And then there was the unfortunate fact that last night he’d been half-drunk or a trifle disguised, or whatever he’d called it. The cold light of dawn had likely brought sober common sense with it. He must realize now that he hadn’t needed to propose marriage at all.
He’d compromised her, true enough, but she was nothing but a lady’s companion. Only a step up from the silly parlor maids who sighed and swooned in Tristan’s wake, really. He would no doubt inform her that, upon reflection, he’d decided it would be best that she simply return to Surrey.
Though why he must take her for a drive in order to do it, she had no idea.
After pinning up her hair, she dressed quickly in an ill-fitting gown and knee-length wool mantle, buttoning the latter all the way up to her neck. It was early enough that she didn’t need to worry about running into Lady Brightwell or Felicity. They didn’t rise from bed until well past ten. Even so, as she ducked out of her third floor room and hurried down the stairs, she felt an overwhelming sense of urgency. Being called a devious slut and a common harlot had been a thoroughly unpleasant experience. One she didn’t care to repeat anytime soon.
Not that the name-calling had been the worst of it. There had first been the mortification of being caught in a compromising position with a known rake. And then the frank conversation about her mother and the ignominious circumstances of her birth. Either one of which would have been enough to render last evening one of the worst nights of her entire life.
And yet, amongst all the humiliation, there were moments she knew she’d hold close to her heart forever. Tristan’s low-pitched voice as he begged her to let him do the honorable thing.
And that kiss.
That scorching, all-consuming kiss.
It had ignited something in her. Something wanton, she’d thought later. But in the moment, it had been wonderful. Beautiful. Was it how he kissed all his women? A lowering thought!
She descended the final flight of stairs to find Tristan pacing in the front hall. His thick black hair was disheveled, his face shadowed and grim. If it were not for the immaculate state of his clothes, she might have suspected that he’d been up all night. As it was, his black cravat was neatly tied and his top boots polished to a mirror shine. His caped greatcoat succeeded in making him appear altogether larger and far more intimidating than he already was.
When he caught sight of her, he frowned. “Miss March,” he said, sounding as cross as he looked.
“My lord.” She ignored his irritation, focusing instead on retying the wayward strings of her bonnet. Her gloved fingers were awkward and clumsy, refusing to cooperate. And no wonder. Her heart was thumping so heavily she thought she might expire.
He’d changed his mind.
It was as plain as anything.
She told herself that she should be relieved, but as she followed Tristan out to the drive, she felt an all too familiar weight descend upon her. Such a feeling had been her almost constant companion since the death of her father. When she accepted Tristan’s proposal, she’d begun to believe, for just a moment, that she would once again have a proper place in the world. That she would no longer be alone. More fool her! She should have known that marriage wouldn’t be the answer to her troubles. Especially not a marriage to a gentleman like the Viscount St. Ashton.
“We’ll be lucky if the wheels don’t fall off,” Tristan muttered as he handed her up into the curricle.
Valentine cast an absent glance at the rickety vehicle. It was attached to two very fine-looking chestnuts, which succeeded in making it appear even shabbier by comparison. “To whom does it belong?”
Tristan vaulted up into the carriage seat beside her and gathered the reins. “The curricle belongs to Fairford. The horses belong to me.” He shouted at the groom to release their heads and gave the horses the office to start. They leapt forward in their traces, causing Valentine to clutch nervously at the side of her seat.
“I left my own curricle behind in London,” he explained, his eyes straight ahead on the road. “I didn’t plan to do any driving here in Yorkshire.”
She inhaled a breath of cold air. It was a frosty morning, the fog sitting heavily on the hills. It didn’t look like it would rain, but one never knew. “You needn’t have bothered taking me for a drive.”
“No?”
“If you have something you wish to tell me, you might just as easily have said it in the library.”
“I’ve spent the better part of the night in Fairford’s library. If I never see it again, it will be too soon.”
Valentine was aware that he’d stayed in the library in order to speak privately with his father. She hadn’t remained for that conversation. Indeed, as soon as Tristan had received her acceptance to his proposal, he’d compelled her to go to bed and she’d been more than willing to oblige him. As he’d escorted her from the room, all traces of dry humor in his expression had been gone. In their place was a grim strength of purpose. As if he were about to fight a duel—or face a firing squad.
“The better part of the night?” she echoed faintly. “Doing what?”
“Talking with my father.”
“Oh.” She could think of nothing else to say. Had Lord Lynden convinced him of the unsuitability of the match? It certainly sounded that way.
Valentine stared numbly at the passing scenery. She didn’t know how many minutes passed in silence. Not that Tristan appeared to mind the lack of conversation. The horses were going at a remarkably quick clip and he was addressing himself solely to the task of driving them.
When they reached the end of the long drive, she expected him to turn left through a bank of trees at the edge of the estate. Instead, he guided the horses out onto the main road.
She looked up at him in vague alarm. “I thought you were taking me for a drive around the park?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“It seemed a reasonable guess.” She sat up taller in her seat, craning to see ahead. “Where are we going?”
“To York.”
“What?”
“York, Miss March. The nearest town in this godforsaken wilderness.”
“I can’t drive with you to York!”
“Why not? We’re in an open carriage. It’s all perfectly respectable.”
“Perhaps it would be if we were merely taking a turn about the grounds, but to drive all the way to York? Why, it’s nearly fifteen miles away!”
“A negligible distance for my cattle. I daresay we’ll get there in an hour and a half. Perhaps sooner, depending on the quality of the roads—and providing this curricle doesn’t disintegrate beneath us. In any case, it’ll give us time to discuss a few matters. I trust you’re warm enough?”
“Yes, but—” She broke off as it suddenly occurred to her what the purpose of their journey was. There was a railway station in York, wasn’t there? He was driving her there to put her on the train. Getting rid of her before anyone else had risen for the day. As if she were some distasteful secret that must be disposed of.
She turned her head away from him, once again staring in the opposite direction. Her hand clenched tightly on the seat. “You might have at least allowed me to pack my things,” she said.
Tristan glanced at her. “What things?”
“My clothes. My comb. My toothpowder. It may seem like nothing to you, but—”
“Your clothes should be consigned to the dustbin,” he said matter-of-factly. “Never in my life have I seen a collection of garments so unflattering.” He deftly maneuvered the horses past a slow-moving coach. “Indeed, Miss March, I can safely say that you are the least fashionable female I’ve ever had the misfortune to take driving.”
A mortified blush rose in her cheeks. “As I said before, sir, you needn’t have taken me driving at all.”
“It’s a necessary journey,” he said. “York is not Paris or London, I know. But I daresay we might find a dressmaker there to run you up a few gowns. The rest we’ll purchase at some shop or other.�
� He cast her another frowning glance. “Are you sure you’re warm enough?”
Valentine stared at him in blank astonishment. “Do you mean…you’re taking me to York to buy me clothes?”
“Amongst other things.”
“But you must know that I can’t accept gifts from you, my lord! It would be wholly improper for me to—”
“Not in the least. A gentleman is expected to lavish gifts on his betrothed. And it’s quite unexceptionable for his betrothed to accept them.”
She took a deep breath. “Are we still betrothed then?”
He scowled at her. “What sort of question is that?”
“I thought you’d changed your mind.” His scowled deepened, but she continued in a rush. “You seemed to be in a terribly bad mood when I came downstairs. And you said you’d been up all night with your father so I assumed he’d persuaded you what a mistake it would be for us to marry. And now, for you to drive me to York, where the train comes through and—”
“Is this what’s been occupying your mind since we left Fairford House?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Even though last night I solemnly promised you—”
“I know. And I don’t mean to insult you by doubting your word. But you must understand the difficulty of my position. I don’t know what went on when you spoke to your father. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I’ve lost my job and Lady Brightwell has withheld my wages. I’m completely at the mercy of others. If anything should happen… If you should change your mind…”
Her voice trailed off as Tristan eased the horses to the side of the road and brought the curricle to a halt. He set the brake and turned to face her, the expression in his eyes hard to read.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said.
“Haven’t you?” she asked faintly.
“No.”
“Then why—?”
“If I’m cross today it’s simply because the interview with my father last night was profoundly unpleasant. You see, Miss March, in addition to reading me a lecture on my lack of morals and my lack of honor, he informed me in no uncertain terms what’s to be done about you.”
“About me?”
“I intended to discuss it with you on the return journey from York.”
Valentine bristled. The very idea of two gentlemen making decisions about what was to be done with her! As if she had no will or mind of her own. “We’ll discuss it now, if you please.”
Tristan looked at her for several moments. “As you wish.”
She waited, becoming more and more anxious the longer it took him to come to the point.
“According to my father, there are only two acceptable solutions to our present dilemma. The first, and the one he favors, would result in our not marrying.”
Her heart plummeted. “Go on.”
“My father proposes that he pay a visit to the Marquess of Stokedale on your behalf. Failing that, he says there are any number of Caddington relations scattered about who might be willing to take you in once they know that you’re Lady Sara’s daughter.”
“Is that true?” she asked, suppressing a pathetic flare of hope. “There really might be relatives of my mother who would want me?”
“It’s possible, yes. Though God knows how long it would take to find them.”
“And what would happen to me in the meantime? Would I go back to Hartwood Green? To Mrs. Pilcher?”
“No. My father would send you to Devonshire to stay with my brother and his wife. You would be safe enough there until something is sorted out with Stokedale or the Caddingtons.”
Her palms felt damp within her gloves. She pressed them flat on her lap. “And then you and I wouldn’t marry at all.”
“No. We would not.” He hesitated briefly before adding, “In time, my father believes the Caddingtons would find you a more appropriate husband.”
“More appropriate to my station, I suppose he means.”
“He means that they would find you a husband who’s not a hardened, conscienceless rake. A husband who can be relied on to protect you and provide for you. A husband, in short, who is not me.”
Valentine lifted her gaze to his face. She thought she heard a flicker of bitterness in his voice. Or perhaps even anger. But when she met his eyes, there was nothing there except the same frustratingly unreadable expression. “You said there were two options,” she reminded him.
“So there are.”
“Well?”
“In the second scenario, we would marry,” he said. “But it would be a very long engagement. A year, at least. During which you would be sent to Devonshire to stay with my brother and his wife and I would go to Northumberland. Once Blackburn Priory is both habitable and profitable, you and I would be married at St. George’s, Hanover Square. Everything respectable and above board with no hint of scandal. As befits the Earl of Lynden’s heir.”
The idea of a grand wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square left Valentine cold. And it surely couldn’t be a wise idea. Why, at such a venue all of society would likely be in attendance. All of them come to see the Viscount St. Ashton wed the bastard daughter of the infamous Lady Sara Caddington. How could the earl even consider such a thing? Unless…
“Such a long engagement,” she said. “It’s almost as if he’s hoping that, given enough time, you’ll change your mind.”
“On the contrary. The long engagement is for your protection, not mine.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “If you must know, my father expects me to behave dishonorably. To abandon my duties to Blackburn Priory. Fall into vice again or become enamored of some tart in a tavern and end up chasing her halfway to France. He reasons that it’s better such things happen during a long engagement—while you’re still free to extricate yourself from my clutches.”
This time the underlying bitterness and anger in his voice were unmistakable. What had the earl said to him last night? Whatever it was, it had hurt him. And he was capable of being hurt, of that she had no doubt. “Your father’s concerns seem to be very specific,” she said carefully. “Have you ever done any of those things before? Followed a…a female…halfway to France, I mean.”
“Years ago. Though I didn’t follow anyone anywhere. I left England with a mistress. But she was an actress, not a tavern wench. And it was Ireland, not France.”
Valentine opened her mouth only to promptly close it again. She wouldn’t demean herself by enquiring whether this actress was still his mistress, no matter how much she wished to know. “In each scenario I’m to go and live with your brother and his wife,” she said instead. “Yet I can’t imagine they’re so keen to have a complete stranger come to stay. And certainly not for a year or more.”
“Probably not. But my sister-in-law, Elizabeth, would make you welcome enough. They have a great deal of room there. You’d be in no one’s way. And they are annoyingly respectable. There would be no more risks to your reputation. No more gentleman deviling you in conservatories.”
“And this is what your father wishes for me,” she mused. “I don’t understand why he would put himself to the trouble.”
“I believe he feels somewhat protective of you. He hasn’t said why, but knowing him and his dashed sense of honor, I imagine he sees himself as righting some long-ago wrong done to your mother. You must know that there aren’t many who agreed with the way the old marquess handled things.”
A wrong done to her mother? She wasn’t used to looking at the situation in such a way. Especially when Papa had always presented the opposite view. According to him, her mother had been entirely at fault. “After Papa died, I wrote to the Marquess of Stokedale twice.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. I told him I was alone in the world now. That I had no one else to turn to. I asked for his help.” She grimaced at the memory. “How I despised myself for writing those letters! I wouldn’t have done it except that Phil told me—”
“Phil?” Tristan interrupted sharply.
“
Phillip Edgecombe. A gentleman from my village in Surrey.”
“An elderly friend of your fathers, I presume? A doddering septuagenarian who’s half blind and walks with the aid of two sticks?”
She sensed he was being sarcastic, but couldn’t for the life of her fathom why. “Mr. Edgecombe is all of eight and twenty, my lord. And he’s in perfect health. At least, he was when last I saw him.”
“Who is he?”
“I’ve just told you—”
“Who is he to you?”
“Oh. I see.” Her brow furrowed. “Well…if you must know…Mr. Edgecombe and I had a sort of understanding.”
“An understanding?”
“There’s no need to bellow at me, sir.”
“Was I bellowing? I do beg your pardon.” This time his sarcasm was unmistakable. “Please continue, Miss March.”
“Yes, well…we had an understanding, but nothing was ever formally announced. The fact is, Phil—Mr. Edgecombe, I mean—never had any intention of marrying me.”
“It was Edgecombe who pressed you to write to the Marquess of Stokedale,” Tristan said. It was not a question.
“Yes.”
“I suppose he thought there was a chance you might be in line for some of the Caddington fortune.”
“He never said so. But when the first letter went unanswered, he urged me to write again. For my own benefit, he said. Because they were my family and I shouldn’t be all alone. It was only when the second letter received no reply that he told me we couldn’t marry. Though he did say he would always love me and would forever be my friend.”
“He sounds like an unmitigated ass.”
Valentine felt the smallest thrill of pleasure at Tristan’s unkind remark. “As to that—”
“Did you love him?” he asked.
She exhaled a slow breath. “No. At least, not in the way I think you mean. He was my friend. I’ve known him most of my life, you see. But I realize now that no friend would ever have asked me to write those letters. To humble myself in such a way—and to such a man.” She gave a short, choked laugh. “Well, what does it matter now? I daresay the Marquess of Stokedale didn’t even read them.”
The Viscount and the Vicar's Daughter: A Victorian Romance Page 8