Page 57 of The Viscount and the Vicar’s Daughter

“Betrothed to your heir?” Lord Stokedale managed to look both intrigued and appalled. “You can’t be serious.”

A flicker of guilt pinged at Valentine’s conscience. She knew full well that she should object. She should explain that, as of yesterday, she and Tristan were no longer engaged. She’d meant to confess it to Lady Hermione directly it happened, but the timing hadn’t seemed right. Not with their impending journey to Caddington Park weighing so heavily on all of their minds. And now…

The timing was even less auspicious than yesterday.

No, there would be no confessions in the presence of Lord Stokedale. She would have to bite her tongue and hope that later, in the carriage, when she finally admitted the truth, Lord Lynden and Lady Hermione wouldn’t be too angry with her.

“I’m deadly serious,” Lord Lynden said. “If you treat my future daughter-in-law with disrespect, the rest of society will think they’ve been given carte blanche to do the same. And that’s something my son will not tolerate. It’s something I will not tolerate.” He gave Lord Stokedale a hard look. “You speak of great families and noble bloodlines. The first Earl of Lynden fought at the side of King Richard the Lionheart. We count ourselves one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England. A fact which you as good as acknowledged when, some years past, you suggested a match between my heir and one of your own daughters.”

Lord Stokedale’s cold expression betrayed a flash of heat. “I’ll thank you not to discuss my daughters,” he said tightly. “And you’re correct, sir. The conversation you allude to was some years past. When our children were still in the nursery. Well before St. Ashton had acquired his current reputation, I might add.”

Lord Stokedale walked to another of his paintings. He gave every sign that he was contemplating the handsome piece of artwork. But his creased brow and rigid posture told another story. He was furious.

“What is it exactly that you would have me do?” He enquired at last. “Acknowledge her on the street? Nod to her in passing? Or do you require something more? A notice in the papers, perhaps.”

“Must you be so snide about the matter, Stokedale?” Lady Hermione said.

“If you expect me to rejoice at the connection, madam—”

“I expect no such thing.”

“Her father might have been a footman,” Lord Stokedale railed. “A groom in my father’s stable. One of the groundskeeper’s boys.”

At that moment, the door opened and Lord Stokedale’s butler entered. He cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Lord Stokedale frowned. “What is it, Frith?”

“His lordship the Viscount St. Ashton has arrived. Shall I—”

He was interrupted by a deep and all too familiar voice. “There’s no need to announce me, Frith. We are all of us well acquainted.”

Valentine’s eyes widened as Tristan walked into the room. He was clad in travelling clothes. A handsome wool overcoat worn over a black frock coat and trousers. He looked as if he’d just climbed down from a carriage or disembarked from the train. Slightly dusty and a little rumpled. She watched, speechless, as he stripped off his gloves and his tall hat and handed them to the butler.

“St. Ashton,” Lady Hermione breathed. “Of all the—”

“Madam,” Tristan said. “My lords.” His eyes found hers. “Miss March.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I have come for you,” he said.

“To lend your support?” Lord Lynden frowned deeply. “You’re a little late, sir.”

Tristan glanced at his father. “It couldn’t be helped. I’ve been in Westminster this morning. I was briefly detained at the home of a charming widow.”

Lady Hermione stifled a groan. “Really, my lord.”

Tristan continued, unperturbed. “She was telling me about her late son. A young man who perished during the burning of parliament in 1834.”

Lord Lynden gave his son an arrested look.

“Only one man perished in that blaze,” Stokedale interjected in irritation. “That young secretary of Lord Worthington’s. Rutherford somebody or other.”

“Val Rutherford,” Lord Lynden murmured.

Lady Hermione’s eyes shot to his. “Val, did you say?”

But Tristan didn’t seem to notice his father. Or anyone else in the room. He held Valentine’s gaze. “Your father wasn’t a vicar, I’m afraid,” he said. “Nor was he a footman or a groom or a groundskeeper’s assistant. He was a gentleman. Some might even call him a hero.”