Sometime later Valentine descended from her room. The house was bustling with preparations for dinner, servants trotting up and down the threadbare halls in answer to the summons of their masters and mistresses. She walked briskly past them, her head down. She was so intent on avoiding any curious stares or impudent remarks that she didn’t see Mrs. Ravenscroft emerging from her room near the second floor landing.
“Oh!” Mrs. Ravenscroft’s much larger form collided with Valentine, nearly knocking her off of her feet. “Do be careful!”
Valentine staggered back a step before swiftly regaining her balance. “I beg your pardon!”
Mrs. Ravenscroft was only partially dressed, her embroidered silk dressing gown worn open over her corset and petticoats. “Where are you off to in such a rush?” she asked. “Dinner’s not for another hour.”
“Nowhere,” Valentine said. “I’m only… That is…I—”
“If you’re looking for Lord St. Ashton, you’ll find him in the billiards room.”
Valentine’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, but I’m not—”
“And if you should see my maid along the way, do send her along to my room. She’s supposed to be pressing my dinner dress but has been gone nearly half an hour.” Mrs. Ravenscroft sighed. “What a disaster this house party has become. I’ll be leaving in the morning on the eleven o’clock train to London. If you care to accompany me to the station, Miss March, you’re quite welcome.”
Valentine blinked in surprise. She didn’t know what to say. Mrs. Ravenscroft’s offer was kind. Unexpectedly so. But there was nothing for her in London—no friends, no family, and certainly no prospect of employment. Her only alternative to marrying Tristan was a third-class ticket back to Mrs. Pilcher in Hartwood Green who would, in turn, probably bundle her off to be companion to an elderly tyrant somewhere at the edge of the world. Or worse.
“I’m obliged to you, ma’am,” she said at last. “But—”
“But you’ll take your chances with St. Ashton.” Mrs. Ravenscroft’s red-rouged mouth tilted up in an indulgent smile. “I can’t fault you. He’s very handsome, isn’t he? But I wouldn’t depend on him, Miss March. St. Ashton has a well-earned reputation for being unreliable with the ladies. We none of us hold his interest for very long and I’ve seen many a broken heart that might have been avoided.”
“My heart is not in danger,” Valentine said quickly.
Mrs. Ravenscroft gave her a pitying look. “No, indeed. Forgive the advice. It was kindly meant.” She inclined her head and then, after one last look down the hall for her errant maid, withdrew back into her bedchamber, shutting the door behind her.
Valentine was shaken by the exchange. She stood there a moment, staring blankly at the intricate inlaid pattern of the closed door.
And then she resumed her journey down the stairs.
She didn’t know where the billiards room was and had to ask a passing footman for directions. He pointed her toward a room just beyond the Fairfords’ library. It was down a dark, narrow hallway. Fairford House had not yet been fitted for gas, and the candles in the wall sconces stood unlit.
A faded Aubusson runner muffled her footfalls as she approached the door. She heard the sound of wooden balls clacking accompanied by the deep murmur of male voices.
“You can hardly cut off my allowance now,” St. Ashton was saying in a bored, drawling voice. “Not now I’m engaged to be married.” The balls clacked again. “What would people say?”
Valentine stopped in her tracks.
“You won’t marry her,” Lord Lynden replied. He sounded cross. And very, very tired. “If I doubted it last night, I know it today.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.” There was another loud clack as a billiard ball was hit with force.
“I am,” Lord Lynden said. “You would not have been so reckless with a lady you intended to marry. Driving her to York? Accompanying her to a dressmaker as if she were one of your doxies? By God. You’re determined to ruin the gel.”
“What would you have had me do?” Tristan asked. “Avoid her? Pretend last night never happened?”
“I would have had you here. Ready to leave at dawn as we agreed.”
“Leave for where exactly?” Another billiard ball clacked—this time with all the ominous fury of a rifle shot.
Valentine nearly jumped out of her skin. It was enough to startle her out of her stillness. She was no eavesdropper. And she’d already heard quite enough. The exchange between Tristan and his father, coupled with the words of Felicity Brightwell and Mrs. Ravenscroft, made her sound like the most unwanted, pathetic creature in the world. But she refused to be made to feel that way. She’d behaved injudiciously—wantonly, even—but she wasn’t pathetic.
She walked through the open door of the billiards room.
Tristan was in his shirtsleeves, his black cravat loose round his neck. He was leaning over the billiards table, in the midst of lining up his cue, when his gaze lifted toward the doorway. The expression in his eyes was hard to read, but she knew she must have startled him for, in the next instant, he fumbled his shot.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve distracted you.”
Tristan straightened. “You have.” He set aside his cue and walked around the table. “And I hope you’ll stay awhile and distract me again. My father’s company has grown tedious.”
The Earl of Lynden rose from his chair and made her a bow. “We’ve been discussing marriage, Miss March. A damnable topic.” He offered her his arm and, when she took it, led her past the billiards table toward a cluster of leather armchairs at the opposite end of the room. “We’ve also been discussing your good self. But perhaps you heard?”
She refused to pretend ignorance. “A very little.”
“Would you care for a drink, Miss March?” Tristan asked. “A glass of sherry?”
“If you please.” She seated herself in the chair nearest the fireplace. The flames had dwindled to embers, and a faint cloud of smoke drifted out into the room. It had likely been an age since the chimneys were properly swept.
Lord Lynden took a seat across from her. Beside his chair was a marble-topped table on which sat three crystal decanters filled with spirits. Tristan unstopped one of them and poured her out a small glass of pale amber liquid.
“Here you are,” he said.
She took the proffered glass, giving the contents a dubious look. She knew what sherry was. Of course she did. But she’d never actually tasted it. Papa hadn’t kept anything stronger than seasonal cordial at the vicarage and, since her time in Lady Brightwell’s employ, she’d subsisted mainly on weak cups of tea.
Today, however, she’d already tasted ale. A shocking thing, in and of itself. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. She raised the glass to her lips and took a healthy swallow.
And instantly grimaced at the bitter, burning taste of alcohol in her mouth.
“Don’t tell me the Fairfords’ sherry has gone off,” Tristan said.
“I beg your pardon?” Valentine choked.
He was watching her with keen interest. “Your face is screwed up as if you’ve just sucked on a lemon. Is it the sherry?”
She fixed him with a reproving glare. His own face remained utterly inscrutable. Except for his eyes. They were quite plainly laughing at her.
“I can pour you a glass of something else if you like,” he said. “The brandy here is first-rate, I can attest.”
Oh, the wretched man!
She made an effort to compose her features when what she really felt like doing was running back upstairs and rinsing her mouth out over the washbasin. “No, thank you, my lord,” she said, setting aside her glass.
“Never liked sherry myself,” Lord Lynden remarked. “Awful stuff.”
“It’s a lady’s drink,” Tristan said dismissively. He didn’t sit down with them, merely stood against the mantelpiece, his arms folded in front of him. It wasn’t a very welcoming posture. “You’re not dressed for dinner, Miss March. I take it you don’t plan to join Lord and Lady Fairford at table.”
“Indeed not,” she said. “And you, my lords?” She looked between Tristan and Lord Lynden. “Will you be dining with the other guests this evening?”
“Not I,” Lord Lynden said. “I’ll be ordering a tray in my room.”
“A decision the whole party will undoubtedly thank you for,” Tristan said.
“While your presence, I’m sure, would be sorely missed,” Valentine retorted.
“By one or two ladies at least,” he replied without batting an eye. “Regrettably, I’ll have to disappoint them. I intend to drink my dinner.”
Lord Lynden frowned his disapproval. “With that,” he said, moving to rise from his chair, “I will bid you both goodnight.”
“My lord,” she said. “If you could spare a moment longer. I’d hoped to discuss… That is…I came to tell you that I have come to a decision about my future.”
Tristan looked at her with sudden alertness.
“Have you now?” Lord Lynden asked.
“Yes, sir. It’s something Lord St. Ashton said that gave me the idea. Something about their being a great many Caddington relations who might wish to know me.”
“There might well be,” Lord Lynden said. “I’ve been thinking of one or two likely Caddington ladies myself. Not as high sticklers as the rest of the lot. A bit more open-minded.”
“Are there such ladies?” she asked.
“One in particular comes to mind. Lady Hermione Caddington. A distant spinster cousin of your mother.”
“Hermione Caddington?” Tristan sounded vaguely horrified. “The one who used to wear that outrageous Bloomer costume?”
“Reform dress,” Lord Lynden mused. “Yes, yes. She was a bit of an original in her day.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Tristan said dryly.
“And you think she might be willing to meet me?” Valentine couldn’t conceal the hope in her voice.
“We shall soon see. I sent her a wire this morning.”
“What?” Tristan’s face darkened with irritation “Without consulting me?”
Lord Lynden glared at his son. “And how was I to consult with you while you were gallivanting around York for the better part of the day?” he demanded. “No. I consulted my own judgment, sir. The more options Miss March has, the better.”
Valentine leaned forward in her chair, hands clasped tightly in her lap. “What do you suggest, my lord?”
“St. Ashton informs me that you’re opposed to staying with my son and daughter-in-law in Devonshire over the next year while he gets his property in order.”
“Not opposed, but…I confess, it’s not my first choice. I wouldn’t like to be among strangers for such an extended period of time. Not unless I’ve been employed by them for an honest wage.”
“You’d rather work?”
“I’d rather not be a burden. To stay with anyone on sufferance…” She shook her head. “No, my lord. I wouldn’t find it at all comfortable. And I can’t think your son and his wife would enjoy it very much either.”
Lord Lynden considered her from beneath furrowed brows. “Perhaps you might prefer travelling to London to see Lady Hermione? She’s not a stranger. She’s your family. And, unless I’ve greatly misjudged her character, it wouldn’t take much convincing to persuade her to stand chaperone for you.”
Tristan straightened from where he leaned on the mantelpiece. “What in blazes is this?” His deep voice was taut with sudden anger. “A bloody conspiracy? Am I to have no say at all in my own future?”
“It’s not your future we’re discussing,” Lord Lynden said. “It’s Miss March’s future.”
“The two are one in the same,” Tristan said. “Whether you like it or not, Miss March and I are going to be married.”
Valentine could feel the tension between Lord Lynden and his son vibrating in the smoky air of the billiards room. The atmosphere fairly crackled with it. She looked between the two men. She didn’t believe they hated each other. But there was a great deal of bitterness and disappointment on both sides. And she was certain it didn’t help that, at present, Lord Lynden held the purse strings.
“I think I should like to go to London,” she said.
Tristan looked at her. “Valentine—”
“I don’t want to stay here any longer,” she said. “After what happened last night…”
“Quite so,” Lord Lynden agreed.
“It’s become intolerable,” she said. “I want to leave as soon as possible.”
Lord Lynden nodded. “And so we shall. At dawn. As we should have done today.” He rose. “I must speak to my valet. And I must write to Lady Hermione. If you’ll excuse me, Miss March, I shall bid you good night.”
“Good night, my lord. And thank you.”
Lord Lynden acknowledged her thanks with an inclination of his head before levelling a quelling glance at his son. “St. Ashton. Pray don’t drink yourself into a stupor this evening.”
Valentine watched the Earl of Lynden walk from the room. When he was gone, she turned to Tristan. “You’re not really going to drink your dinner, are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” she said. “In truth, I wish you wouldn’t drink at all.”
“Don’t judge all drink by your unfortunate experience with the Fairfords’ sherry. Some alcohol is really quite good. Effective, too. It helps a man to round the corners, as they say. To plane away the asperities of existence.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what any of that means. It sounds like utter nonsense.”
“It means, my little innocent, that at times strong drink does a damned good job of making life more bearable.”
“Is life so unbearable for you, my lord?”
“My lord,” he repeated. “We regress.” He moved from the fireplace to take his father’s abandoned chair. Once seated, he fixed her with a brooding stare. “If you wanted to go to London to find a willing Caddington relation, why didn’t you come to me? Why approach my father?”
He looked like a great predatory cat sprawled in the leather armchair. All long, muscled limbs and coiled strength. But there was something else there, too. Some emotion intertwined amongst the magnificence of his physical presence. Was he disappointed in her? Was he…
Great goodness.
Was he hurt?
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I did come to you. I didn’t know your father would be here as well. How could I?”
“And now he’s taking you off to London without so much as a by-your-leave.” Tristan raked a hand through his hair. “You’re slipping away from me. I can see it. I can feel it happening, but I don’t know how in the devil I’m supposed to stop it.”
“I’m not slipping away from anyone. I’m right here.”
“You are now. And for a few moments today, I truly believed—” He broke off with a faint, wry smile. “Stupid of me, I know, but I thought I could make you happy. A great blow to my conceit, I’m sure.”
The butterflies in Valentine’s stomach stirred to life. “I enjoyed our time together today very much. Truly I did. But no one can make anyone else happy. Not really. We all of us are responsible for our own happiness. Our own contentment. We can’t seek it in other people.”
“Can’t we?” His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You make me happy.”
Her heart performed a queer little somersault. “Do I?”
“Very much.”
“But how? We hardly know each other.”
“I’ve kissed you,” he said. “I’ve held you fast in my arms.”
She could feel the heat of her blush as it swept from the collar of her Garibaldi blouse, up the column of her throat, and into her face. It burned like wildfire. “Yes, but…it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you…since our encounter in the conservatory. That’s scarcely any time at all.”
“Counting the minutes, are you?”
She frowned at him. “I wish you wouldn’t tease me.”
“I’m a brute and a bully. I thought we established that last night.”
“And I thought you promised to change.”
He shrugged.
Valentine could have happily throttled him. In a rustle of skirts, she stood from her chair. She could no longer pretend they were just two people, sitting together in front of a smoking fire, having a civilized discussion about an abstract future. Her nerves were too jangled. Her feelings too raw. She strode to the billiards table, arms folded across her midsection. She heard the leather of Tristan’s chair creak as he rose to follow her.
He wasn’t as uninterested in what she had to say as he pretended.
She turned to face him. His hair was rumpled, his untied cravat hanging low on one side and short on the other. He looked tired and more than a little defeated. “I’ve heard things about you, you know,” she said.
He didn’t appeared to be the least impressed by this revelation. “Oh?”
“Since we were discovered together in the conservatory last night, the entire household has been at great pains to inform me that you’re unreliable. That everything in life has been a sport to you. That you don’t mean the half of what you say.”
“They’re right,” he said. “It’s all true. Every word.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She saw him wince, but soldiered on. “They’ve also told me you proposed to me merely because your father’s here. Because you wanted to make a show of having done the right thing.”
“And you believe that.”
“Do you deny it?”
Tristan was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know if I can,” he said at last. “Not in all honesty.”
Valentine’s heart sank. “I see.”
“I don’t think you do. My father had just exiled me and cut off my funds. Earlier he’d intimated that if I married and set up my nursery he would reconsider his decision.” His fingers speared through his disheveled hair once more. “It must have had some impact on my proposal, mustn’t it? How could it not have? And yet…when I knelt before you and asked you to marry me, I swear to you, I wasn’t thinking of my fortune. And I was certainly not thinking of my father.”
She exhaled an unsteady breath. And then she nodded. “I believe you.”
“But you believe everything else as well. All the damning truths about my character.”
“I would be a fool not to.”
“And you’re no fool.”
“No, I’m not, but…” Her words came out in a rush of feeling. “I’ve put my faith in you, sir. And I have precious little faith left to spare. Don’t you dare let me down, Tristan. Don’t you dare break my heart.”
Tristan stared down at her, stunned. “Do I have your heart, Valentine?”
Her mouth trembled. “I’m very much afraid that you do. Against all better judgment.”
He searched her face, his dark eyes lit with a fierce tenderness that made her pounding heart stutter. She thought he would embrace her. A stupid girlish fancy! But he made no move to take her in his arms. Instead, he lifted his hand to her face and set the back of his fingers, very gently, against the curve of her cheek.
It was the barest touch. A mere caress of his knuckles on her skin.
But he was close. So close that she could feel the masculine heat from his body. Could smell the seductive scent of his expensive shaving soap.
Her lashes briefly fluttered closed, her bosom rising and falling on a tremulous, indrawn breath.
“What a mad little creature you are,” he said huskily. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you about men like me?”
“Often,” she said. “And often.”
“It never occurred to you to listen?”
“I listened. My whole life I listened. Until yesterday…” Her words trailed off as Tristan bent his head and pressed his lips to her brow. They lingered there, warm and firm, for a long while.
And her heart stopped. It simply ceased beating. She had a vague, ridiculous notion that it had swooned into a faint. Indeed, she wasn’t entirely sure how she remained standing. At the touch of his lips, her knees had gone as weak and wobbly as a blancmange.
She waited for his mouth to find hers as it had last night. She waited for him to take her lips in a searing, soul-scorching kiss. But he didn’t kiss her. Perhaps he didn’t wish to. Perhaps…
“Tristan,” she murmured.
“Yes, sweet?”
“Have you had a great deal to drink this evening?”
He stilled. “Why do you ask?”
She felt his breath against her forehead. “Have you?”
“Not a great deal.” He drew back to look at her. “Why?”
“Yesterday…when you kissed me…”
His dark brows lifted in surprise. “You think that was because I was drunk?”
“You said you were a trifle disguised.”
“A few glasses of wine, nothing more. Liquid courage. It prompted me to follow you into the conservatory. But kissing you…” His expression warmed. “Valentine, I wanted to kiss you in the folly—when I was wet, irritable, and cold sober.” He paused. “I want to kiss you now.”
A flicker of anticipation awakened within her. It was followed swiftly by shyness and an all too familiar feeling of uncertainty. “Why don’t you?”
He brushed his lips across her forehead again in a brief, whispering caress. “Because the door to the billiards room is standing open. Because I can hear the sounds of the other guests emerging from their rooms for dinner. Because, my darling girl”—she felt him smile—“last night I may have compromised you, but, contrary to my father’s opinion, I have no wish to ruin you.”
There was no swooning this time. Her heart beat hard and strong. And it swelled with affection for him.
She brought her hand to lay alongside his face. “Because you’re going to do the honorable thing.”
“Yes,” he said. And then he turned his face into her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her palm. “Because this time, for once in my benighted life, I’m going to do the honorable thing.”