She looked up at him with an expression that was both grave and damnably prim. It struck him quite suddenly that she bore more than a passing resemblance to a pretty little nun.
He wondered if she kissed like a nun as well.
“It doesn’t matter who is sitting with whom,” she said. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I don’t even know who you are.”
This was a rare turn of events. If Lady Brightwell had taken to warning her new companion about rakes, rogues, and vile seducers of women, surely his own name would have been at the top of the list. And even if it hadn’t been, what woman in England didn’t know of the infamous Viscount St. Ashton?
But then, he didn’t look much like a viscount now, did he?
“Tristan Sinclair,” he said brusquely. He waited for a reaction, but her face betrayed no hint of recognition. Doubtless it would if he added his title. Which was precisely why he did not. “And your name, ma’am?”
“Valentine March.”
Tristan felt another uncomfortable quake in his heart. By God but it suited her. “I’ve never before met a woman named Valentine.”
Miss March’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. “Yes…well…my mother expected I would be a boy, you see. She only chose the one name. After St. Valentine. And then, when Mama died, Papa couldn’t bring himself to call me anything else.”
“Your mother died in childbed?”
Her blush deepened. “Yes.”
Tristan nodded. “My own mother, as well. She succumbed not long after bringing my younger brother into the world.” Good Lord! He never mentioned his mother. Not to his family. Not to his friends. Not to anyone. Her death was certainly no secret, but the very idea that he’d speak of her to a stranger— What in blazes was the matter with him?
“Well, Miss March,” he said. “Now we’re acquainted, you may tell me all your troubles.”
Miss March looked down at the ink-stained paper, a line of distress appearing across the smooth surface of her brow.
“How long have you been in Lady Brightwell’s employ?” he asked. “It can’t have been more than a year, for last season she had a different companion. Wearing the same gown and spectacles, I’ll wager.”
“For two months.”
“Why?”
She blinked up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Couldn’t you have found a position with someone respectable?”
“But I understood that Lady Brightwell was respectable. I was recommended to her by Mrs. Pilcher, the squire’s wife in our village. She and Lady Brightwell are friends, and Mrs. Pilcher had promised my father that…that when he was gone…that she would see I was taken care of.”
“Your father is dead as well.”
It hadn’t been a question, but she answered it. There was a decided tremor in her voice. “Yes. Last year. He took a chill while out visiting his parishioners and, though I tried, I could not make him well again.”
Tristan’s brows snapped together. Hell’s teeth, she was a vicar’s daughter. No wonder she looked like a beatific little nun. “And this is your first position. Your first time hiring yourself out as a companion.”
She nodded.
“Why hire yourself out at all? Why not marry? Surely there must have been any number of men in your village anxious to win your hand.”
Her gaze lowered to the crumpled handkerchief in her hand. “There was no one,” she said very quietly.
Tristan had the feeling that she was not being entirely truthful, but he didn’t press her. “And no family?”
She hesitated a fraction of a second before saying again, “No one.”
“And so you hired yourself out as a companion to Lady Hortensia Brightwell. A pity you and I weren’t acquainted then. I might have warned you. Lady Brightwell attends only the raciest house parties, you know. The kind with drunken orgies and lecherous gentleman creeping into random bedchambers in the middle of the night.”
Miss March’s face drained of color.
“And if you think your atrocious costume will protect your virtue, you’re much mistaken. Many of the gentlemen in attendance would consider your spectacles and outsized gown a challenge.” Tristan paused, wondering briefly if he was one such gentleman. “I hope you’ve been keeping your bedroom door locked, Miss March.”
“We only arrived this morning. But I shall lock my door tonight, sir. I-I thank you for your warning.”
He felt like an utter ass. “See that you do. And stay clear of Lady Brightwell’s daughter. If she attempts to meddle with you again—”
“Meddle with me?” Her winged brows flew up in alarm.
“Touch you.”
“Oh, she didn’t touch me, Mr. Sinclair. I would have preferred it if she had. A bruise might heal, but what she’s done to my drawings…” Her gray eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “It can never be mended. She’s ruined them.”
“Your drawings,” he repeated. And then he understood. Curse him for his depraved mind! Felicity Brightwell hadn’t been forcing indecent attentions on her mother’s companion. She’d been bullying and tormenting her. Making her life a misery. Naturally she would, for even in a drab gown and outsized spectacles, Valentine March outshone her.
“May I?” He reached out for the paper that she clutched so resolutely to her bosom. She relaxed her hold on it, making no objection as he plucked it from her fingers. He looked at it for a moment, his eyes skimming again the barely legible script.
Arise, my love, my fair one,
And come away;
For now the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone.
For some reason he couldn’t explain, Tristan felt the beginnings of a lump in his throat. “It’s not entirely ruined,” he said gruffly. “You can still—”
“Oh, you don’t understand!” Miss March cried. “This is the only one I could salvage! The rest are covered in ink. She poured it all over them. And then she laughed.” She pressed her hands to her face.
“She is a rather unpleasant young lady.” Tristan grimaced. Was that all he could come up with? Where were his honeyed tones? His caressing words? That famous St. Ashton address? “I take it that those drawings were very precious to you.”
“More precious than anything in the whole world. They’re all I had left of my—” She broke off. “Oh, it doesn’t matter anymore! Nothing matters anymore.”
“You can’t start over? Draw them again?”
Miss March glanced up at him. Her eyes were bleak with despair. “No. Some of the drawings… They weren’t mine, don’t you see? I was only copying the verses. And now…” She didn’t finish. Instead she retrieved her paper from him and once again clutched it to her chest. “I can’t start over. Not alone. Besides, what would be the point? She would only ruin them again. Indeed, she said that the next time she caught me scribbling, she’d throw my work into the fire.”
Tristan didn’t know what to say to that. What could he say? She was an impoverished lady’s companion. She was also a vicar’s daughter. Even if he could summon up his trademark charm, what use would it be on someone like her? “Perhaps,” he said at last, “Miss Brightwell will marry soon.”
Miss March shivered. “Undoubtedly so, but what—”
“You’re trembling,” Tristan interrupted. His expression grew dark. “And no wonder. Out of doors in November without a bonnet, gloves or cloak. Have you no respect for the Yorkshire weather?” He began to remove his greatcoat. “Just because this estate is sheltered from the worst of it doesn’t mean you still won’t catch your death of cold. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been raining for three days straight.”
Miss March watched him, wide-eyed, as he divested himself of his greatcoat. “I ran out of the house in rather a hurry. There was no time to find gloves or a bonnet or— Oh!” She drew back from him. “What are you doing?”
Tristan paused, his greatcoat held open in his hands, poised to drape around her. “Lending you my coat, you little fool.�
�
Her bosom rose and fell on an unsteady breath, but she made no further objection as he settled it around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s quite warm.”
Tristan moved away from her. “I should think so. I’ve been wearing it the better part of the morning.”
His words brought a fierce blush to her cheeks.
At another time, in another place, he might have laughed. A woman so innocent that the very thought of a man’s body heat put her to the blush? A fine joke, to be sure. But as he looked at Valentine March, swallowed up in the folds of his caped greatcoat, he did not feel very much like laughing. Instead, he felt an aching swell of tenderness. It was so disconcerting that he almost swore aloud.
“What difference does it make if Miss Brightwell is married?” she asked.
Tristan rubbed the side of his face in an effort to collect his scattered thoughts. The scratch of uneven stubble abraded his palm. He had sent his valet, Higgins, ahead with the carriage. As a result, this morning at the inn he had been obliged to shave himself. And done a damned poor job of it, too. “When she marries, she’ll go to her husband’s house. Then you’ll see her but rarely, I imagine.”
“She is looking for a husband,” Miss March conceded. “It’s why we’ve come to this house party.”
Tristan’s mouth curved in a sardonic smile. “If that’s so, Lady Brightwell isn’t half the matchmaker I thought her to be.”
“Why do you say so?”
“There are no gentlemen at Lord and Lady Fairford’s house parties who are suitable for marriage. They invite only those of their same ilk. Inveterate gamblers, rakes, reprobates. The dissolute dregs of polite society.”
“That can’t be true, for Lady Brightwell said specifically that she brought Miss Brightwell here to further her interests with a particular gentleman. I believe he’s considered to be a great matrimonial prize.”
Tristan’s eyes were already upon her, but at her words his gaze sharpened. “And who might this unfortunate soul be? Did Lady Brightwell name him?”
“Viscount St. Ashton.” She looked up at him. “He’s not one of those bad sorts of gentlemen you mentioned, is he? The rakes and the reprobates?”
Tristan gave a humorless laugh. It was a hoarse and bitter sound, edged with something very like anger. “My dear, Miss March,” he said. “The Viscount St. Ashton is the biggest rake and reprobate of them all.”
Heat rushed to Valentine’s face. It was all she could do not to press her hands against her scalding cheeks to cool her blushes. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “You know him.”
Mr. Sinclair was no longer laughing. “Intimately,” he said.
She wished she might fall through the floor. And considering the dilapidated state of the folly, such an event was not entirely impossible. “Do forgive me, sir. Had I known he was your friend, I would never have said anything. Indeed, I shouldn’t even be—”
“Sitting with me. Talking with me. Yes, I do believe we’ve established that, Miss March.” His expression had been hard and stern, cold enough to scare her for an instant, but now it softened. “Never mind. You’ve said nothing to offend me.”
Valentine looked at her companion. It was ridiculous to feel so at ease with a stranger. And yet he’d put her at ease from the moment he entered the folly and sat down beside her. Funny that. He hadn’t been particularly nice to her. Indeed, he’d been brusque and commanding, ordering her about until she got her tears under control. He’d insulted her, too. At least, he’d insulted her gown and her rather unflattering coiffure.
And he’d thought The Song of Solomon was a love poem!
Clearly his education was somewhat lacking. Which was quite odd since he seemed to be very much a gentleman. A brutish sort of gentleman, to be sure, but a gentleman nonetheless. He must live on a neighboring estate. Perhaps he was some manner of country gentry? His clothes were cut well enough, for all that they were stained with mud, grass, and sweat. And he carried himself with an air of importance, even if his thick black hair was disheveled and there was a shadow of stubble on his strong, chiseled jaw and over the enticingly sensual curve of his lip.
Indeed, he was outrageously handsome. Perhaps the most handsome man Valentine had ever seen. Not that she’d seen very many. But surely few could compete with Mr. Sinclair’s great height, broad shoulders, and smoldering dark eyes.
And she would have had to be blind not to notice that his breeches clung to long, powerfully made legs.
Or that his hands, when he snatched away her paper, had appeared to be twice the size of her own.
When he laughed, she’d even seen a flash of strong, white teeth. A bit wolfish, that laugh. A bit strange. But then, she didn’t pretend to understand subtle society humor. Not that Mr. Sinclair was anything like the foppish drawing room exquisites she’d encountered during her first month working for Lady Brightwell.
And he was certainly nothing at all like Phil. But then, Phillip Edgecombe was slight of build, with the vaguely sickly pallor of a romantic poet. It had been the very quality that set all the girls in the village swooning over him.
“You do understand, don’t you Val?” he’d said the last time they saw each other. “Some things are simply not meant to be.”
They’d been standing outside of the vicarage as two burly men unloaded a cart containing the furniture and various odds and ends belonging to the new vicar and his family. Valentine’s own small trunk sat at her feet. “Yes, Phil,” she’d said numbly. “I understand.”
“It doesn’t mean I love you any less. And it doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends. Indeed, I shall write you as often as I can.” He’d caught hold of her hand then, clutching it fervently in his. “And if anything changes— If you should hear anything at all— You must write me immediately. Promise me, Val.”
No. Tristan Sinclair was nothing like Phillip Edgecombe. He didn’t disguise his true intentions with silky words and flattery. He was a brutally honest gentleman. A thoroughly masculine one, too. The kind Valentine suspected could only be found in the rural countryside. A gentleman farmer, she decided. God particularly approved of farmers. At least, Papa had always said so.
“Surely Lord St. Ashton can’t be as bad as you say,” she replied at last. “Else why would Lady Brightwell bring Miss Brightwell to meet him?”
“The Viscount St. Ashton is the Earl of Lynden’s son and heir. That fact alone makes him irresistible—and has done since he was a lad of eighteen.”
Valentine considered this with a furrowed brow. “Yes. I did hear Lady Brightwell likening him to some rare beast that has evaded capture for far too many years. I didn’t regard it. It’s simply how Lady Brightwell talks. She is…rather candid.”
“She’s vulgar.”
“Oh.” Valentine frowned. She’d thought all aristocratic ladies spoke in the manner of Lady Brightwell and her daughter. “Do you really think so?”
“Everyone in attendance at this house party of yours is vulgar.” He gave her a wry smile. “Everyone save yourself and one other.”
“Who is the other?”
“The Earl of Lynden.”
She blinked in surprise. “Lord St. Ashton’s father? I had no idea he’d be in attendance. Lady Brightwell hasn’t mentioned—”
“He wasn’t invited. Even if he had been, he would never attend this sort of party.”
“Then why…?”
“He’s come here for the sole purpose of surprising his wayward heir. I expect a confrontation later this afternoon. No doubt some ultimatum will be involved.”
“An ultimatum? I don’t understand.”
“The earl’s younger son married last year. His wife recently presented him with a son. Meanwhile, St. Ashton is still unmarried. He’s made no attempts to secure the line. I daresay Lynden fears his heir will never wed. Or that, if he does, it’ll be to some music hall performer. Or worse.”
“If that’s the alternative, then it’s lucky for Lord St. Ashton that Miss Brig
htwell is in attendance. He can simply make her an offer of marriage and—”
“Is that what you advise?” he asked sharply.
Valentine blushed. “I-I have no advice.”
“You must have. You’re acquainted with Miss Brightwell. Tell me, would she make a good wife? A good viscountess?”
Valentine had already said too much about Miss Brightwell. It was bad enough that she privately loathed her. To be airing her grievances to strangers was well-nigh unforgiveable. Not to mention profoundly unchristian. She was supposed to love her neighbor. Turn the other cheek and so forth. It was how she’d been raised. Oh, how disappointed Papa would be if he could see her now. Sitting with a strange man unchaperoned. Gossiping about the very employer whose wages kept her from the workhouse.
Well, perhaps not the workhouse. She wasn’t that badly off. Not yet, anyway.
“I’m sure she would make a creditable viscountess,” Valentine managed to say.
Mr. Sinclair didn’t look very convinced. “Creditable,” he repeated. “The very girl who destroyed what you hold most precious in the world.”
Valentine stared down at what was left of her book of Bible verses. She’d almost managed to come to terms with the disastrous events that had driven her to the folly, but, at Mr. Sinclair’s words, she felt the full, oppressive weight of her servitude descend once more over her shoulders. Tears stung at the backs of her eyes. “What does it matter how she’s treated me? I’m only a companion. Not much better than a servant, really.”
“Miss March,” Mr. Sinclair said quietly, “I—”
“There you are!” a man’s voice called out. “Higgins said I might find you here.”
Valentine looked up with a start to see a florid-faced gentleman approach. She recognized him as Lord Quinton. An impeccably dressed, middle-aged libertine who bore on his reddened visage the marks of a life spent indulging in all manner of vices. He was a particular friend of Lady Brightwell, who’d grudgingly introduced him to Valentine earlier that morning in the front hall of Fairford House.
“And who’s that with you?” Lord Quinton briefly squinted in her direction, clearly not recognizing her without her spectacles. He grinned at Mr. Sinclair. “I say, St. Ashton. After all these years, you still don’t miss a trick. Not an hour in the place and already out in the woods with a willing female.”
The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter Page 2