He’d glowered at his father, inwardly cursing the old devil for being so damned perceptive. “You’re not mistaken,” he’d said.
“Because she’s an innocent.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then why?”
Tristan had tried to make his father understand something he still didn’t entirely understand himself. “She’s different from the others. Sweet and earnest. She believes in things. Has faith in things.” He’d looked away from his father before adding, “She has faith in me.”
“And you don’t want to disappoint her.”
“I won’t.”
The coach jolted over another rut in the road, rattling the interior of the carriage and Tristan’s bones along with it. He folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, his tall, beaver hat tipped down low over his eyes. He did have a tenderness for Valentine March. And what his father had said this morning made a good deal of sense.
Not that that made his advice any more palatable.
Nevertheless, he would go to Northumberland—something he’d done exactly once in the eleven years since his father had given him Blackburn Priory. He would go to Northumberland and he would attempt to make a success of his property. He only wished that doing the honorable thing wasn’t so bloody uncomfortable.
Valentine sat across from the Earl of Lynden in the first-class railway carriage. His lordship was thoroughly absorbed in his newspaper—and had been since they boarded the train. On her own lap, a leather-bound book lay open. It was an old but obviously well-loved edition of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese, lent to her by the earl to read during the journey. She’d got no further than the first sentence before her mind had begun to drift.
Tristan hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye.
The realization had left her angry and heartbroken by turns. Was this what he’d meant when he promised to do the honorable thing? To send her away from him without a word? After last night, when he’d pressed his lips to her forehead and held her hand, she’d thought…
But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? She’d thought. When, in fact, Tristan hadn’t said anything about his feelings. She’d informed him that he had her heart. And in exchange he’d said…what? That she made him happy? It was a lovely sentiment, to be sure, but it was hardly a declaration of enduring affection.
Valentine sighed heavily as she stared down at her book. She felt oddly deflated. Here she was, sitting across from Tristan’s father and wearing clothing Tristan had given her, but she’d never felt farther away from him. The ache in her heart told her that he’d abandoned her. While the knots in her stomach warned her that soon, for the first time in her life, she would be facing a Caddington relation. Someone who had known her mother. And she would be doing so without the support of the man who had promised to marry her.
The man she very much feared she was falling in love with.
“Is the poetry not to your liking?” Lord Lynden asked.
She looked up with a start. He was watching her from beneath furrowed brows, his newspaper folded on the seat beside him. “What? Oh, no, my lord. It’s very diverting.”
“You haven’t turned the page for the past hour,” he observed.
Her cheeks colored. “Haven’t I?”
“I trust you’re not fretting over meeting Lady Hermione.”
She smoothed a nonexistent crease in her skirts. For the journey, she’d worn one of the new dresses Tristan had bought her in York. It had a tight woolen jacket bodice and matching woolen skirts, swelled out to a magnificent size over her petticoats and crinoline. Made in a rich shade of mink brown and trimmed sparingly with military-style frogging and braid, it was really more of an afternoon dress than a carriage gown. Still, Valentine thought it more than sufficed for the journey. With her hair rolled up in a hairnet and a new hat perched atop her head, she looked neat as a pin. There would be nothing to criticize in her appearance, at least. Nothing by which Lady Hermione Caddington could outwardly judge her.
“Yes,” she confessed. “I am rather.”
“There’s no need.” Lord Lynden lifted his newspaper again and straightened the rumpled pages with a shake of his hands. She waited for him to say something more, but he seemed to consider the conversation at an end.
She looked out the window for a while, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, before turning her gaze back to Lord Lynden. He wasn’t very like his son. He didn’t laugh or tease or flash a wolfish grin. Nor did he exhibit Tristan’s penchant for brooding. He was, in short, not a temperamental man. He was stern and steady. Some might say cold-blooded.
But he’d been inordinately kind to her. Granted, it might well be that he was only being kind in order to get her away from his son—as far and as fast as possible. Whatever Tristan believed about his father’s motives, Lord Lynden surely recognized that she was ineligible. She was a woman of no birth and no breeding. A bastard. A notorious one at that. He must be appalled at the very suggestion that such a person could one day ascend to the title of Countess of Lynden.
“My lord,” she began in a small, hesitant voice.
The earl cast her a distracted glance from over the top of his newspaper. “What’s that, Miss March?”
“Did Lord St. Ashton indicate… That is to say…did he happen to mention when he might join us in London?”
“If he’s indeed gone to Northumberland, it will take him several months to assess the state of things at Blackburn Priory and begin repairs. I don’t expect we’ll see him until after the New Year.”
Valentine fidgeted with one of her gloves. His answer wasn’t quite the one she’d been hoping for.
And what in heaven did he mean, if Tristan had indeed gone to Northumberland? Where else in the world would he have gone?
“Won’t he come back for Christmas?” she asked.
“Can’t say he shared many of his plans with me. It was early hours and he was in a black mood. St. Ashton doesn’t normally rise before noon—not in my experience.” Lord Lynden shook his newspaper again and resumed reading. And then he frowned. “Blast,” he muttered. The newspaper was cast aside and he began to rummage through the interior pockets of his capacious travelling coat. In a moment, he withdrew a folded piece of notepaper. “Forgive me, Miss March. I should have given this to you at the station. In all that commotion with the porter, it entirely slipped my mind.”
Valentine took the note from his extended hand. She didn’t ask from whom it came. It was obvious to both her and her rapidly skipping pulse. She held the note in her lap until Lord Lynden returned to his newspaper. When he was well and truly occupied, she unfolded the sheet of paper and began to read.
My Dear Miss March,
I’ve been exiled to Northumberland for the next several months. I’m told I must give you time to look about you. Pray do so. But know this: while you’re confronting a bevy of over-proud Caddingtons, I’ll be embarking on a far more perilous mission. I’ll be alone, serious and sober, laboring to restore Blackburn Priory and endeavoring to justify your faith in me. When we meet again in the months to come, I hope you’ll find me a better and worthier man. Until then, I remain your flawed, but still very much devoted,
St. Ashton
Valentine’s cheeks warmed as she read Tristan’s message a second time. She might have read it a third time, but she sensed that Lord Lynden was once again observing her from over the top of his newspaper. She carefully folded the sheet of notepaper and slipped it into her reticule.
“I assume that all is now right with the world?” Lord Lynden said.
Her blush deepened at the earl’s dry tone. “Yes, I feel much better now, thank you.”
He regarded her with a thoughtful expression. “Take care, my dear. Many a lady has fancied she would be the making of my son and many a lady has been disappointed.”
Valentine wished people would stop warning her about Tristan’s unreliability. It was fast becoming exasperating. “Lord St. Ashton shal
l be the making of himself. I have nothing at all to do with it.”
“No? Well, I commend you on your good sense. It’s a commodity that’s been in short supply of late.” He paused. “I expect your father, the vicar, was a sensible fellow.”
“He was, sir.”
“Sensible enough to marry your mother.”
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?”
“They were childhood friends. Lady Sara was much younger than her, of course. By seven or eight years, if I remember. But they had grown up together on neighboring estates. Raised practically as sisters. When Eleonore and I married, Lady Sara was one of our wedding party.”
“But…I don’t understand. If my mother was like a younger sister to the Countess of Lyndon, then why—”
“Why didn’t we help her?” Lord Lynden’s face betrayed a brief grimace of self-disgust. “By that time, my wife had died. I wasn’t myself for a long while. It’s not much of an excuse, but there it is.”
A sense of the injustice of it all settled in Valentine’s chest. If only things had been different. If only someone had come to her mother’s aid. “Is that why you’re helping me, my lord?”
“The wrong done to your mother was no fault of mine,” Lord Lynden said. “But when she found herself in trouble, I could have done more. Many in society could have done more. It’s too late to make amends to Lady Sara herself, much to my regret. But I will try to do my best by her daughter. It’s what my wife would have wanted.” He paused. “As for my son…”
“You don’t believe he will honor his promise.” Try as she might, she was unable to keep the tremor out of her voice. “You don’t believe he’ll come back for me or…or marry me.”
“What I believe, Miss March,” Lord Lynden said grimly, “is that you would be wise to put my son out of your mind for the next three months. And wiser still if you could manage to put him out of your mind altogether.”
London, England
Autumn, 1861
“Stand up, girl. Let me have a look at you.”
Valentine rose from the tassel-trimmed sofa in Lady Hermione Caddington’s opulent drawing room. She couldn’t have envisioned a more intimidating setting for her first meeting with one of her mother’s relations. The walls were papered in patterned yellow silk, the floors covered in rich Persian carpets. Plush settees and tufted ottomans vied for space with carved mahogany tables and button-back chairs and, from the ceiling, hung a truly magnificent crystal gasolier.
Taken altogether it made her feel the veriest country mouse.
She was still clad in her brown wool travelling gown. There’d been no time to change after arriving in London. Lord Lynden hadn’t even summoned his carriage from the station. Instead, he’d hailed a hansom cab and directed the jarvey to take them to Lady Hermione’s residence in Belgrave Square—a stately townhouse where her ladyship lived alone, save for the presence of her servants and two overfed pug dogs.
An expressionless butler had conducted them to the drawing room in all decorum. But when Lady Hermione had entered moments later, she hadn’t greeted Valentine as a guest. Nor had she acknowledged the presence of the Earl of Lynden. She’d merely strode in, her dogs trotting ahead of her like two medieval pages announcing the arrival of the queen, and lifted a pearl-encrusted lorgnette to her cool gray eyes.
Stand up, girl.
Every fiber of Valentine’s being bristled with indignation, but she submitted to the arrogant inspection without a word. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her spine straight as a ramrod. She could feel the two pugs snorting around the hem of her voluminous skirts. One of the rude little beasts even poked its gargoyl
e-like face under the edge of her crinoline. She was sorely tempted to nudge it away with the toe of her boot.
“Primrose,” Lady Hermione snapped. “Get out of there, you ridiculous creature.”
Valentine cast a fleeting glance down at the offending pug as it withdrew from her skirts and loped off. The other pug followed.
Lord Lynden strolled up alongside her. “Well?”
After another long moment, Lady Hermione dropped her lorgnette. “It’s exactly as you said.”
“Naturally. If there were any doubt I wouldn’t have wired you.”
Lady Hermione gave an imperious wave in the direction of the sofa and chairs. “Sit, sit. We have much to discuss.”
Valentine resumed her seat on the velvet sofa. Her stomach was trembling. She’d hoped that meeting one of her Caddington relations might be different. That it might make her feel as if she had a family of her own. A family who wanted her or, at least, wanted to know her better. But it didn’t feel like that at the moment. Quite the opposite.
Lady Hermione seemed as if she were made of ice. At first, Valentine had thought it was only her appearance. She was a tall arctic blonde of middle years with sharp, chiseled features and a straight, uncompromising figure. Her eyes, though intelligent, lacked all warmth. And her clothing…
Valentine couldn’t be entirely certain, but it seemed to her that Lady Hermione was wearing neither corset, nor crinoline. Her black silk gown fell about her frame in a wholly unstructured spill of fabric, a wide ribbon belt at her waist the only point of definition.
Such an ensemble might have softened another woman her age. Made her seem charmingly eccentric or even silly. On Lady Hermione Caddington, however, the clothing only served to make her look more formidable.
“I don’t know how you find yourself involved in this, Lynden,” she said.
“Does it matter?”
“It will soon enough. Everyone in London will want to know the story, down to the smallest detail. It will make the broadsheets, I’ll wager. And when they see her…”
The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter Page 12