haired fellow descending. He had the face and figure of a romantic poet. The sort of anemic, prosing individual that village girls enjoyed swooning over. And beside him, clad in a handsome blue day dress, was Valentine.