An Impulsive Debutante
An Impulsive Debutante
Michelle Styles
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesA kiss, a carriage ride, a hasty wedding!Carlotta Charlton can’t wait for her first season – until her impulsive behaviour lands her right in the lap of notorious rake Tristan, Lord Thorngrafton! Tristan is cynically convinced that she’s a fortunehunter. But he can’t keep away from her. Several heated kisses lead to scandal and, one outraged mama later, they’re on their way to Gretna Green.Catching his breath on the carriage ride to the border, Tristan decides it’s time that Lottie learns her lesson. If she wants to play with fire, he’ll notch up his seduction and set her ablaze!
Tristan lowered his mouth, captured hers.
A feather-light touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her.
‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, pulling his head down to hers, whispering against his firm mouth. ‘One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.’
He lowered his mouth again, and this time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot, pulsating waves.
Her breasts strained against the confines of her corset. Ached. She felt the material give and his cool fingers slide against her fevered skin. She sighed and parted her lips, drunk on the scent of him. His lips trailed down her neck, tasted her skin, and began to slowly travel lower.
‘Unhand that woman, you…you cad!’
Although born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she has always been interested in history, and a historical romance is her idea of the perfect way to relax. She is particularly interested in how ordinary people lived during ancient times, and in the course of her research she has learnt how to cook Roman food as well as how to use a drop spindle. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch. Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR
A NOBLE CAPTIVE
SOLD AND SEDUCED
THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER
(part of Christmas by Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE
Dear Reader
This story came about because my daughter loved and adored a secondary character in A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER. She begged and pleaded that Lottie Charlton needed to have her own story, and so, wishing to keep peace and harmony within my family, I agreed. It turned out to be a real pleasure to write, and I am delighted that it will be published during Mills & Boon’s centenary year.
As ever, I love getting reader feedback, either via post to Mills & Boon, my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com
All the best
Michelle
AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE
Michelle Styles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For the students and teachers of Crystal SpringsUplands School, class of 1982, in particular for thehead of the English Department—Mrs Norma Fifer. Truly an inspirational teacher.
Chapter One
1847 Haydon Bridge, Northumberland
‘I kept my promise, Father.’ Tristan Dyvelston, the new Lord Thorngrafton, placed his hand on his father’s grave and his fingers touched the smooth black marble, tracing his father’s name. He glanced down at the weed-infested grave.
‘Your brother has died,’ he said solemnly, repeating the vow he had made on this very spot ten years ago. ‘I have returned to take the title. I will be above reproach now. But while my uncle was alive I wanted him to think the worst about me and to fear for the future of his beloved title.’
He bowed his head and stepped back from the grave. One part of his oath was complete.
The late morning sunlight broke through the cloud and illuminated the ruins for a single glorious moment, making it seem like he had stepped into one of John Martin’s more evocative paintings. Tristan tightened his grip on his cane. Here was no picture to be admired. The scene showed how much had to be done. How much would be done.
He was under no illusion about the enormity of his task. His parents’ graves lay under a tangled mass of nettles and brambles. In the ten years since he had last been here, the entire churchyard had fallen into decay, echoing the state of Gortner Hall, some fifteen miles away. He would put that right, eventually. His uncle was no longer there to object.
He traced the lettering on his mother’s grave. How would the county greet the return of the black sheep? He had heard the tales his uncle had spread—the gossip, the scandal and the plain twisting of the facts. His uncle had sought to deny him everything but the title and the entailed estate, a dry husk, long starved of any funds. Tristan took great pleasure in confounding his expectations.
The clicking of a gate caused him to turn. Irritated.
A blonde woman with a determined expression on her face tiptoed into the churchyard, glanced furtively about and raised a shining object into the air. The sunlight glinted on it, sending a beam of light to dance on the yew trees. Tristan relaxed slightly. She was not someone he had ever encountered before and therefore was unlikely to recognise him. But there was something about the way the petite woman held her head that intrigued him.
Why would anyone come here?
She wrinkled her nose, fiddled with the object again and finally gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘I told Cousin Frances that a moonlight aspect would work better than a Gilpin tint, and I was correct. She will have to retract her scornful words. The church could be romantic in the moonlight. One would have to imagine the hooting owl, but it could be done. It could be painted.’
Tristan jumped and considered how best to respond to the statement. Then he gave an irritated frown as he realised that the woman was not speaking to him. He regarded her for another instant as she peered intently at the object in her hand. He gave a wry smile as he realised the object’s identity—a Claude glass, a mirror that prettified the landscape and allowed the viewer to see it at different times of the year, or hours of the day, simply through changing the tinted glass. It all made sense. She had come in search of landscapes.
If he was lucky, it would be just the Claude glass and a few ladies to coo and ahh at the ruins. If he was unlucky, they would have brought their watercolour paints, brushes and easels, the better to capture the romantic ruins. He lifted his eyes towards heaven. God preserve him from ladies wielding Claude glasses, their pursuit of culture and their self-righteous indignation that others should not share their same view of the world, interrupting his first chance to pay his respects to his parents. Tristan frowned. Not if he acted first.
‘Precisely how many more of you are there?’ he asked, making sure his voice carried across the disused churchyard. ‘How many more are there in the horde?’
The woman spun around, her mouth forming an O. She had one of those fashionable china-doll faces—blue eyes and pink cheeked in a porcelain oval. The lightness of her complexion was highlighted against the darkness of the yew hedge, giving her almost an angelic appearance, but there was a sensuousness about her mouth, a hint of slumbering passion in her eyes. Her well-cut walking dress hinted at her rounded curves as well as revealing her tiny waist. A temptress rather than a blue stocking.
‘You are not supposed to be here,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips and gesturing with her Claude glass. ‘Nobody ever comes here. Cousin Frances told me emphatically— Haydon Church is always deserted.’
‘Your cousin was obviously mistaken. I am here.’
‘My cousin dislikes admitting mistakes, but she will be forced to concede this time.’ The woman hid her mouth behind her hand and gave a little laugh. ‘She much prefers to think that since she has her nose in a book all the time, she knows rather more than me. But she can be blind to the world around her, the little details that make life so interesting and pleasant.’
‘And you are not? Looking at the world through a mirror can give a distorted view.’
‘I am using both my eyes now.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you up to no good? Cousin Frances says that often you meet the nefarious sort in churchyards. It says so in all the novels she reads. It is why she refused to visit.’
‘But she thinks it deserted.’
‘Except for the desperate. Are you desperate?’
‘I am visiting my parents’ graves.’
‘You are an orphan!’ The woman clasped her gloved hands together. ‘How thrilling. I mean, it’s perfectly tragic and all that, but rather romantic. What is it like not to have family considerations? Or expectations? Is it lonely being an orphan?’ Her face sobered. ‘How silly of me. If it wasn’t lonely, you wouldn’t be visiting your parents and attempting to derive some small amount of comfort from their graves.’
‘There is that.’ Tristan allowed the woman’s words to flow over him, a pleasing sound much like a brook.
She came over and stood by him, peering at the ground. ‘You should tend their graves better. They are swamped in nettles and brambles. It is the right and proper thing to do. An orphan should look after his parents’ graves.’
‘I intend to. I have only recently returned from the continent after a long absence.’ Tristan stared at her with her ridiculous straw bonnet and cupid’s-bow mouth. Right and proper? Who was she to lecture him?
‘That explains the entire situation. You had expectations of another’s help, but that person failed you.’ She gave him a beatific smile. ‘Orphans cannot depend on other people. They can only look to themselves.’
‘How very perceptive of you.’
‘I try. I am interested in people.’ She modestly lowered her lashes.
He straightened his cuffs, drew his mind away from the dark smudges her lashes made against her skin. ‘How many more shall be invading my peace? Ladies with Claude glasses have the annoying habit of travelling in packs, intent on devouring culture and the picturesque.’
Her pink cheeks flamed brighter and she scuffed a toe of her boot along the dirt path. ‘I am the only one. And I have never hunted in a pack. You make society ladies sound like ravening beasts, longing to bring men down when, in fact, they are the ones who provide the niceties of civilisation. They make communities thrive. When I think about the good works—’
‘Only you? Are you sure that is prudent?’ Tristan cut off the discussion on good works with a wave of his hand.
Even though Haydon Bridge was rural Northumberland, the woman did not appear the sort who would be allowed to roam free and unaccompanied. Her pink-and-white- checked gown was too well cut and her straw bonnet too new and finely made. Her accent, although it held faint traces of the north-east, was clear enough to indicate she had been trained from an early age by a succession of governesses.
‘I am able to look after myself. I know the value of a well-sharpened hat pin.’
‘You never know what sort of people you might meet.’
‘It is the country, after all, not London or Newcastle.’ Her cheeks took on a rosy hue and she lowered her tone to a confidential whisper. ‘I am aiding and abetting a proposal. At times like these, positive action is required, even if there is an element of risk.’
‘A proposal?’ Tristan glanced over his shoulder, fully expecting to see some puffed-up dandy or farmer advancing towards them. ‘Tell me where the unfortunate man is and I shall beat a hasty retreat.’
‘Not mine. My cousin’s.’
‘The one who is mistaken about graveyards,’ Tristan said, and struggled to keep his face straight. It made a change to speak about things other than the state of Gortner Hall’s leaking roof, the fallow fields and the other ravages that his uncle had wreaked on the estate.
‘That’s right.’ There was a sort of confidence about the woman, the sort that is easily destroyed later in life. ‘All Frances ever does is read Minerva Press novels and sigh about Mr Shepard’s fine eyes and his gentle manner. What is the good with sighing and not acting positively? She needed some help and advice.’
‘Which you have offered…unasked.’
She held up her hand and her body stilled; an intent expression crossed her face. ‘There, can you hear it?’
The sound of a faint shriek wafted on the breeze. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘It sounds as if someone is strangling a cat. Is this something you are concerned about? Should I investigate?’
‘My cousin Frances, actually. She is busy being rescued from the Cruel Sykes burn.’ She tilted her head, listening and then gave a decided nod. The bow of her mouth tilted upwards. ‘Definitely Cousin Frances. We practised the shriek a dozen times and she still managed to get it wrong. She needed to gently shriek, and to grab his arm, but not to claw it. I do hope she has not pulled him in. That would be insupportable. Truly insupportable.’
‘All this is in aid of?’
‘Her forthcoming marriage to Mr Kent Shepard.’
The woman drew a breath and Tristan noticed the agreeable manner in which she filled out her gingham bodice. But he knew she was also well aware of the picture she created. A minx who should be left alone. Trouble. He would make his excuses and depart before he became ensnared in any of her ill-considered schemes.
‘Cousin Frances has to get engaged. She simply has to. Everything in my life depends on it.’
‘Why should it matter to you?’ His curiosity overcame him.
‘I was unjustly banished.’ The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘It was hardly my fault that Miss Emma Harrison kissed Jack Stanton in a sleigh in full view of any passing stranger.’
‘Jack Stanton is well able to look after himself.’ Tristan gave a laugh. His impression had been correct. She was the sort of woman to stay away from. Trouble with a capital T. ‘I hope your friend was not too inconvenienced, but she picked the wrong man to kiss. Jack is a good friend of mine and not given to observing the niceties of society.’
‘Do you?’
‘When the occasion demands. I was born a gentleman. But Jack…is immune to such stratagems. It is amazing the lengths some women will go to.’
‘It all ended happily as they were married, just before Christmas.’ Her eyes blazed as she drew herself up to her full height. ‘You obviously do not know your friends as well as you think you do.’
‘I have been travelling on the Continent. But if it ended happily, why were you banished?’
‘My brother Henry was furious. He turned a sort of mottled purple and sent me out here to Aunt Alice until I could learn to keep my mouth quiet. “Lottie,” he said, “you have no more sense than a gnat,” which was a severely unkind thing to say.’
‘And have you? Learnt to keep your mouth quiet?’
‘Yes.’ Lottie Charlton looked at the elegantly dressed man lounging against a yew tree with exasperation. Who was he with his dark eyes and frowning mouth to sit judgement on her? He was not her brother or any sort of relation. She snapped the Claude glass shut and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow her. ‘I have, but Henry refuses to answer any of my impassioned pleas. He ignores me. And Mama is being no help at all. She keeps going on about her nerves and how unsettling family disagreements are, but she refuses to do anything.’
‘And you dislike being ignored, forced to the margins.’
Lottie retained a check on her temper—barely. They were not even formally introduced and already this man had picked her character to shreds. ‘This is my best chance, my only chance, to get back to Newcastle this season. I know it is. My dream of a London Season has vanished for the moment, but there are appearances to maintain. And some day I shall visit all the great cities—London, Paris and Rome. I plan to be the toast of them all.’
‘How so? Haydon Bridge is very far from these places.’ The man lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed with the brilliance of her scheme.
‘I am well aware of geography.’ Lottie pressed her hands together. She had to remain calm. ‘Aunt Alice will have undying gratitude to me if I arrange this marriage between Cousin Frances and Mr Shepard. Mr Shepard has been making sheep’s eyes at Cousin Frances for weeks now, and the only thing Cousin Frances can do is blush and readjust her pince-nez.’
‘And you are an expert in these matters.’ His eyes travelled slowly down her and Lottie fought against the impulse to blush. ‘You look all of seventeen.’
‘Twenty in a month’s time. My sister-in-law sent me the Claude glass for an early birthday present. It is quite the rage, you know.’
‘Nineteen is not a great age.’ A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his features. Darkly handsome, she believed it was called, like one of those heroes in Cousin Frances’s Minerva Press novels. ‘When you are my age, you will see that.’
‘And your age is?’
‘Thirty-one. Old enough to know interference in matters of the heart brings unforeseen consequences.’ The words were a great finality. Lottie frowned and decided to ignore his remark.
‘I helped to arrange several proposals last season in Newcastle. Proper ones as well, and not the dishonourable sort.’ Lottie resisted the urge to pat her curls. ‘I can number at least seven successful matches that I have helped promote.’
‘Including the one that sent you here.’
‘If you are going to be rude, I shall leave.’ Lottie lifted her skirt slightly and prepared to flounce off. The man made her brilliant stratagem sound like a crime, like she was intent on ruining someone. Newcastle was not London, but at least there remained a chance of meeting someone eligible. It was the most prosperous city in the whole of the British Empire, everyone knew that. ‘You must not say things like that. I have helped. Martha Dresser and her mother showered me with compliments when I brought Major Irons up to snuff.’
‘Don’t mind me. It is one of my more irritating habits.’ A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, making him seem much younger. ‘Your scheme appears to be full of holes. And I doubt you would know the difference between a proposal and a proposition.’
‘I know all about those. One learns these things, if one happens to possess golden curls, a reasonable figure and a small fortune in funds.’
‘I will take your word for the funds. I can clearly see the other two.’ His dark eyes danced. ‘I agree that they can be a heady concoction for some men.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Lottie began ticking off the points. ‘One has to be wary of the inveterates who stammer out marriage proposals at the sight of a well-trimmed ankle, the cads who try to get you into corners and steal a kiss, the let-in-pockets who only have an eye to one’s fortune and clearing their vowels. I have encountered them all. But I am quite determined to be ruthless. Mama wants a title.’
‘A title can be a difficult proposition. What makes you positive that you can snare one? What sort of mantraps do you intend on laying? It can take great skill and cunning to succeed when so many are in pursuit.’
Impossible man. He made it seem like she was some sort of predator. Lottie stuck her chin in the air and prepared to give the coup de grâce. ‘I have rejected Lord Thorngrafton. He positively begged for my hand last November.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton? The elderly Lord Thorngrafton?’ The man went still and something blazed in his eyes. The air about him crackled.
‘Not so very elderly.’ Lottie kept her gaze steady. She refused to be intimidated. As if the only titled men who might be interested in her were on their last legs or blind in both eyes! ‘Around about your age and you are hardly in your dotage.’
‘When did he propose to you?’ The man leant forward, every particle appeared coiled, ready to spring. ‘I would like to know. It is most intriguing. I have been on the Continent until recently and am unaware of certain recent events.’
‘Shortly before Christmas.’ Lottie gave a small shrug and wished she had thought to bring her parasol. She would have liked to have spun it in a disdainful fashion. ‘However, I do not think the proposal genuine as Mama never remarked upon it. I rather fancied it was the sort where the gentleman expects you to fall into his lap like a ripe peach, perfect for the plucking and tasting, but easily forgotten.’
‘You’d be right there.’ The man’s eyes became hooded and his shoulders relaxed. ‘I do not believe Lord Thorngrafton intends to wed any time soon. I should not try any of your tricks with him.’
‘Are you acquainted with Lord Thorngrafton? Is he another of your friends that you have misplaced while you were on the Continent?’ Lottie narrowed her eyes, peering at him more closely. Silently she cursed her wayward tongue. He did look like Lord Thorngrafton, if she half- closed her eyes. But this man had a wilder air about him. She would swear that he moved like a panther that she had once heard about at the Royal Zoological Society in London. ‘You look somewhat similar—dark black hair, same eyes, but he was shorter, more squarely built. He had fat, doughy hands and he spoke with a slight lisp.’
A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw and a cold prickling sensation trickled down the back of Lottie’s neck. What had Lord Thorngrafton ever done to this man?
‘We are acquainted. Relations.’
‘And you are?’ Lottie clutched her reticule tighter to her bosom. She knew the information should make her feel more secure, but somehow, it didn’t. The man knew both Jack Stanton and Lord Thorngrafton, but that did not mean a thing.
‘Tristan Dyvelston,’ he said and his dark eyes flared with something.
Tristan Dyvelston. The name rang in Lottie’s ears. She glanced about her and the giant yews began to press inwards, hemming her in. The notorious Tristan Dyvelston. Cousin Frances, in one of her more expansive moods, had whispered about him and the scandals he had left in his wake. She peered more closely at the weed-choked graves and picked out the Dyvelston name. The tale on balance was true. Why would anyone pretend to be Tristan Dyvelston? Even after ten years, the wisps of scandal clung to his name. A scandal so great that Frances only knew the barest of details.
She made a pretence of straightening her skirt. Life’s little problems were never solved through panic. She had to find a way to retreat in a dignified manner. She doubted if society’s rules and niceties would constrain Tristan Dyvelston. He would take, and pay no regard to the consequences. That was a woman’s job—looking towards the consequences of her actions.
‘But he went to the Continent, pursued by several angry husbands.’ The words slipped out. She wet her lips, drew a deep breath. ‘Are you funning me? Who are you really?’
‘Tristan Dyvelston.’ A faint hint of amusement coloured his dark features. ‘I have returned…from the Continent. It is no longer necessary for me to be there.’
‘But the scandal.’ Lottie made a small gesture. ‘The shame, the dreadful, terrible shame. Those poor women. Cousin Frances was most particular on the shame.’
‘She knew what she was on about, the lady I left with. And I use the word lady lightly.’ Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth turned down and his face took on the appearance of marble. ‘No husband pursued me. I believe he was thankful to get rid of the encumbrance of his wife. The affair cooled before we reached Calais. Last seen, the woman in question had found solace in the arms of an Italian count.’
Lottie measured the distance between herself and the gate. She wanted to appear sophisticated and unconcerned, but if she was caught here alone in the company of a notorious womaniser, any hope of regaining a social life would be gone. She might as well learn to do tatting and resign herself to looking after Henry and Lucy’s children. She had to leave. Immediately.
‘An Italian count—imagine that. Really, it has been very pleasant speaking with you, but I must be going…’
‘And here I thought we were having a pleasant conversation.’ He took a step closer to her. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he understood precisely why she had decided to depart. ‘I regret that I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t. I have seen all that I came for. I will return one day with my paints. There is a certain melancholy air about this place.’ She cautiously took a step backwards, then another; her foot slipped and a bramble snaked around her boot, holding her fast.
She attempted to free herself but only succeeded in catching the skirt of her dress. And it would have to be her new checked gingham. Fine lawn. Easily torn. She could hear Frances’s clucking and Aunt Alice’s sighing now. Then there would be explanations, ones she did not want to make. The dreaded Carlotta would be used in terrible tones. Carlotta—a name more suited to her aunt in Alnmouth than her.
Lottie shivered slightly and redoubled her efforts, wincing as a thorn pricked her through her glove. Her reticule with the Claude glass dropped to the ground with a slight crash. Lottie cursed under her breath. Everything was going wrong.
‘Allow me, Miss Lottie.’ Tristan Dyvelston bent down, and his long fingers caught her ankle, held it firm, while his other hand freed her from the bramble. He handed her the reticule and Lottie clutched it to her bosom. ‘No harm done and no need for unladylike utterances.’
‘You know my name.’ Lottie stilled, the reticule dangling precariously from her fingertips.
‘You said it earlier.’ He stood up, but did not move away from her. ‘You should be more cautious.’
‘Is this a warning?’ Lottie’s heart began to pound in her ears. He was very close. Earlier she had failed to notice the breadth of his shoulders or his height. She wondered how she had failed to do so. Wondered briefly what it would be like to be clasped in his arms, and she knew this was why he had his scandalous reputation.
‘An observation from one who has lived a bit longer than you.’ He looked at her. ‘I have met women like you before. They need to learn life’s lessons.’
‘And do you propose to teach me them?’ Lottie crossed her arms and forced her back straight. She gave her curls a little toss. They were back on familiar ground. She had endured such propositions before, although none given in such a warm voice. She supposed he practised it, but a small part of her wanted that voice to be just for her.
‘Do you wish me to?’ His eyes blazed with an inner fire. ‘Forgive me, but it is dangerous thing to do—provoking a man when you are quite without a chaperon.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Dyvelston—’ Lottie inclined her head ‘—we travel in different circles, but that line has been tried on me at least four times. You are not the first to use it and no doubt will not be the last. I may give the impression of being a silly blonde, but I am not. I might be not as sophisticated as some, but I can take care of myself. I have no intention of learning life’s lessons from one such as you. Or indeed any of your kind.’
He raised both eyebrows. ‘You speak in a very forthright manner for one who is barely out of the school room.’
‘Men such as you are an occupational hazard.’ Lottie smoothed the folds of her dress. A cold fury swept over her. Why was it that men expected women to swoon when confronted with something? Or to recoil in horror? Flirtations were fine, but men always went that little bit beyond. She cleared her throat and assumed an air of haughty superiority. ‘The agreed answer is that I am quite satisfied with my life at present, so thank you for the honour, but no. I shall wait until I receive the perfect proposal.’
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as if her words amused him. Amusement! How dare he!
‘And having received this set-down, I am supposed to walk away, and not gather you up in my arms. Is that what they taught you?’ He paused and his hand brushed her gloved one, sending tingles throughout her body. ‘Or would you rather a demonstration?’
‘A demonstration?’ The word emerged as a high-pitched squeak. Lottie held up her reticule like a shield. But she was torn between the knowledge that propriety demanded that she should flee, and the desire to stay and see what he might do. What would it be like to be held in the arms of a man who knew what he was doing? ‘I have no wish for you to demonstrate anything.’
‘Don’t you?’ The words wrapped around her like a silken rope and held her.
Slowly Lottie shook her head, but she watched Tristan Dyvelston’s smile increase. Lottie took two steps backwards. Perhaps she had made a mistake. The sound of Frances’s shriek was far too distant. She had been overconfident. ‘I will be going now. Straight away.’
He threw back his head, and his laughter startled a wood pigeon out of a tree. Broke the spell. He had intended on frightening her. She wanted the earth to up and swallow her. She had been naive.
‘I fail to see the amusement in this.’
‘Your expression is that of an outraged kitten with spiky hair.’
‘My hair is not spiky.’ Lottie opted for an expression of haughty disdain. ‘I have had odes written to my hair. Lord Thorngrafton sent me an ode about the gold in my curls.’
‘Not from me. Never from me.’ The colours of his eyes changed and she wondered that she had thought them deep black. They appeared full of hidden lights, shifting, dancing. Never the same, but spellbinding to watch. ‘I never write odes to hair. Never write odes at all if I can help it.’
He crossed the distance between them in one stride. His hand brushed her curls. ‘Definitely not spiky. I retract.’
‘Oh.’ Lottie put a hand against her throat. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She parted her lips and closed her eyes. What would it be like to feel his lips against hers? She had only been kissed twice last Season, and neither time had been what she would qualify as a success. They had been somehow dissatisfactory, particularly after she had learnt that Lieutenant Ludlow had gone around trying to catch Caroline, Diana and Leda under the mistletoe as well. She waited, lips pursed and poised.
‘Virtuous virgins hold little attraction, even those with strawberry red lips. You may lower your mouth, Miss Lottie, and next time, wait.’
Lottie opened her eyes and hurriedly lowered her chin. She could feel the heat beginning to rise on her cheeks. A mocking smile twisted his mouth and his face became like carved marble.
‘Do they indeed?’ she asked in her frostiest tone as she drew her body up to her full height.
‘Too many complications. Too many considerations.’ He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.
Lottie released the air from her lungs. She should be relieved, but a small stab of regret ran through her. She had wanted to experience his arms holding her. ‘You make me sound positively frumpish. Highly unattractive.’
‘Not plain. Just a young lady who is far too aware of her charms and wants to play games, dangerous games that lead where neither party is prepared to go.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Women such as you provide complications, complications any sensible man would be well advised to give a wide berth, if he wished to retain his place in society. Even among my kind, we have a certain honour. I prefer someone who knows how to play the game.’
Lottie inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dyvelston. It has been enlightening.’
‘Until we meet again, Miss Lottie.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘One never knows. When you are older, perhaps…’
He captured her hand, raised it. His lips brushed the exact point where her glove gapped, and touched her naked flesh for the briefest of instants. It seared through her.
Lottie jerked back her hand, and fled to the echoing sound of laughter. She ran straight into Frances, who wore the look of a disgruntled hen as she squelched along the lane. Her straw bonnet dripped muddy water.
‘Ah, Cousin Carlotta, at last we discover you.’
‘I was regarding the old church through my Claude glass.’ Lottie held up her reticule with a smile. How many times had she told Frances that she hated the name Carlotta? And how many times had her cousin ignored the request? Her hand went around the reticule. She winced as she realised that she had dropped the Claude glass and returning to the ruins was impossible. Not while Tristan Dyvelston was there. ‘The moonlit aspect was quite unusual. I shall have to show you some time.’
‘You mean now?’ Cousin Frances held her hands as an alarmed expression crossed her face.
‘Impossible, Fanny dear, as you appear a bit damp and I have no wish for you to catch a chill.’
‘I hate the name Fanny.’
Lottie gave a small smile. ‘I always have difficulty remembering that.’
‘We thought we heard voices, Miss Charlton, just now.’ Mr Shepard’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He appeared to have a very damp, dead sheep look about him and Lottie was positive that she detected a tinge of pink to Frances’s cheeks. ‘Yours and someone else’s.’
‘Yes, a male voice, Cousin, and yours answering him.’ Frances gave her a piercing glance. ‘Is there anyone of our acquaintance there?’
‘How did you find the bridge at Cruel Sykes burn?’ Lottie asked quickly. They had to get away from here before Mr Dyvelston appeared with a sardonic twist to his lips. When Frances was in one of her moods, everything would come out. Then she would never get back to Newcastle. ‘Was it easy to cross?’
‘Wet,’ Frances replied. ‘Very wet. Cold and slippery.’
‘Miss Frances fell in.’ Kent Shepard puffed himself up. ‘I had to rescue her.’
Lottie did not miss the slight change of name. Some good had come of this afternoon after all. Her scheme showed definite positive signs.
The golden portals of society and triumph beckoned. Tristan was wrong. She glanced behind her at the seemingly empty churchyard, biting her lip. As long as her little encounter went undiscovered. It had to go undiscovered. No one would believe that a notorious rake like Mr Dyvelston had gone to the churchyard of his own volition. He supped with the devil, according to Cousin Frances.
Why was it that the attractive men were always among the most unsuitable?
Lottie gave automatic answers as the conversation turned towards pleasantries about the weather. Her hand went to the place his lips had touched her wrist. She shivered involuntarily. She had had a lucky escape. Mr Dyvelston represented danger and she had best remember it. She would lead the sort of life that her mother and Henry wanted her to, if only she could return to civilisation. It was her destiny. She knew it.
Tristan watched her go. He heard her bright laugh and artless explanation and then turned back to his parents’ graves. A small case winked up at him. He reached down and pocketed it.
There was very little point in going after the woman now. Tristan closed his eyes. He had lied when he’d said that Lottie’s hair was ordinary. It was the colour of spun gold. He could see how men could have their heads turned. But there was something else about her. Something that called to him.
‘We will meet again, Lottie, you and I. And on my terms,’ he said, fingering the Claude glass and staring down at the village. ‘But first I need to determine who the false Thorngrafton is.’
Chapter Two
‘I had expected my sister to be here.’ The sound of Henry’s pompous voice greeted Lottie as she entered Aunt Alice’s house. ‘You know, Aunt, what sort of mischief Lottie can get into when left to her own devices. It is precisely this sort of thing that I warned you about.’
Her aunt’s soothing reply was muffled behind the door to the parlour.
Typical, Lottie thought, the one time her brother decided to make the journey here, she was out, gallivanting across the country with an ungrateful Cousin Frances. It could have been worse. Frances could have spotted her with Mr Dyvelston. But Frances showed a singular lack of interest in her whereabouts or in the church. And nothing had happened, nothing at all.
Lottie’s fingers explored the underside of her wrist. The imprint of his touch still burnt her flesh. What was it about that one particular man? Was it the danger he represented?
‘Do you have any idea of when she might return?’ Henry’s pompous voice brought her back to reality with a bump. ‘I have business to attend to and cannot wait around for ever. The train leaves for Gilsland in two hours. And there is not another one until morning.’
‘Henry, is that you? Are Lucy or Mama with you?’ Lottie called out as she removed her gloves and bonnet with trembling fingers. Why was her brother here? Had something happened? She would be brave.
‘Ah, Lottie, you make an appearance.’ Henry turned from her aunt and Lottie was surprised to see how fat he had grown. ‘Come and greet me. What do you have to say to your brother?’
He had a well-fed look like a trained seal. If anything, the last five months had made him sleeker and fatter. She noticed he wore normal clothes and not mourning ones. Lottie gave a sigh of relief, thanking God for small mercies.
‘You should have sent word, and I would have been here.’
‘I had expected you would be here, doing your needlework or making another one of those pincushion mottos that you and my wife are enamoured with.’
‘Why?’ Lottie blinked rapidly and refused to let his cutting words hurt. She would have been here, sitting, doing needlework if only he had let her know. ‘We keep different hours in the country. I went for a stroll with my cousin. The fresh air is reputed to be good for most constitutions. You should try it some time.’
Henry harrumphed. ‘I suppose there is no harm in a quiet walk.’
‘Now, tell me, Henry what is the news?’ Lottie came forwards and caught her brother’s hands. ‘How are Mama, Lucy and the children? They send letters, but it is not the same as hearing it. I do miss them so. Do say they are all well and that you are not here because of them.’
‘Lucy sends her regards. The children are well, or so Lucy tells me.’ Henry’s face softened. ‘Mama has gone to Gilsland Spa for the waters.’
Lottie concentrated on her aunt’s patterned Turkey carpet. It could be that this was her best chance, far better than the marriage plans for Frances and Mr Shepard. She had to show that she had learnt from her exile. ‘Is my dear sister-in-law planning to come out to Haydon Bridge? There are some fine walks around here. I can tell her the legend of Cruel Sykes burn and she can look for the blood in the water.’
‘Yes, Carlotta and I went to the Cruel Sykes burn today.’ Frances nodded and her cheeks flamed to a bright pink. ‘It is quite a pleasant walk. I nearly fell in the burn, but Mr Shepard rescued me. Fished me out.’
‘I had no idea that Mr Shepard had accompanied you.’ Aunt Alice’s voice was chilling. ‘Who arranged this?’
‘He did not accompany us, exactly, Mama. We met him on the pathway and Carlotta suggested that he walk with us for a while.’
‘One can hardly be rude to one’s acquaintances, someone one has been formally introduced to.’ Lottie shifted uneasily. Perhaps she should have discovered Aunt Alice’s feelings towards Kent Shepard first, beyond noticing the warmth with which he was greeted at church.
‘Niece, are you going to explain further?’ Her aunt tapped her fan against the small table. ‘Is this some new scheme of yours? Why precisely did Mr Shepard join you and my daughter? Had he experienced difficulty with one of his cows? Goodness knows I have tried many topics with Mr Shepard but he always returns to his irksome cattle and their breeding.’
‘Our paths crossed,’ Lottie said, trying to forestall more of Frances’s confidences. From the thunderous look on Aunt Alice’s face, she was beginning to think that perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps Aunt Alice had not wanted the match for Frances. ‘And I…that is…we suggested that he might like to join us. He appeared quite willing to do so and in a jovial mood.’
‘Yes, yes, Carlotta made the suggestion. Mr Shepard is very good at rescuing, Mama.’
‘Ah, and did he rescue you from the burn as well, Carlotta?’ Her aunt gave her an icy stare, one that caused her to shift uneasily in her boots.
Suddenly Lottie was very aware of the glaring and obvious flaws in her matchmaking scheme, fundamental flaws that she should have anticipated. She could not lie, but to tell the full truth would invite disaster. She had no wish to explain about Tristan Dyvelston, and the kiss on her wrist.
‘You might well ask that, but the truth is…’
‘Niece, none of your smoked gammon and pickles for me. You appeared to have outgrown the tendency once you were away from your mother and under an altogether steadier influence. Did or did not Mr Shepard fish you out of the burn?’ Aunt Alice raised her spectacles. And her piercing gaze appeared to look into the depths of Lottie’s soul. ‘You are rather less damp than my daughter. Your clothing shows no sign of being rumpled.’
‘No.’ Lottie kept her chin high, but she swallowed hard. How was she going to explain this away, particularly as Henry had put Aunt Alice into one of her moods? ‘He did not.’
‘He couldn’t.’ Frances gave a high-pitched giggle that echoed around the room. ‘She wasn’t there.’
Lottie heard her aunt’s little screech of horror and wished the floor would open up. Why had she ever considered that today could be called a good day?
‘Was not there?’ Her aunt’s voice sounded like a church bell tolling out a funeral march. ‘Why not there? You depart together. You come back together. But Lottie was not with you at the burn when Mr Shepard oh so gallantly fished you out.’
‘Lottie, what were you doing?’ Henry thundered. ‘Are you up to your old tricks? I warned you.’
‘I had gone to look at the old church’s ruins with the Claude glass that Lucy sent me as an early birthday present and I could have sworn they were right behind me.’ Lottie opened her eyes, and used the slightly singsong voice she adopted whenever her mother accused her of anything untoward. ‘It was only when I arrived that I discovered my mistake. They had taken the turning to Cruel Sykes burn. Seeing that I was there, I had a look about the church… Cousin Frances had extolled its virtues as a…subject for a watercolour…’
She glanced between Aunt Alice and Henry to see if they were going to accept the story. Cousin Frances made encouraging noises about the Claude glass.
‘Mr Shepard and Cousin Frances soon caught up with me.’ Lottie wiped her hand across her mouth and hoped. ‘And that is all to the story. A simple misunderstanding.’
‘Carlotta Charlton,’ her brother thundered, ‘how could you do such a thing!’
‘We were right behind Lottie. Only but a moment, once we realised there had been a mistake,’ Frances agreed, nodding vigorously, impressing Lottie with the way she entered into the spirit of the thing. Perhaps she had mistaken Frances’s intentions. Perhaps they could become friends. ‘Mr Shepard thought he heard voices. Lottie’s and a man’s.’
Lottie put her hands over her ears and turned her head away as everyone began to speak at once. No, definitely not friends.
‘That settles it, then.’ Her brother’s tone boomed out over the rest.
‘Settles what?’ Lottie asked into the sudden silence.
‘Haydon Bridge has singularly failed to curb your wayward tendencies.’
Lottie curled her fingers as she tried to suppress the wave of hurt that washed over her. ‘I think you are being harsh, Brother. I have led an exemplary life. Ask Aunt Alice, or Cousin Frances.’
‘Carlotta Charlton, you have been attempting to do mischief, serious mischief.’ Henry stabbed his forefinger into the air. ‘I told you at Christmas, I have had enough of your minx tricks! You treat your reputation with a casual contempt and a woman without a reputation might as well not live. Polite society certainly will not recognise her.’
‘I…I am entirely innocent,’ Lottie said through gritted teeth as Cousin Frances gaped, opening and closing her mouth like some demented cod fish. Right at that instant, she was not entirely certain whom she hated more— Cousin Frances, Mr Shepard or Tristan Dyvelston.
‘It is no matter.’ Henry brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his frock coat. ‘Mama is determined that her daughter will marry a title. There is no reasoning with her. You know what she is like with her enthusiasms.’
‘I am hardly likely to catch an aristocrat in Haydon Bridge.’
‘True, true.’ Henry gave an exaggerate sigh. ‘Mama has been bending my ear about the very subject. I had hopes when she left to take at the waters at Gilsland Spa that she would be distracted, but her experience has only served to renew her determination. She has sent me letter after letter on the subject. Hardly a post goes by without yet another epistle arriving.’
‘Do you mean to send me to London?’ Lottie felt the room tilt slightly. Perhaps today was not terrible after all. Perhaps everything was a blessing. She attempted to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘I know I have missed the Queen Charlotte Ball, but a number of events remain in the Season. Mrs Fullen did say that she might be prepared to sponsor me and she is the sister of Lady Rowland. She knows the patronesses of Almack’s.’
‘Lucy considers otherwise. She thinks Mrs Fullen exaggerates about her connection with the patronesses.’
‘Lucy forgets what Mrs Fullen did for Ann Mason only two years ago. Lady Rowland is a respected member of the ton, Henry. I read her antecedents in Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage, and if she is in Burke’s…’
Henry held up his hand. ‘I am unprepared to countenance you set loose in London. Lottie, you would be ruined within moments of stepping on a dance floor. Were very nearly, by all accounts, ruined by an unknown man in a deserted churchyard. You have no sense with men, Sister.’
‘Then Newcastle? You are taking me back home.’ Lottie refused to let the disappointment of London bow her spirits. Once she returned to Newcastle’s society, she could work on her mother. Mama would realise the true importance of having a London Season to securing a title.
‘Gilsland Spa where Mama is taking the waters.’
‘Gilsland?’ Lottie’s heart sunk. ‘What is at Gilsland? Who is at Gilsland at this time of year? It is fine for Mama, but does she intend to marry me off to some gouty lord or a creaking count from some unknown European principality?’
‘Lord Thorngrafton currently resides there. He has taken a suite at Shaw’s Hotel, as have several other members of the aristocracy. Mama has sent a list of the titled currently residing there. The prospects quite excite her and I must say that they make for quite intriguing reading. I had never considered Gilsland Spa as a possibility before.’ Henry puffed his chest out. ‘I am given to understand that Lord Thorngrafton was very interested in you at an Assembly ball last autumn, Lottie.’
Aunt Alice gave an audible gasp and Cousin Frances’s eyes gleamed as Lottie gave a sigh of relief. Here at last was an opening.
‘I believed Lord Thorngrafton’s attention was of a dis¬ honourable nature than honourable.’ Lottie settled on the horsehair sofa, crossing her ankles and arranging the folds of her gown. If she could turn Henry’s attention away from Lord Thorngrafton, she might be able to return to Newcastle after all. It was a matter of persuasion, applying the right sort of pressure. He would yield.
‘Our mother believes otherwise. She has had a conversation with the man in question and he remarked on your fine eyes and how much he admired them.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton spent most of last November speaking to my bosom. I do not believe that he once noticed my eyes.’
‘Carlotta!’ her aunt shrieked. ‘Unmentionables in front of Frances! Cover your ears, Daughter!’
‘I have done so, Mama.’
Lottie crossed her arms and glared at them. ‘It is true.’
‘Mama stated in her letter that he asked after you particularly.’ Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not play the sly puss with me, Carlotta. I have it on good authority that Lord Thorngrafton is possessed of a more than agreeable fortune. He saw the possibilities of railways, long before I. He is a business associate of Jack Stanton, a partner in some of his ventures. And you know how rich Stanton is. I have done some investigating.’
‘So rich that Mama would have happily forgone a title.’ Lottie made sure that her smile was sweet. ‘Letter or no, Lord Thorngrafton is up to no good. Why should a titled gentleman possessed of an agreeable fortune wish to ally himself with our family?’
Aunt Alice began to fan herself rapidly at the outburst as Henry’s face turned a sort of mottled purple.
‘Explain yourself!’
‘I simply feel there are other better places where I could go.’
‘You do, do you?’ Henry jabbed his finger at her. ‘Let me tell you this, Miss Butter Would Not Melt in Her Mouth! Should you fail to bring Lord Thorngrafton up to the mark, I will marry you off to the next person who asks. In fact, I am tempted to marry you off to the next person— Lord Thorngrafton or whomever—after this latest outburst. I have it on good authority that Mr Lynch is currently on the lookout for a wife, or should I say nursemaid, for his brood of seven children.’
Lottie stared at her brother in horror. He could not do that. Could he? She fought against the panic that swept over her, struggling to breathe against the confines of her corset.
‘Where is Mama? Let me speak to her. You cannot do that, Henry. I forbid it. Mama will be distraught when she learns of your unkind and uncharitable attitude.’
‘Mama is at Shaw’s Hotel, waiting for your arrival. And despite Lucy’s misgivings, I must conclude that it is the best place for you. You will catch a titled husband there, so help me God.’
‘Why are you doing this, Henry?’ Lottie asked in a small voice. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘My sister’s marriage is a matter of business. You have two weeks, Lottie. I am not an unkind man, but it is all the time I wish to be away from my family. You and our mother together…’
‘But…but…’
‘Perhaps we send for Mr Lynch now?’
Lottie stared at her brother. Once she had thought him a god, but now she knew he was a hard, unfeeling monster. He did not care for her future happiness, merely for what prestige or power her marriage could bring to him. What business opportunities might arise. Her value on the marriage market. Lottie refused to cry or give way to temper. That, she knew from bitter experience, would not help the situation. She had to be calm. Somehow, she would find a way.
‘I will go,’ she whispered.
‘Good.’ Henry turned his back on her. ‘Now, Aunt, may I have another of your esteemed muffins?’
‘Lottie, dry your eyes.’ Cousin Frances patted her shoulder. ‘Things like this are always happening in my Minerva Press novels and they turn out all right in the end.’
Lottie gave a small hiccup. Somehow, Cousin Frances’s sudden solicitude made everything worse.
‘Time to wake up, Lord Thorngrafton.’ Tristan strode across the darkened room, pulled apart the curtains and let the fresh air enter the wine-soaked room. ‘Or should I say, Cousin Peter? I had wondered who I might find at Shaw’s and had suspected that it might be you.’
The prone figure on the bed groaned, mumbled a few incoherent words before pulling the pillow over his head. ‘Go away. It is the middle of the night.’
‘Time to be up, Peter. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Play time has finished.’ Tristan controlled his fury at his first cousin. ‘Quit your shamming or you will have cause to regret it. Can you give me any reason why I should not summon the parish constable?’
At the mention of the parish constable, the man sat straight up. His florid complexion paled as Tristan regarded his first cousin with a dispassionate eye. There was a vague family resemblance, but nothing remarkable.
‘You…you…you are supposed to be on the Continent. Or, better yet, dead in some alleyway.’ Peter’s hand trembled as he passed it over his eyes. ‘I was sure you would never return to England. And Uncle swore it when I changed my name from Burford to Dyvelston.’
‘Changing a name and being acknowledged as his heir does not change the order of succession, Peter.’
‘I know that, but…’
‘I returned, Cousin, as I promised I would.’ Tristan stared at him. ‘I always keep my promises…unlike some.’
‘Allow me some moments to dress. This is quite a shock to me. You here. Alive.’
‘Not as big of a shock as it was to me to discover that Lord Thorngrafton had been responsible for a variety of actions. What amazes me is how brazen you have been about it.’
His cousin stood up and started to dress.
‘Don’t begrudge me, Tris,’ he said. ‘I thought you dead. I was sure you were dead. Uncle Jeremiah swore it as well. He told me that you were seriously ill in Florence… or was it Venice? Don’t matter, but I didn’t expect you to appear.’
‘Reports of my demise were premature.’ Tristan paused and brushed a speck off his frock coat. ‘And never call me Tris. It implies a familiarity that does not exist between us.’
‘But I am your heir. There ain’t no other and if you were dead…’ Peter ran his hand through his hair. ‘Be fair, Tristan. Uncle’s obituary, of course, made the papers and everyone naturally assumed that I would be the one… Who am I to dissuade them?’
‘And who are you charging all this to?’ Tristan made a sweep of his hand. ‘The best suite at Shaw’s is ruinously expensive.’
‘You need not worry. I only borrowed the title.’ Peter shook his head. ‘I am not that let in the pocket. And one has to speculate to accumulate.’
‘Good use?’
‘Exploring business opportunities…’ Peter gave a practised smile. ‘I have a plan about lead mining, and I just need a little capital. There is a piece of property.’
‘And it has nothing to do with the card game I heard about being arranged at Mumps ha’ not a mile from here. Or the two aged widows Lord Thorngrafton pursued without success last month.’
Peter winced and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. ‘You heard about that.’
‘Certain parties were keen to inform me of this development once I enquired. I am not without friends, Peter.’ Tristan regarded his cousin. ‘I warn you, Peter, the current Lord Thorngrafton will be above reproach, his name unblemished. I intend to restore the estate to its former glory, to undo the damage our uncle did.’
‘But…but scandal dogs your footsteps.’ Peter blinked. ‘It is why you went to the Continent. You killed a man.’
‘He failed to die.’
‘But you shot him.’
‘For cheating at cards. I had had too much to drink and my aim was less than true.’ Tristan gave a cold smile. ‘It has improved. Now your exploits are at an end.’
‘You remind me more and more of Uncle Jeremiah! He had the same aptitude for a chilling phrase. The same ice-cold eye.’
‘Shall I forget we are related?’ Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Please, Tristan, for old time’s sake, let me do this one thing. I have prospects. There are three youngish widows whose heads are turned at the thought of a title. Then there is this businessman, whose mother is impressed with titles, but if I can persuade him to invest in the old lead mine, it will return a thousandfold…’ Peter laid his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. ‘When we were young, we used to help each other out. I helped you escape to the Continent. You can’t deny it. You owe me, Tristan. I was the one who aided you and Suzanne. Made things possible.’
Tristan regarded his cousin. Peter’s body was already starting to run to fat and his face showed a certain thickening. Perhaps the widows and the businessmen deserved what they got. But neither was he ready to forgive Peter’s observation. He and his uncle did not share a temperament.
‘You did indeed. Perhaps I do owe you for that. I recall precisely why I was there as well.’
‘A simple misunderstanding.’ Peter held up his hands and began to speak very quickly as he dressed. ‘It is my best chance of getting the readies I need. I have spent time conversing with the businessman’s mother. She is here taking the waters. He is coming to visit and bringing his sister.’
‘His sister?’
‘She has a small fortune in funds… A week—that is all I want and then I shall never trouble you again.’ Peter’s eyes grew crafty.
‘Who exactly is this businessman?’
‘Henry Charlton. His sister is mad for titles.’ Peter gave a laugh. ‘I had thought to seduce her last November, but she slipped through my fingers. Then her mother appears here, an odious woman with aspirations, and informs me of her daughter’s fortune in funds.’
‘You tried to seduce a number of women last November.’
‘Yes, but they knew what they were on about.’
‘As long as you are sure. Virgins and the like can lead to unforeseen complications.’ Tristan paused. ‘We leave now.’
‘This very instant? But it will take me a time to pack and it is past checking out. I will have to pay for tonight’s room.’
‘That is your problem.’
Peter’s eyes grew crafty. ‘You will need a place to lay your head. Stay here tonight. One night and see if I can’t persuade you to invest. For days gone by. Please.’
Tristan regarded his cousin, with his face pleading. ‘I want no more of this deception. You will put matters right.’
‘If I must…’ Peter’s face showed signs of clear relief.
‘I positively insist. You will follow my lead. Do not attempt to cross me, Peter. The next time, I will forget that you are kin.’
‘Have you memorised the list I gave you, Lottie, so you will know which gentlemen to dance with?’ Her mother grabbed Lottie’s elbow as they descended the stairs at Shaw’s Hotel the next evening. ‘You must make sure that you speak very loudly to Lord Crawley. He is as deaf as a post. And Sir Geoffrey Lea…’
‘Mama, I have read the list and committed it to memory. You have asked me this twice already.’ Lottie fought the temptation to roll her eyes heavenwards.
‘I know how inattentive you can be, Carlotta. This is a serious campaign. I had expected you two days ago.’
‘Aunt Alice sends her apologies, but the packing took time.’
‘Not when I do it.’ Her mother gave a loud sniff and muttered something about the incompetence of sisters-in- law.
Several hours at Shaw’s Hotel and Lottie come to the conclusion that her options were limited. Nearly every person she had encountered was well past the age of fifty or appeared to be suffering from a weak chin and watery eyes. Or both. The only possible glimmer of an idea she had was to steer the men towards other women. If they all found wives, she would be free.
‘But Mama, the men here are more likely to want a nurse than a wife. I will make a very bad nurse.’
‘A young titled widow is always in demand, Lottie. You can marry for other things later.’ Her mother caught Lottie’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, twisting Lottie’s head to the left and right before releasing it. ‘Your looks should hold another five years at least. Plenty of time. You need to think towards the future. I would see you married well.’ Her mother went down the stairs with a determination that Wellington would have admired.
‘Are you sure this neckline is not a touch too low?’ Lottie asked Henry as they followed in her wake. ‘Mama appears to have forgotten the lace. Perhaps I ought to go back.’
‘You never bothered about such things before,’ Henry said. ‘I feel certain that Lord Thorngrafton will appreciate the…dress. Or one of the other gentlemen. I dare say Mama was correct. There are any number of titled widowers here.’
‘They are all about one hundred years old except for Lord Thorngrafton, and I warned you, Henry, about him.’
‘You appear to know a great deal about Lord Thorngrafton all of a sudden.’ Henry frowned. ‘And he has yet to make an appearance.’
‘We encountered each other last November. Martha Irons saved me from disaster with her timely swoon.’ Lottie demurely lowered her eyelashes. ‘But my lace, Henry. Is the neckline not a bit daring? The dress is two seasons old.’
‘It looks lovely from where I stand.’ The low rumble of a voice washed over her. Lottie froze as she felt a hot tide of red flush her face. He was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be safely in Haydon Bridge or wherever rakes went. Certainly not here.
‘Are we acquainted, sir?’ Henry’s voice had become frigid.
‘Tristan Dyvelston.’ Tristan’s voice was cool. ‘Perhaps, Peter, you would be so good to introduce us.’
‘My cousin, Henry, my cousin.’ Peter Dyvelston, Lord Thorngrafton, came forward and caught Henry by the arm. ‘It was my mistake. Tristan, I told you about Henry Charlton and his charming sister, Miss Charlton. Where is your delightful mother? I was looking forward to speaking with her again. We had such an amusing conversation the other night.’
Lottie stared at the impeccably dressed gentleman standing next to Lord Thorngrafton. Her pulse began to race and she struggled to remember how to breathe. She had told herself that she had been mistaken, that Tristan could not be that handsome. But her memory had lied.
He was far more.
The darkness of his frock coat contrasted with his face, and his cream trousers skimmed his figure. But what was he doing here and in the company of Lord Thorngrafton? He had given the impression the other day that he had very little to do with the man. Lottie tightened her grip on her fan and hoped that he would not make any untoward remarks about their last meeting.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie held out a gloved hand, prayed that his lips wouldn’t brush it, then prayed that they would.
Chapter Three
Tristan regarded the trio in front of him. The mother and the brother were types he was used to, but Lottie Charlton in an evening gown was a piece of shimmering blue confection. The form-fitting bodice bowed out at her waist and her petticoats swirled about her ankles in a sea of white foam. Tristan wondered if his hands could span her waist or would there be a gap? Would her flesh feel as warm between his fingers as her wrist had felt against his mouth the other day?
Her ear bobs swayed gently and her blonde ringlets were artfully placed on the top of her head. No expense had been spared. She was obviously angling for a husband, but which one of the geriatrics did she want? And what would happen if she knew his title? Would she use their earlier meeting against him? A pulse of anger ran through him. He would not be so easily ensnared into marriage.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance at long last, Miss Charlton. I was confused as to your identity.’ Tristan bowed low over her hand. His breath touched the thin kid of her glove, though Lottie drew back before his lips encountered her palm. But he had seen the slight flaring of her nostrils. ‘I have heard a great deal about you from my cousin.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lord Thorngrafton has taken a suite of rooms here and my cousin is permitting me to share them.’ Tristan watched the comprehension grow on Peter’s face. The masquerade would continue for tonight, until the precise nature of the situation was clear. It paid to be cautious.
‘How did you get here?’ Lottie asked in a furious undertone, pointedly ignoring his arm. ‘You were in Haydon Bridge looking after your parents’ graves and hopefully feeling remorse at the state you allowed them to get into.’
‘I could ask the same of you.’ His eyes stopped at her neckline and flicked up to her generous mouth. ‘What did you come in search of? A husband? Your gown is admirably suited for the hunt.’
The corners of her mouth turned down and her blue eyes took on a mulish expression. ‘You do take the strangest notions into your head, Mr Dyvelston. Do you always give lectures in this manner?’
‘My cousin is here but for a short while.’ Tristan gestured towards where Peter stood, rapidly expounding on the virtues of lead mining in the district to Lottie’s brother. An unforeseen complication, but one he intended to his advantage. If Lottie discovered his true status, would she tell her mother about the incident in the cemetery? Would the mother use it as an excuse to ensnare him? He refused to take the risk. Peter would keep silent, he was certain of that. ‘I do not feel that he would be good husband material.’
‘And is there anyone you recommend in his place?’ Her tone was light, but her eyes narrowed as she fluttered her fan.
‘I have not been here long enough to advise properly,’ Tristan said, allowing his eyes to dance.
‘You should not assume, then.’ Lottie snapped her fan shut. ‘I declined your cousin’s offer before Christmas.’
‘So you did. I had forgotten.’
‘I am here because my brother brought me.’ Lottie risked a glance at Tristan’s unyielding profile. It irritated her that he thought her so blindingly obvious in her husband-hunting. And if he had made that assumption, how many of the other guests had also come to the same conclusion? Her mother could be terribly indiscreet. ‘My mother is taking the waters. She swears that they do her nerves a power of good. She enjoys the company.’
‘The sulphur water at Gilsland is renowned as is its matchmaking Popping Stone. I believe the numbers are about even.’
Lottie gritted her teeth. ‘My mother desired a bit of company. I shall not be following the footsteps of Sir Walter Scott.’
‘Did everything work out as you had planned for your cousin?’ he asked in an arch tone, seemingly amused rather than quelled by her remark. ‘Is your aunt pleased with your interference in matters matrimonial?’
Lottie examined the pattern of the carpet. He would have to bring that up. ‘I maintain hopes, but I misjudged the situation slightly. It was felt that perhaps I was better off departing as Mama was desirous of me arriving here. I am to be the belle of tonight’s ball, so I understand.’
‘Ah, you are here for the matchmaking.’
‘No, I am here to prove to my mother and brother that I can be trusted. I wish to make my mark in London.’
‘Do you think you will be able to? Many young ladies vie to become to the Incomparable, the Diamond of the Season. The vast majority are condemned to be wallflowers.’
She glanced up and noticed that his dark eyes were fringed with impossibly long lashes, the sort of lashes that were wasted on a man. But his gaze held no malice, only concern. A queer trembling overtook her. He, a near stranger, cared. ‘I think there are other places where I stand a better chance of achieving my goal.’
‘And the goal is…’
‘To make a brilliant match.’ She threw back her shoulders and made sure her eyes danced. ‘And you do not need to worry. I have no designs on your virtuous name. Mama is insistent on a title.’
‘That fact relieves me no end.’ He gave a short laugh.
‘I thought it would.’
‘Who are you hunting?’
‘Mama has made a list, but I fear she has not consulted Burke’s recently and is doomed to disappointment.’ Lottie rubbed her eye, relieved to be explaining the problems. Tristan Dyvelston, at least, was a sympathetic ear and he might have a solution to her problem. ‘I distinctly heard Lord Foster mention a wife and she has him down as a widower. I am not sure if she has been careless or if she simply made a mistake. These things can happen even in the best ordered of campaigns. But it doesn’t really matter as I have no intention of marrying, simply demonstrating to Mama that I can behave properly. There will be no scandals clinging to my skirts.’
‘Sometimes scandals happen whether one is trying to avoid them or not.’
‘What does it feel like to be on the outside of society, Mr Dyvelston?’ Lottie tilted her head to one side, making her smile sweet.
His eyes became a deep black as the barb hit home and he inclined his head. ‘It is a cold and bleak place, Miss Charlton. You would not care for it. And yet women are easily banished there. Too easily.’
Lottie grasped her fan tighter and struggled to breathe against the tightness of her corset.
‘No, I probably would not, but then it is unlikely I shall have to encounter it.’ She gave her ringlets a little toss. ‘I plan to be at the very heart of society. It is my natural place.’
‘Are you determined to marry a title, then? Against the odds?’
‘It is as easy to love a titled man as an untitled one.’ Lottie glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice. ‘One of Mama’s little sayings, and it does seem to mean so much to her. She has aspirations.’
‘So your sights are set on Thorngrafton, as much as you try to deny it. I will warn you for the last time, Miss Charlton, my cousin is not to be trusted. Please consider long and hard if he does make an offer.’
‘His title includes a baronetcy, one of the original ones purchased from Charles I, or so Henry says.’ Lottie tapped her fan against her mouth, suddenly aware that she had perhaps revealed too much. ‘It is an honourable title, but I hope to do better. I want to convince Mama that a London Season is what I need.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I have yet to convince my brother.’ Lottie held up her hand. ‘I know what you must think of me. Coldhearted, unemotional and obsessed with titles, Mr Dyvelston, but may I remind you that you are hardly a person to be sitting in judgement.’
‘I never judge my fellow human beings, Miss Charlton.’ A dimple flashed in the corner of his mouth. ‘Particularly when the person in question is as refreshing about her intentions as you.’
Lottie’s breath caught in her throat. Why couldn’t Tristan Dyvelston have a title? It would make life much simpler. She would not have minded setting her cap for him, despite saying otherwise. He was exciting, different. He did not melt at a flutter of her eyelashes, and, more importantly, he did not treat her as an inanimate object or speak exclusively to her breasts. ‘I hardly see any point in pretence, Mr Dyvelston.’
‘Will you save a waltz for me?’
Lottie turned her face towards the corniced ceiling as she tried to resist the sudden quickening of her pulse. A waltz in his arms. ‘If you like…’
‘Lottie, do hurry up. Lottie!’ her mother called. ‘There are a number of people who are desirous of meeting you.’
‘One should always be careful about whom one meets in a hotel, Miss Charlton.’ His eyes held something hidden. ‘There can be no telling if they are the genuine article or not.’
‘One should be careful about whom one meets in a ruined churchyard, Mr Dyvelston.’ She tilted her chin upwards and prepared to sweep away.
‘One meets all the best sorts of people there.’ His voice held a note of amusement that rose around her and held her spellbound.
‘Lottie, why do you dally?’ Her mother’s voice resounded across the foyer, recalling her to her duty. ‘There is someone here who insists on making your acquaintance. I am certain you will find him most agreeable.’
‘My mother calls. She will wonder why I have been detained.’
‘Do not let me keep you, Miss Charlton. I have no wish to cause a scandal.’
‘I thought that was what you did best.’
‘You mistook me. My scandalous days have long past. I lead a sober and uneventful life.’
‘Mr Dyvelston.’
Lottie picked up her skirts and hurried over to her mother. She stopped short as she saw the wizened man that her mother was sitting next to. Her heart sank. Sir Geoffrey Lea. The name that was proudly written below Lord Thorngrafton’s. He was over seventy. How could her mother do this to her?
She forced her shoulders to stay straight, refusing to glance back at where Mr Dyvelston stood.
Why were men such as he always dishonourable and forbidden?
Tristan bided his time during the early part of the evening, observing the current guests of Shaw’s Hotel, waiting and watching. They were a mixed group and, as far as he could tell from the accents, not from the general vicinity. It was becoming clear why Peter had been able to carry off his impersonation.
Many of the men were elderly and comfortable in their own self-importance. He felt sorry that Lottie Charlton was going to be sacrificed to one of them. But he had to trust that her family would not marry her off if she objected.
He watched as Lottie’s blue gown with its swirling lace flashed by and heard her laughter float out over the crowd. A number of matrons and their other less well-endowed daughters clicked their tongues, but Tristan sensed a sort of desperation in her moves as if she was determined to show that she was having fun. He had been tempted to confess the truth about his title and watch her face. But there was also the mother to consider. One false step and he could find himself shackled.
‘Congratulate me, Thorngrafton.’ Sir Geoffrey Lea, one of the more decrepit denizens of Shaw’s came up to Tristan.
‘My cousin—’ Tristan gestured towards where Peter stood, speaking about his lead mine to any who would listen.
‘Is plain Mr Dyvelston. Being adopted does not mean inheriting the title.’ Sir Geoffrey tapped his nose. ‘I am not past it yet, whatever anyone might say. Took me until I saw you to put my finger on why I did not trust him. I dare say that most people have forgotten which cousin would inherit, particularly as your uncle was so marked in his preferences. Won’t enquire into the game you two are playing either, it is not my place. But your cousin will not get the Charlton heiress. You may inform him of that.’
‘I never intended that he should.’ Tristan tightened his jaw. The elderly gentleman made Lottie sound as if she was some sort of bone to be fought over. He had forgotten quite how depressing the English marriage market could be. ‘I have my reasons, Sir Geoffrey, please respect them. I ask this as a gentleman.’
He held out his hand and, after a moment, Sir Geoffrey took it.
‘I shall keep your identity secret while you are at Shaw’s, Thorngrafton. I give you my word. We are both men of honour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There was bad blood between you and your uncle. Shouldn’t happen in families, but it does.’ Sir Geoffrey gave a wheezing laugh. His watery eyes narrowed as he peered at Tristan. ‘You are like your father in many ways, but I see your uncle as well. You had best be careful. You know how life treated him. A pity—he showed such promise at Eton.’
‘What should I be congratulating you for?’ Tristan said firmly, drawing the man from his reminisces. He refused to be compared with his uncle. He knew what a bitter and twisted man his uncle had become.
‘Pipped your cousin at the post. Pipped everyone. That’s what. I have spoken to that vision’s mother.’ Sir Geoffrey used his walking stick to indicate where Lottie danced with an elderly man. ‘She is as charming in person as she is to look at. A true picture, an ornament worthy of appreciation. Her mother assures me that she is an excellent nurse.’
‘Does she, indeed?’
‘She also assures me that her daughter is every bit as virtuous as she is good-looking. She will make an admirable wife. I shall have to make a visit to the Popping Stone with that gel.’ Sir Geoffrey gave a wheezing laugh.
‘And virtue is important to you, Sir Geoffrey? I would have thought conversation, wit and a general attraction.’
‘Virtue is everything. Without virtue, the woman has nothing.’ Sir Geoffrey thumped his cane on the floor.
‘Except a fortune in funds.’
‘The fortune allows me to overlook other certain less favourable aspects about the match.’ Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘Did you know her paternal great-grandfather was in trade? A grocer!’
‘I had no idea, but the family, I believe, has high aspirations.’
‘It is true.’ Sir Geoffrey nodded and a twinkle came into his eye. ‘She will make an admirable companion for my waning years, don’t you think? Quite a well-turned ankle. It will show them at the club that I am not past it, that I can still attract the fillies.’
‘Some might entertain that notion.’
A huge bubble of pleasure coursed through Lottie. She had forgotten how much fun it was to waltz, polka and generally be the centre of attention. True, Shaw’s Hotel was not London or even the Assembly Rooms in Newcastle, but there was dancing. Ever since the five-piece orchestra had begun to play, she had had no time to sit down. One after another the gentlemen had begged for the favour of a dance. Lord Thorngrafton had staked his claim to the Sir Roger de Coverley before disappearing to converse with Henry about lead mines.
Her only disappointment was that Tristan Dyvelston had not come near, not once. She had seen him following her with his eyes, and twice he led other ladies out onto the dance floor. Stately widows with well-upholstered bosoms and braying laughs, the sort one might dance with if one was looking for a wealthy wife who would not be picky about his lack of a title.
Was that in truth why he was there? That he was seeking a wealthy wife? It made a certain amount of sense, but it annoyed her that he had made remarks about her husband-hunting.
She redoubled her efforts to be charming and to forget him, but it appeared her body had developed an acute awareness when he was around. Each time she circled the floor, she wondered what it would be like to have his hand on her waist, clasping his fingers instead of her partner’s.
‘Shall you dance with me next?’ a bewhiskered elderly gentleman asked. ‘Your mother has proclaimed how divinely you waltz.’
‘This waltz is already spoken for.’ A shadow loomed over her.
Lottie glanced up into Tristan’s darkly intent face. Her body tingled as her breath caught in her throat. ‘Is it?’
‘You agreed to waltz with me earlier,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten?’
‘So I did. I cannot think what might have come over me.’ Lottie tried to ignore the frisson of pleasure that rippled through her. She wanted to waltz with him. She wanted to forget everything else, to forget her future. She simply wanted to dance and take pleasure in the moment. ‘Shall we waltz then, Mr Dyvelston? They are playing one of the Strauss waltzes.’
‘It is not one of the most fashionable, but it has a pleasant enough melody.’
He put his hand on her waist and they started off. Somehow, dancing with him was different from every time she had danced before. His steps were perfect—not overly showy like a dancing master’s or clumsy. She concentrated on his shoulder rather than on his mouth.
‘Where did you learn to waltz like this?’
‘In Vienna.’
‘One day, I should like to travel. I have only been as far as Yorkshire. Mama does not believe in foreign travel, but I think it must be tremendously exciting.’ Lottie was aware she was babbling, but it kept her mind off the gentle pressure on her waist and how their bodies fitted exactly, moving in time with each other.
She looked down at the smooth floor. Less than a week ago she had had no idea of his existence, but by ten o’clock this evening, she could think of nothing but him. She wanted to say that it was Cousin Frances’s scandalous tales but there was something else that drew her to him. She had seen the way he’d looked at his parents’ graves.
‘You are not attending me, Miss Charlton,’ he said. ‘I just gave you a witty sally about Vienna and you remain silent. Not even a smile passed your lips.’
‘I shall try harder.’ Lottie glanced up into his face and saw the crinkles around his eyes. She swallowed hard and struggled to think beyond his hand upon her waist. ‘Was there something in particular that you wished me to be amused at? Repeat it and I will attend. You will find me the perfect conversationalist from now.’
He gave a husky laugh and she felt his hand tighten, pull her closer so that their bodies collided. His breath fanned her ear. ‘Sir Geoffrey Lea. He was in a very self-congratulatory mood.’
A stab of fear went through her and she missed a step. Her fingers clutched at his shoulder as if it were a life raft as the ballroom tilted sideways. Her slippers skidded into each other. ‘Sir Geoffrey? Congratulations?’
‘He is very pleased with what he has done. Matrimony.’
Lottie looked wildly about her and tried not to panic. She had to remember to breathe, and not to give way to wild imaginings. Such things were for Cousin Frances, not for her. Her mother would not have done such a thing without speaking to her.
‘Is there some problem?’
‘He figured highly on my mother’s list. My mother’s list of eligible men.’ She struggled to draw a breath and found she could not. Her fingers curled around his arm. ‘Please say his congratulatory mood had nothing to do with me, that he has found some well-endowed widow of about fifty. I saw him with my mother earlier. He is more than three times my age.’
‘I would say that is an accurate assessment.’
‘You are not providing much comfort, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie tried to draw a deep breath and mentally cursed her corset and the need for a fashionably tiny waist. She should not have insisted that they be done up so tightly. She had to do something or she would faint. She swallowed hard.
‘You become pale. The air in here is close.’ His arm came around her, an iron band of support. Lottie leant back against it, grateful. ‘I must insist we go outside.’
‘A breath of fresh air would be helpful, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she leant on his arm. Around her the sound of the waltz swelled, mocking her.
How could she have taken such pleasure in such a transitory thing?
Her life teetered about her, threatened to collapse. Mama would insist and Henry would agree. He had already begun to make noises about the expense of staying here and how he longed to be back within the bosom of his family. And she would be sentenced to a life of misery.
Tristan threw open the French doors and led the way out onto the terrace. The blackness of his hair and coat mingled with the darkness that surrounded him.
The cool air rushed out to meet her, caressing her fevered skin. In the distance she could hear the River Irthing. Above her were the first faint glimmerings of stars. The whole world was at peace. She was aware of Tristan coming to stand by her. Not touching her, just standing close enough that he could act if she fainted. Lottie pressed her lips together. She would not faint and give way to her feelings. Such things were for women like Frances. When one fainted, one lost all control. She drew in another breath and concentrated on the shadows in the lawn.
‘Have you recovered, Miss Charlton?’ His hand hovered at her elbow. ‘We may go in if you like. I am certain no one noticed us coming out here. Your virtue is quite safe.’
‘Who has Sir Geoffrey found to marry?’ she asked in a strained voice as she dug her nails into her palms. ‘Exactly which widow will look after him in his declining years?’
She glanced up and saw the sombreness of Tristan’s face. Slowly he shook his head and his eyes showed pity. ‘The woman in question is no widow.’
She clutched the balustrade, forced her lungs to strain against her stays. ‘Does it have anything to do with me?’
‘Would it matter if it did?’
‘Several days ago, I played a game, Mr Dyvelston, an innocent game.’ Lottie looked out into the blackness. She could make out the vague shape of the trees. ‘I sought to help my cousin to become engaged to a man whom I felt she had affection for. This afternoon, my mother gave me a list of eligible men, men I have no affection for, but one of whom I am supposed to marry. It is my task.’
‘Does affection have anything to do with marriage? I would have thought security and status were high on your list.’
Tears pricked Lottie’s eyelids. She blinked rapidly. He was being kind. It had been a long time since anyone had been kind. She wanted him to be cruel or to laugh at her. Anything but be kind. He knew what her mother and Henry had planned for her. It felt as if great prison doors were swinging shut.
‘I used to think, like my sister-in-law, that security was important, but then I saw how happy Emma Harrison was…is and knew I was mistaken. Emma waited years for the love of her life. She is adored.’
‘Is being adored something you wish?’
Lottie nodded mutely. She half-turned and her cheek encountered the starched front of his shirt. She rested her head, listening to the reassuring heartbeat, the steady thumping. His hand went under her chin and raised it so she could look into his eyes. They were larger than she remembered, warm. She could drown in eyes like that.
‘Lottie, you must be strong.’
‘I will try.’ She gave a slight sniff.
‘That’s my girl.’
She knew that propriety demanded that she move away. She was anything but his girl. She was nothing to him. She was about to be promised to Sir Geoffrey Lea. Sacrificed on her mother’s altar of social ambition. Ever since she had made her début, she had paid attention to the consequences. But for what? To be married to a fossil, a man older than her late father. To submit to his horny-handed embrace. Fate was cruel and she wanted to cheat it.
Her feet stayed still as he placed a strong hand on her shoulder, drawing her closer. She struggled to breathe, to remember her name, to remember anything beyond the shape of his lips. She raised a hand in mute appeal. Touched his shirt front.
He lowered his mouth, captured hers. A featherlight touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her. She felt her body arch towards his, wanted it to continue. But he lifted his mouth and regarded her.
His face was all shadows and angles. Moonlight shone down, giving it another glow. In the distance she could hear the faint strains of a polka, but much closer she heard the pounding of her heart. Her tongue explored her aching lips and a sigh escaped her throat.
His arms tightened about her again, held her there against the length of his body. A fiery glow built inside her. She was alive in a way she would never be again, if she were married to Sir Geoffrey Lea or whichever other titled fossil her mother might discover.
‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, pulling his head down to hers. Whispered against his firm mouth, ‘One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.’
Her hands came up and clung to his shirt front. He lowered his mouth again and pressed kisses along her neck and then returned to recapture her mouth. This time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot pulsating waves.
Her body collided with his as the meeting of lips stretched. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her face. A warmth grew deep inside Lottie, melting her limbs, forcing her to seek the support of his body. Her breasts strained against the confines of her corset. Ached. She felt the material give and his cool fingers slide against her fevered skin. Her entire world had come down to this one moment, this one point in time. She sighed and parted her lips, drank in the scent of him. His lips trailed down her neck, tasted her skin, and began to slowly travel lower.
‘Unhand that woman, you…you cad!’
The words pierced her inner core. Lottie froze, hoping they were directed at someone else. Tristan raised his head, looked over her shoulder towards where the voice resounded. He put her away from him. Lottie looked up at him, unable to turn around. His face changed, became hard, but his arm remained about her, holding her. She resisted the temptation to bury her face in his shoulder. Both enormity of what she had done, what she had been discovered doing, and the knowledge that if it had continued for much longer, she would have been powerless to stop it, weighed in on her.
‘Is there a problem, Sir Geoffrey?’ Tristan said, drawling the words.
Lottie flinched and moved out of the circle of his arms. He made no attempt to keep her in them. She turned and looked back towards the French doors. Sir Geoffrey stood there, leaning on his cane, surrounded by other figures. How long had they been standing there? How much had they seen? She glanced down to where her bodice gaped open, brought her hands up and tried to rearrange it. Her curls tumbled in disarray about her shoulders, the artful hairstyle her mother’s maid had arranged earlier this evening gone in a moment’s passion. She winced, knowing the wanton picture she must make.
‘What is going on here?’ Her brother’s voice floated over the rapidly increasing crowd. ‘Oh my God, Lottie, what have you done?’
‘He has seduced her.’ Sir Geoffrey’s voice boomed out over the rest. ‘He coldheartedly took her innocence and virtue. Look at her state of undress.’
‘It all depends on your definition of seduction.’ Tristan’s voice dripped with ice.
‘Mr Dyvelston was helping me because I felt faint.’ Lottie forced the words from her mouth. She looked up at Tristan for confirmation. His eyes blazed black. ‘I needed a breath of fresh air. Nothing happened.’
‘It looked rather different to me,’ Sir Geoffrey thundered.
‘I kissed her, yes. I overpowered her.’ The words exploded from Tristan Dyvelston.
‘Did you kiss this man, Carlotta?’ her brother asked. ‘Did you allow him to kiss you?’
Lottie’s tongue explored her lips—full, swollen and aching for the pressure of his mouth once again. She dreaded to think what the front of her gown looked like. They had been caught. Denial was impossible. Everything appeared to be happening from a long way away. She nodded as she crossed her hands over her chest. Waited.
‘Charlton, our bargain has ended.’ Sir Geoffrey’s voice resounded across the veranda. Strident. Furious. ‘She is damaged goods, sir. Given towards lewd and licentious behaviour. I wish you luck in finding a husband for that baggage. No gentleman will have her. Thank God I discovered what she was like before I married her. She’d have run away with her dancing master, soon as look at you.’
Lottie heard the swell of voices rise around her, echoing Sir Geoffrey’s harsh sentiments. Everyone speaking at once. Ruined. She was ruined. The dreaded consequences that Lucy had so confidently predicted for her all those months ago had happened. There would be no London Season. No triumphant return to Newcastle. Nothing, all because she had not been able resist the temptation of Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth.
‘I…I…’ Lottie put a hand to her head and groped for words, something that would explain it all and that would restore everything to its natural order. Her mother and Henry had to see that it was not the end of the world, that she was still an asset to the family. In time, she might once again have marriage prospects.
She scanned the rapidly expanding crowd for a friendly face and found none.
‘What do you intend to do about it, Dyvelston?’ Sir Geoffrey shook his stick at Tristan. ‘You have ruined this young person. Taken advantage of her youth. The tales they whispered about you were true, even though I have always vigorously denied them. No son of your father would behave in such a libertine manner.’
‘Do? Why should he do anything?’ Lord Thorngrafton came forward. ‘All he did was kiss the girl. She asked for it. There was that incident in Newcastle—’
‘Stay out of this, Peter!’ Tristan Dyvelston thundered. ‘You have done enough damage already.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton is right. He simply kissed me. Nothing more.’ Lottie hated the way her voice shook. She tried for a smile. She might be ruined, but Tristan should not be held entirely to blame. ‘Might this whole thing be…?’
The faces turned towards her were less than encouraging. Several of the old ladies lifted their fans to gossip behind. The tale was already being embroidered. By morning she’d be a harlot and there would be no hiding from the scandal.
Lottie took a step backwards, encountered the railing. The enormity of what she had done washed over her. She had kissed a man, passionately kissed him, without expectation or forethought. A huge gaping hole opened in her middle. She wished she could turn back the hands of time.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, whatever shall we do? All the love and attention I gave her and she repays me like this.’ Her mother stood next to Sir Geoffrey, white-faced and wringing her hands. Her ample bosom trembled as she raised an accusatory finger. ‘Carlotta, look what you have done to the family. To me. It is not just your reputation you have tarnished. You have shamed the family.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’ Lottie held out her hands and willed her mother to smile at her, to make some small sign that she would stand by her. Her mother buried her face in her hands and the sound of sobbing increased.
‘You only have yourself to blame, Mother.’ Henry put a hand on their mother’s shoulder and turned his furious gaze on Lottie. ‘You encouraged her far too much. I knew one day she would go too far and she has. You have disgraced us, Carlotta.’
Lottie kept her back straight. She had to get through this somehow, and then she’d decide what she could do. Perhaps there was a way to hush the whole thing up. If only everyone would stop yelling at once.
‘He has ruined her, I say. I demand to know what he intends to do about it!’ Sir Geoffrey drew himself up to his full height. ‘I may be old, sir, but I am not without influence. I will have it known that you are debaucher of virgins, a man not to be trusted. What are you going to do? Are you totally devoid of honour?’
Tristan stared at the elderly man as the diatribe washed over him. He knew Sir Geoffrey was correct. Doors would be closed to him. He’d spent ten years in the wilderness. He did not intend to go there again. He glanced at Lottie Charlton. At first she had winced every time someone said something, but now she stood, straight, not moving a muscle. It would not just be he who was ruined, but also this woman.
He gave an ironic smile. He should have remembered his own advice—virgins were complicated. He should never have tasted her lips. He wanted to taste her skin again. He wanted her lips to softly yield under his again.
‘Marry her. I will marry Miss Charlton.’
The veranda went silent.
‘You are going to do what?’ Mrs Charlton squeaked and began to furiously wave her fan.
‘As I have ruined her, there is only one course open to me, I will take the responsibility and marry her. My honour demands it.’
‘I knew you had it in you, Dyvelston,’ Lottie’s brother said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘There, Mama, problem solved. Dyvelston will marry Lottie. We will have a quiet wedding and no one in the business community will turn their faces from us. While Dyvelston might not be what we would have wished, he will at least do the decent thing.’
‘I am so grateful you solved the problem, Sir Geoffrey.’ Mrs Charlton grabbed on to the elderly man’s arm. Her plump face was very close to his. ‘Eternally grateful.’
Sir Geoffrey patted her arm absentmindedly. ‘My pleasure.’
‘Where will the marriage take place?’ Henry Charlton’s eyes became crafty. ‘It is all well and good to agree a marriage, but does he have any intention of actually marrying her? I know how these rakes operate. When do you intend to marry my sister?’
Tristan rubbed his chin. He could see Mrs Charlton’s eyes gleaming. How much did she know? How much of this had been planned? ‘I don’t want banns. It might cause talk.’
‘Let it be a special.’ Mrs Charlton’s eyes lit up. ‘I always wanted my daughter to be married by special licence. So much more status than an ordinary license.’
‘Oh, yes, Mama, a special licence would be splendid.’ Lottie clapped her hands, like a child in a sweet shop. ‘What a wonderful idea. Can you arrange that, Mr Dyvelston?’
‘No special,’ Tristan said through gritted teeth.
‘What are you saying?’ Her bottom lip trembled like a child who had sweets taken away from her. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears. ‘We are going to marry, aren’t we? An ordinary licence, then.’
Tristan looked at where Lottie stood. It would be easy to indulge her when she looked at him like that. He wanted her to go on looking at him like that for the rest of his life, but he was a realist. Lottie Charlton, through no fault of her own, had all the hallmarks of a spoilt child who would grow into a spoilt woman. He knew what sort of trouble a woman like that could cause, if left unchecked. He would marry her, but she needed to be taught a lesson. If he confessed now who he really was, he would always wonder.
Had tonight’s events been fabricated for her benefit? Did she really know who he was and was that the reason she had kissed him so passionately? And asked him to kiss her?
He needed to know; until he discovered the truth, he would keep his identity a secret.
‘Gretna Green is but a few miles from here.’
The entire crowd fell silent.
‘You mean to elope?’ Mrs Charlton’s shawls quivered. ‘You are proposing to elope with my daughter.’
‘It is the most sensible solution in the circumstances,’ Sir Geoffrey said, giving a decisive nod. ‘I will vouch for this man’s honour, madam.’
‘My sister is to elope? Married under Scottish law?’ Henry Charlton’s face expanded and he bore a distinct resemblance to a walrus. ‘Do you know what you are on about, man?’
‘I have agreed to do the decent thing and marry the woman, but it will be at Gretna Green, and not in some church wedding.’ Tristan straightened his cuffs. ‘It will save gossip.’
He took great pleasure in watching Henry Charlton’s mouth open, but have no sound come out. Three times he started to say something, but somehow the words would not appear. He tried jabbing with a finger. ‘You…you bounder. You will create a scandal if you marry her in that fashion.’
‘I have agreed to marry your sister. I am hardly a bounder. And there is already a scandal of sorts.’ Tristan gave a shrug. ‘I am sorry if the terms of my offer are not to your liking, but there they are. You must decide which is the greater scandal—your sister unwed but kissed, or your sister married at Gretna Green.’
‘But…’
‘You must decide. Or, better yet, let your sister decide. It is her life and reputation we are discussing.’
‘I suppose you do have a point.’ Henry Charlton gave a harrumph. ‘Carlotta?’
Tristan watched Lottie. What would she do? Would she risk it? A wild exultation grew within him. The risk. The gamble. What would she choose?
‘Thank you for allowing me to make the choice, Henry.’ Lottie came forward and tucked her hand into Tristan’s. He glanced down at her, impressed with her dignity in the face of her brother’s blustering and her mother’s shrieking. She appeared to have accepted her fate. ‘Mr Dyvelston is correct. Banns and the like will simply point to a harum-scarum marriage. I will make a runaway match. Far more romantic.’
Chapter Four
‘Not the watercolours, Lottie. And only one satchel, you heard Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie’s mother hurried into the room where Lottie sat packing. ‘You will need a complete new wardrobe now that you are married. I dare say that he plans to buy it. It is the best way.’
Lottie tucked the watercolours and brushes into her bag. The first words her mother had said to her were a complaint. ‘I heard Mr Dyvelston the first time, Mama, and I intend to paint on my wedding trip. I am being practical.’
‘You have dashed all my hopes and plans for your future.’ Her mother gave a loud sniff. ‘And now all you can talk of is painting. Have you no consideration for my nerves? For what you have done to your brother? To me? You were supposed to wed a titled man. It was to be the culmination of everything.’
‘I am getting married, Mama. He is connected to a title.’
‘Yes, but will anyone know? I should never have let Sir Geoffrey sway me. I should have insisted on a proper marriage.’ Her mother buried her face in a handkerchief. ‘Lucy warned me that you would come to a bad end with your tricks and you have. You are a lucky woman that Mr Dyvelston turned out to be a gentleman. Goodness knows what you were thinking…Sir Geoffrey had made an offer for you. How could you do this to me?’
Lottie slammed another pair of stockings into the satchel. She refused to dignify her mother’s remark with a reply.
‘Well, Carlotta, what do you have to say for yourself? How can you explain away what you did? The man has no title, nothing to recommend him. Why did you kiss him?’
‘You were quite prepared to marry me off to Jack Stanton.’
‘Lottie, you ungrateful child!’ Her mother gave a sharp intake of breath, went white and she waved her hand in front of her face, choking. ‘My medicine, Lottie.’
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Michelle Styles
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesA kiss, a carriage ride, a hasty wedding!Carlotta Charlton can’t wait for her first season – until her impulsive behaviour lands her right in the lap of notorious rake Tristan, Lord Thorngrafton! Tristan is cynically convinced that she’s a fortunehunter. But he can’t keep away from her. Several heated kisses lead to scandal and, one outraged mama later, they’re on their way to Gretna Green.Catching his breath on the carriage ride to the border, Tristan decides it’s time that Lottie learns her lesson. If she wants to play with fire, he’ll notch up his seduction and set her ablaze!
Tristan lowered his mouth, captured hers.
A feather-light touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her.
‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, pulling his head down to hers, whispering against his firm mouth. ‘One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.’
He lowered his mouth again, and this time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot, pulsating waves.
Her breasts strained against the confines of her corset. Ached. She felt the material give and his cool fingers slide against her fevered skin. She sighed and parted her lips, drunk on the scent of him. His lips trailed down her neck, tasted her skin, and began to slowly travel lower.
‘Unhand that woman, you…you cad!’
Although born and raised near San Francisco, California, Michelle Styles currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she has always been interested in history, and a historical romance is her idea of the perfect way to relax. She is particularly interested in how ordinary people lived during ancient times, and in the course of her research she has learnt how to cook Roman food as well as how to use a drop spindle. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch. Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.
Recent novels by the same author:
THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR
A NOBLE CAPTIVE
SOLD AND SEDUCED
THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER
(part of Christmas by Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE
Dear Reader
This story came about because my daughter loved and adored a secondary character in A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER. She begged and pleaded that Lottie Charlton needed to have her own story, and so, wishing to keep peace and harmony within my family, I agreed. It turned out to be a real pleasure to write, and I am delighted that it will be published during Mills & Boon’s centenary year.
As ever, I love getting reader feedback, either via post to Mills & Boon, my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com
All the best
Michelle
AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE
Michelle Styles
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For the students and teachers of Crystal SpringsUplands School, class of 1982, in particular for thehead of the English Department—Mrs Norma Fifer. Truly an inspirational teacher.
Chapter One
1847 Haydon Bridge, Northumberland
‘I kept my promise, Father.’ Tristan Dyvelston, the new Lord Thorngrafton, placed his hand on his father’s grave and his fingers touched the smooth black marble, tracing his father’s name. He glanced down at the weed-infested grave.
‘Your brother has died,’ he said solemnly, repeating the vow he had made on this very spot ten years ago. ‘I have returned to take the title. I will be above reproach now. But while my uncle was alive I wanted him to think the worst about me and to fear for the future of his beloved title.’
He bowed his head and stepped back from the grave. One part of his oath was complete.
The late morning sunlight broke through the cloud and illuminated the ruins for a single glorious moment, making it seem like he had stepped into one of John Martin’s more evocative paintings. Tristan tightened his grip on his cane. Here was no picture to be admired. The scene showed how much had to be done. How much would be done.
He was under no illusion about the enormity of his task. His parents’ graves lay under a tangled mass of nettles and brambles. In the ten years since he had last been here, the entire churchyard had fallen into decay, echoing the state of Gortner Hall, some fifteen miles away. He would put that right, eventually. His uncle was no longer there to object.
He traced the lettering on his mother’s grave. How would the county greet the return of the black sheep? He had heard the tales his uncle had spread—the gossip, the scandal and the plain twisting of the facts. His uncle had sought to deny him everything but the title and the entailed estate, a dry husk, long starved of any funds. Tristan took great pleasure in confounding his expectations.
The clicking of a gate caused him to turn. Irritated.
A blonde woman with a determined expression on her face tiptoed into the churchyard, glanced furtively about and raised a shining object into the air. The sunlight glinted on it, sending a beam of light to dance on the yew trees. Tristan relaxed slightly. She was not someone he had ever encountered before and therefore was unlikely to recognise him. But there was something about the way the petite woman held her head that intrigued him.
Why would anyone come here?
She wrinkled her nose, fiddled with the object again and finally gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘I told Cousin Frances that a moonlight aspect would work better than a Gilpin tint, and I was correct. She will have to retract her scornful words. The church could be romantic in the moonlight. One would have to imagine the hooting owl, but it could be done. It could be painted.’
Tristan jumped and considered how best to respond to the statement. Then he gave an irritated frown as he realised that the woman was not speaking to him. He regarded her for another instant as she peered intently at the object in her hand. He gave a wry smile as he realised the object’s identity—a Claude glass, a mirror that prettified the landscape and allowed the viewer to see it at different times of the year, or hours of the day, simply through changing the tinted glass. It all made sense. She had come in search of landscapes.
If he was lucky, it would be just the Claude glass and a few ladies to coo and ahh at the ruins. If he was unlucky, they would have brought their watercolour paints, brushes and easels, the better to capture the romantic ruins. He lifted his eyes towards heaven. God preserve him from ladies wielding Claude glasses, their pursuit of culture and their self-righteous indignation that others should not share their same view of the world, interrupting his first chance to pay his respects to his parents. Tristan frowned. Not if he acted first.
‘Precisely how many more of you are there?’ he asked, making sure his voice carried across the disused churchyard. ‘How many more are there in the horde?’
The woman spun around, her mouth forming an O. She had one of those fashionable china-doll faces—blue eyes and pink cheeked in a porcelain oval. The lightness of her complexion was highlighted against the darkness of the yew hedge, giving her almost an angelic appearance, but there was a sensuousness about her mouth, a hint of slumbering passion in her eyes. Her well-cut walking dress hinted at her rounded curves as well as revealing her tiny waist. A temptress rather than a blue stocking.
‘You are not supposed to be here,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips and gesturing with her Claude glass. ‘Nobody ever comes here. Cousin Frances told me emphatically— Haydon Church is always deserted.’
‘Your cousin was obviously mistaken. I am here.’
‘My cousin dislikes admitting mistakes, but she will be forced to concede this time.’ The woman hid her mouth behind her hand and gave a little laugh. ‘She much prefers to think that since she has her nose in a book all the time, she knows rather more than me. But she can be blind to the world around her, the little details that make life so interesting and pleasant.’
‘And you are not? Looking at the world through a mirror can give a distorted view.’
‘I am using both my eyes now.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you up to no good? Cousin Frances says that often you meet the nefarious sort in churchyards. It says so in all the novels she reads. It is why she refused to visit.’
‘But she thinks it deserted.’
‘Except for the desperate. Are you desperate?’
‘I am visiting my parents’ graves.’
‘You are an orphan!’ The woman clasped her gloved hands together. ‘How thrilling. I mean, it’s perfectly tragic and all that, but rather romantic. What is it like not to have family considerations? Or expectations? Is it lonely being an orphan?’ Her face sobered. ‘How silly of me. If it wasn’t lonely, you wouldn’t be visiting your parents and attempting to derive some small amount of comfort from their graves.’
‘There is that.’ Tristan allowed the woman’s words to flow over him, a pleasing sound much like a brook.
She came over and stood by him, peering at the ground. ‘You should tend their graves better. They are swamped in nettles and brambles. It is the right and proper thing to do. An orphan should look after his parents’ graves.’
‘I intend to. I have only recently returned from the continent after a long absence.’ Tristan stared at her with her ridiculous straw bonnet and cupid’s-bow mouth. Right and proper? Who was she to lecture him?
‘That explains the entire situation. You had expectations of another’s help, but that person failed you.’ She gave him a beatific smile. ‘Orphans cannot depend on other people. They can only look to themselves.’
‘How very perceptive of you.’
‘I try. I am interested in people.’ She modestly lowered her lashes.
He straightened his cuffs, drew his mind away from the dark smudges her lashes made against her skin. ‘How many more shall be invading my peace? Ladies with Claude glasses have the annoying habit of travelling in packs, intent on devouring culture and the picturesque.’
Her pink cheeks flamed brighter and she scuffed a toe of her boot along the dirt path. ‘I am the only one. And I have never hunted in a pack. You make society ladies sound like ravening beasts, longing to bring men down when, in fact, they are the ones who provide the niceties of civilisation. They make communities thrive. When I think about the good works—’
‘Only you? Are you sure that is prudent?’ Tristan cut off the discussion on good works with a wave of his hand.
Even though Haydon Bridge was rural Northumberland, the woman did not appear the sort who would be allowed to roam free and unaccompanied. Her pink-and-white- checked gown was too well cut and her straw bonnet too new and finely made. Her accent, although it held faint traces of the north-east, was clear enough to indicate she had been trained from an early age by a succession of governesses.
‘I am able to look after myself. I know the value of a well-sharpened hat pin.’
‘You never know what sort of people you might meet.’
‘It is the country, after all, not London or Newcastle.’ Her cheeks took on a rosy hue and she lowered her tone to a confidential whisper. ‘I am aiding and abetting a proposal. At times like these, positive action is required, even if there is an element of risk.’
‘A proposal?’ Tristan glanced over his shoulder, fully expecting to see some puffed-up dandy or farmer advancing towards them. ‘Tell me where the unfortunate man is and I shall beat a hasty retreat.’
‘Not mine. My cousin’s.’
‘The one who is mistaken about graveyards,’ Tristan said, and struggled to keep his face straight. It made a change to speak about things other than the state of Gortner Hall’s leaking roof, the fallow fields and the other ravages that his uncle had wreaked on the estate.
‘That’s right.’ There was a sort of confidence about the woman, the sort that is easily destroyed later in life. ‘All Frances ever does is read Minerva Press novels and sigh about Mr Shepard’s fine eyes and his gentle manner. What is the good with sighing and not acting positively? She needed some help and advice.’
‘Which you have offered…unasked.’
She held up her hand and her body stilled; an intent expression crossed her face. ‘There, can you hear it?’
The sound of a faint shriek wafted on the breeze. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘It sounds as if someone is strangling a cat. Is this something you are concerned about? Should I investigate?’
‘My cousin Frances, actually. She is busy being rescued from the Cruel Sykes burn.’ She tilted her head, listening and then gave a decided nod. The bow of her mouth tilted upwards. ‘Definitely Cousin Frances. We practised the shriek a dozen times and she still managed to get it wrong. She needed to gently shriek, and to grab his arm, but not to claw it. I do hope she has not pulled him in. That would be insupportable. Truly insupportable.’
‘All this is in aid of?’
‘Her forthcoming marriage to Mr Kent Shepard.’
The woman drew a breath and Tristan noticed the agreeable manner in which she filled out her gingham bodice. But he knew she was also well aware of the picture she created. A minx who should be left alone. Trouble. He would make his excuses and depart before he became ensnared in any of her ill-considered schemes.
‘Cousin Frances has to get engaged. She simply has to. Everything in my life depends on it.’
‘Why should it matter to you?’ His curiosity overcame him.
‘I was unjustly banished.’ The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘It was hardly my fault that Miss Emma Harrison kissed Jack Stanton in a sleigh in full view of any passing stranger.’
‘Jack Stanton is well able to look after himself.’ Tristan gave a laugh. His impression had been correct. She was the sort of woman to stay away from. Trouble with a capital T. ‘I hope your friend was not too inconvenienced, but she picked the wrong man to kiss. Jack is a good friend of mine and not given to observing the niceties of society.’
‘Do you?’
‘When the occasion demands. I was born a gentleman. But Jack…is immune to such stratagems. It is amazing the lengths some women will go to.’
‘It all ended happily as they were married, just before Christmas.’ Her eyes blazed as she drew herself up to her full height. ‘You obviously do not know your friends as well as you think you do.’
‘I have been travelling on the Continent. But if it ended happily, why were you banished?’
‘My brother Henry was furious. He turned a sort of mottled purple and sent me out here to Aunt Alice until I could learn to keep my mouth quiet. “Lottie,” he said, “you have no more sense than a gnat,” which was a severely unkind thing to say.’
‘And have you? Learnt to keep your mouth quiet?’
‘Yes.’ Lottie Charlton looked at the elegantly dressed man lounging against a yew tree with exasperation. Who was he with his dark eyes and frowning mouth to sit judgement on her? He was not her brother or any sort of relation. She snapped the Claude glass shut and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow her. ‘I have, but Henry refuses to answer any of my impassioned pleas. He ignores me. And Mama is being no help at all. She keeps going on about her nerves and how unsettling family disagreements are, but she refuses to do anything.’
‘And you dislike being ignored, forced to the margins.’
Lottie retained a check on her temper—barely. They were not even formally introduced and already this man had picked her character to shreds. ‘This is my best chance, my only chance, to get back to Newcastle this season. I know it is. My dream of a London Season has vanished for the moment, but there are appearances to maintain. And some day I shall visit all the great cities—London, Paris and Rome. I plan to be the toast of them all.’
‘How so? Haydon Bridge is very far from these places.’ The man lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed with the brilliance of her scheme.
‘I am well aware of geography.’ Lottie pressed her hands together. She had to remain calm. ‘Aunt Alice will have undying gratitude to me if I arrange this marriage between Cousin Frances and Mr Shepard. Mr Shepard has been making sheep’s eyes at Cousin Frances for weeks now, and the only thing Cousin Frances can do is blush and readjust her pince-nez.’
‘And you are an expert in these matters.’ His eyes travelled slowly down her and Lottie fought against the impulse to blush. ‘You look all of seventeen.’
‘Twenty in a month’s time. My sister-in-law sent me the Claude glass for an early birthday present. It is quite the rage, you know.’
‘Nineteen is not a great age.’ A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his features. Darkly handsome, she believed it was called, like one of those heroes in Cousin Frances’s Minerva Press novels. ‘When you are my age, you will see that.’
‘And your age is?’
‘Thirty-one. Old enough to know interference in matters of the heart brings unforeseen consequences.’ The words were a great finality. Lottie frowned and decided to ignore his remark.
‘I helped to arrange several proposals last season in Newcastle. Proper ones as well, and not the dishonourable sort.’ Lottie resisted the urge to pat her curls. ‘I can number at least seven successful matches that I have helped promote.’
‘Including the one that sent you here.’
‘If you are going to be rude, I shall leave.’ Lottie lifted her skirt slightly and prepared to flounce off. The man made her brilliant stratagem sound like a crime, like she was intent on ruining someone. Newcastle was not London, but at least there remained a chance of meeting someone eligible. It was the most prosperous city in the whole of the British Empire, everyone knew that. ‘You must not say things like that. I have helped. Martha Dresser and her mother showered me with compliments when I brought Major Irons up to snuff.’
‘Don’t mind me. It is one of my more irritating habits.’ A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, making him seem much younger. ‘Your scheme appears to be full of holes. And I doubt you would know the difference between a proposal and a proposition.’
‘I know all about those. One learns these things, if one happens to possess golden curls, a reasonable figure and a small fortune in funds.’
‘I will take your word for the funds. I can clearly see the other two.’ His dark eyes danced. ‘I agree that they can be a heady concoction for some men.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Lottie began ticking off the points. ‘One has to be wary of the inveterates who stammer out marriage proposals at the sight of a well-trimmed ankle, the cads who try to get you into corners and steal a kiss, the let-in-pockets who only have an eye to one’s fortune and clearing their vowels. I have encountered them all. But I am quite determined to be ruthless. Mama wants a title.’
‘A title can be a difficult proposition. What makes you positive that you can snare one? What sort of mantraps do you intend on laying? It can take great skill and cunning to succeed when so many are in pursuit.’
Impossible man. He made it seem like she was some sort of predator. Lottie stuck her chin in the air and prepared to give the coup de grâce. ‘I have rejected Lord Thorngrafton. He positively begged for my hand last November.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton? The elderly Lord Thorngrafton?’ The man went still and something blazed in his eyes. The air about him crackled.
‘Not so very elderly.’ Lottie kept her gaze steady. She refused to be intimidated. As if the only titled men who might be interested in her were on their last legs or blind in both eyes! ‘Around about your age and you are hardly in your dotage.’
‘When did he propose to you?’ The man leant forward, every particle appeared coiled, ready to spring. ‘I would like to know. It is most intriguing. I have been on the Continent until recently and am unaware of certain recent events.’
‘Shortly before Christmas.’ Lottie gave a small shrug and wished she had thought to bring her parasol. She would have liked to have spun it in a disdainful fashion. ‘However, I do not think the proposal genuine as Mama never remarked upon it. I rather fancied it was the sort where the gentleman expects you to fall into his lap like a ripe peach, perfect for the plucking and tasting, but easily forgotten.’
‘You’d be right there.’ The man’s eyes became hooded and his shoulders relaxed. ‘I do not believe Lord Thorngrafton intends to wed any time soon. I should not try any of your tricks with him.’
‘Are you acquainted with Lord Thorngrafton? Is he another of your friends that you have misplaced while you were on the Continent?’ Lottie narrowed her eyes, peering at him more closely. Silently she cursed her wayward tongue. He did look like Lord Thorngrafton, if she half- closed her eyes. But this man had a wilder air about him. She would swear that he moved like a panther that she had once heard about at the Royal Zoological Society in London. ‘You look somewhat similar—dark black hair, same eyes, but he was shorter, more squarely built. He had fat, doughy hands and he spoke with a slight lisp.’
A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw and a cold prickling sensation trickled down the back of Lottie’s neck. What had Lord Thorngrafton ever done to this man?
‘We are acquainted. Relations.’
‘And you are?’ Lottie clutched her reticule tighter to her bosom. She knew the information should make her feel more secure, but somehow, it didn’t. The man knew both Jack Stanton and Lord Thorngrafton, but that did not mean a thing.
‘Tristan Dyvelston,’ he said and his dark eyes flared with something.
Tristan Dyvelston. The name rang in Lottie’s ears. She glanced about her and the giant yews began to press inwards, hemming her in. The notorious Tristan Dyvelston. Cousin Frances, in one of her more expansive moods, had whispered about him and the scandals he had left in his wake. She peered more closely at the weed-choked graves and picked out the Dyvelston name. The tale on balance was true. Why would anyone pretend to be Tristan Dyvelston? Even after ten years, the wisps of scandal clung to his name. A scandal so great that Frances only knew the barest of details.
She made a pretence of straightening her skirt. Life’s little problems were never solved through panic. She had to find a way to retreat in a dignified manner. She doubted if society’s rules and niceties would constrain Tristan Dyvelston. He would take, and pay no regard to the consequences. That was a woman’s job—looking towards the consequences of her actions.
‘But he went to the Continent, pursued by several angry husbands.’ The words slipped out. She wet her lips, drew a deep breath. ‘Are you funning me? Who are you really?’
‘Tristan Dyvelston.’ A faint hint of amusement coloured his dark features. ‘I have returned…from the Continent. It is no longer necessary for me to be there.’
‘But the scandal.’ Lottie made a small gesture. ‘The shame, the dreadful, terrible shame. Those poor women. Cousin Frances was most particular on the shame.’
‘She knew what she was on about, the lady I left with. And I use the word lady lightly.’ Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth turned down and his face took on the appearance of marble. ‘No husband pursued me. I believe he was thankful to get rid of the encumbrance of his wife. The affair cooled before we reached Calais. Last seen, the woman in question had found solace in the arms of an Italian count.’
Lottie measured the distance between herself and the gate. She wanted to appear sophisticated and unconcerned, but if she was caught here alone in the company of a notorious womaniser, any hope of regaining a social life would be gone. She might as well learn to do tatting and resign herself to looking after Henry and Lucy’s children. She had to leave. Immediately.
‘An Italian count—imagine that. Really, it has been very pleasant speaking with you, but I must be going…’
‘And here I thought we were having a pleasant conversation.’ He took a step closer to her. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he understood precisely why she had decided to depart. ‘I regret that I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t. I have seen all that I came for. I will return one day with my paints. There is a certain melancholy air about this place.’ She cautiously took a step backwards, then another; her foot slipped and a bramble snaked around her boot, holding her fast.
She attempted to free herself but only succeeded in catching the skirt of her dress. And it would have to be her new checked gingham. Fine lawn. Easily torn. She could hear Frances’s clucking and Aunt Alice’s sighing now. Then there would be explanations, ones she did not want to make. The dreaded Carlotta would be used in terrible tones. Carlotta—a name more suited to her aunt in Alnmouth than her.
Lottie shivered slightly and redoubled her efforts, wincing as a thorn pricked her through her glove. Her reticule with the Claude glass dropped to the ground with a slight crash. Lottie cursed under her breath. Everything was going wrong.
‘Allow me, Miss Lottie.’ Tristan Dyvelston bent down, and his long fingers caught her ankle, held it firm, while his other hand freed her from the bramble. He handed her the reticule and Lottie clutched it to her bosom. ‘No harm done and no need for unladylike utterances.’
‘You know my name.’ Lottie stilled, the reticule dangling precariously from her fingertips.
‘You said it earlier.’ He stood up, but did not move away from her. ‘You should be more cautious.’
‘Is this a warning?’ Lottie’s heart began to pound in her ears. He was very close. Earlier she had failed to notice the breadth of his shoulders or his height. She wondered how she had failed to do so. Wondered briefly what it would be like to be clasped in his arms, and she knew this was why he had his scandalous reputation.
‘An observation from one who has lived a bit longer than you.’ He looked at her. ‘I have met women like you before. They need to learn life’s lessons.’
‘And do you propose to teach me them?’ Lottie crossed her arms and forced her back straight. She gave her curls a little toss. They were back on familiar ground. She had endured such propositions before, although none given in such a warm voice. She supposed he practised it, but a small part of her wanted that voice to be just for her.
‘Do you wish me to?’ His eyes blazed with an inner fire. ‘Forgive me, but it is dangerous thing to do—provoking a man when you are quite without a chaperon.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Dyvelston—’ Lottie inclined her head ‘—we travel in different circles, but that line has been tried on me at least four times. You are not the first to use it and no doubt will not be the last. I may give the impression of being a silly blonde, but I am not. I might be not as sophisticated as some, but I can take care of myself. I have no intention of learning life’s lessons from one such as you. Or indeed any of your kind.’
He raised both eyebrows. ‘You speak in a very forthright manner for one who is barely out of the school room.’
‘Men such as you are an occupational hazard.’ Lottie smoothed the folds of her dress. A cold fury swept over her. Why was it that men expected women to swoon when confronted with something? Or to recoil in horror? Flirtations were fine, but men always went that little bit beyond. She cleared her throat and assumed an air of haughty superiority. ‘The agreed answer is that I am quite satisfied with my life at present, so thank you for the honour, but no. I shall wait until I receive the perfect proposal.’
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as if her words amused him. Amusement! How dare he!
‘And having received this set-down, I am supposed to walk away, and not gather you up in my arms. Is that what they taught you?’ He paused and his hand brushed her gloved one, sending tingles throughout her body. ‘Or would you rather a demonstration?’
‘A demonstration?’ The word emerged as a high-pitched squeak. Lottie held up her reticule like a shield. But she was torn between the knowledge that propriety demanded that she should flee, and the desire to stay and see what he might do. What would it be like to be held in the arms of a man who knew what he was doing? ‘I have no wish for you to demonstrate anything.’
‘Don’t you?’ The words wrapped around her like a silken rope and held her.
Slowly Lottie shook her head, but she watched Tristan Dyvelston’s smile increase. Lottie took two steps backwards. Perhaps she had made a mistake. The sound of Frances’s shriek was far too distant. She had been overconfident. ‘I will be going now. Straight away.’
He threw back his head, and his laughter startled a wood pigeon out of a tree. Broke the spell. He had intended on frightening her. She wanted the earth to up and swallow her. She had been naive.
‘I fail to see the amusement in this.’
‘Your expression is that of an outraged kitten with spiky hair.’
‘My hair is not spiky.’ Lottie opted for an expression of haughty disdain. ‘I have had odes written to my hair. Lord Thorngrafton sent me an ode about the gold in my curls.’
‘Not from me. Never from me.’ The colours of his eyes changed and she wondered that she had thought them deep black. They appeared full of hidden lights, shifting, dancing. Never the same, but spellbinding to watch. ‘I never write odes to hair. Never write odes at all if I can help it.’
He crossed the distance between them in one stride. His hand brushed her curls. ‘Definitely not spiky. I retract.’
‘Oh.’ Lottie put a hand against her throat. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She parted her lips and closed her eyes. What would it be like to feel his lips against hers? She had only been kissed twice last Season, and neither time had been what she would qualify as a success. They had been somehow dissatisfactory, particularly after she had learnt that Lieutenant Ludlow had gone around trying to catch Caroline, Diana and Leda under the mistletoe as well. She waited, lips pursed and poised.
‘Virtuous virgins hold little attraction, even those with strawberry red lips. You may lower your mouth, Miss Lottie, and next time, wait.’
Lottie opened her eyes and hurriedly lowered her chin. She could feel the heat beginning to rise on her cheeks. A mocking smile twisted his mouth and his face became like carved marble.
‘Do they indeed?’ she asked in her frostiest tone as she drew her body up to her full height.
‘Too many complications. Too many considerations.’ He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.
Lottie released the air from her lungs. She should be relieved, but a small stab of regret ran through her. She had wanted to experience his arms holding her. ‘You make me sound positively frumpish. Highly unattractive.’
‘Not plain. Just a young lady who is far too aware of her charms and wants to play games, dangerous games that lead where neither party is prepared to go.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Women such as you provide complications, complications any sensible man would be well advised to give a wide berth, if he wished to retain his place in society. Even among my kind, we have a certain honour. I prefer someone who knows how to play the game.’
Lottie inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dyvelston. It has been enlightening.’
‘Until we meet again, Miss Lottie.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘One never knows. When you are older, perhaps…’
He captured her hand, raised it. His lips brushed the exact point where her glove gapped, and touched her naked flesh for the briefest of instants. It seared through her.
Lottie jerked back her hand, and fled to the echoing sound of laughter. She ran straight into Frances, who wore the look of a disgruntled hen as she squelched along the lane. Her straw bonnet dripped muddy water.
‘Ah, Cousin Carlotta, at last we discover you.’
‘I was regarding the old church through my Claude glass.’ Lottie held up her reticule with a smile. How many times had she told Frances that she hated the name Carlotta? And how many times had her cousin ignored the request? Her hand went around the reticule. She winced as she realised that she had dropped the Claude glass and returning to the ruins was impossible. Not while Tristan Dyvelston was there. ‘The moonlit aspect was quite unusual. I shall have to show you some time.’
‘You mean now?’ Cousin Frances held her hands as an alarmed expression crossed her face.
‘Impossible, Fanny dear, as you appear a bit damp and I have no wish for you to catch a chill.’
‘I hate the name Fanny.’
Lottie gave a small smile. ‘I always have difficulty remembering that.’
‘We thought we heard voices, Miss Charlton, just now.’ Mr Shepard’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He appeared to have a very damp, dead sheep look about him and Lottie was positive that she detected a tinge of pink to Frances’s cheeks. ‘Yours and someone else’s.’
‘Yes, a male voice, Cousin, and yours answering him.’ Frances gave her a piercing glance. ‘Is there anyone of our acquaintance there?’
‘How did you find the bridge at Cruel Sykes burn?’ Lottie asked quickly. They had to get away from here before Mr Dyvelston appeared with a sardonic twist to his lips. When Frances was in one of her moods, everything would come out. Then she would never get back to Newcastle. ‘Was it easy to cross?’
‘Wet,’ Frances replied. ‘Very wet. Cold and slippery.’
‘Miss Frances fell in.’ Kent Shepard puffed himself up. ‘I had to rescue her.’
Lottie did not miss the slight change of name. Some good had come of this afternoon after all. Her scheme showed definite positive signs.
The golden portals of society and triumph beckoned. Tristan was wrong. She glanced behind her at the seemingly empty churchyard, biting her lip. As long as her little encounter went undiscovered. It had to go undiscovered. No one would believe that a notorious rake like Mr Dyvelston had gone to the churchyard of his own volition. He supped with the devil, according to Cousin Frances.
Why was it that the attractive men were always among the most unsuitable?
Lottie gave automatic answers as the conversation turned towards pleasantries about the weather. Her hand went to the place his lips had touched her wrist. She shivered involuntarily. She had had a lucky escape. Mr Dyvelston represented danger and she had best remember it. She would lead the sort of life that her mother and Henry wanted her to, if only she could return to civilisation. It was her destiny. She knew it.
Tristan watched her go. He heard her bright laugh and artless explanation and then turned back to his parents’ graves. A small case winked up at him. He reached down and pocketed it.
There was very little point in going after the woman now. Tristan closed his eyes. He had lied when he’d said that Lottie’s hair was ordinary. It was the colour of spun gold. He could see how men could have their heads turned. But there was something else about her. Something that called to him.
‘We will meet again, Lottie, you and I. And on my terms,’ he said, fingering the Claude glass and staring down at the village. ‘But first I need to determine who the false Thorngrafton is.’
Chapter Two
‘I had expected my sister to be here.’ The sound of Henry’s pompous voice greeted Lottie as she entered Aunt Alice’s house. ‘You know, Aunt, what sort of mischief Lottie can get into when left to her own devices. It is precisely this sort of thing that I warned you about.’
Her aunt’s soothing reply was muffled behind the door to the parlour.
Typical, Lottie thought, the one time her brother decided to make the journey here, she was out, gallivanting across the country with an ungrateful Cousin Frances. It could have been worse. Frances could have spotted her with Mr Dyvelston. But Frances showed a singular lack of interest in her whereabouts or in the church. And nothing had happened, nothing at all.
Lottie’s fingers explored the underside of her wrist. The imprint of his touch still burnt her flesh. What was it about that one particular man? Was it the danger he represented?
‘Do you have any idea of when she might return?’ Henry’s pompous voice brought her back to reality with a bump. ‘I have business to attend to and cannot wait around for ever. The train leaves for Gilsland in two hours. And there is not another one until morning.’
‘Henry, is that you? Are Lucy or Mama with you?’ Lottie called out as she removed her gloves and bonnet with trembling fingers. Why was her brother here? Had something happened? She would be brave.
‘Ah, Lottie, you make an appearance.’ Henry turned from her aunt and Lottie was surprised to see how fat he had grown. ‘Come and greet me. What do you have to say to your brother?’
He had a well-fed look like a trained seal. If anything, the last five months had made him sleeker and fatter. She noticed he wore normal clothes and not mourning ones. Lottie gave a sigh of relief, thanking God for small mercies.
‘You should have sent word, and I would have been here.’
‘I had expected you would be here, doing your needlework or making another one of those pincushion mottos that you and my wife are enamoured with.’
‘Why?’ Lottie blinked rapidly and refused to let his cutting words hurt. She would have been here, sitting, doing needlework if only he had let her know. ‘We keep different hours in the country. I went for a stroll with my cousin. The fresh air is reputed to be good for most constitutions. You should try it some time.’
Henry harrumphed. ‘I suppose there is no harm in a quiet walk.’
‘Now, tell me, Henry what is the news?’ Lottie came forwards and caught her brother’s hands. ‘How are Mama, Lucy and the children? They send letters, but it is not the same as hearing it. I do miss them so. Do say they are all well and that you are not here because of them.’
‘Lucy sends her regards. The children are well, or so Lucy tells me.’ Henry’s face softened. ‘Mama has gone to Gilsland Spa for the waters.’
Lottie concentrated on her aunt’s patterned Turkey carpet. It could be that this was her best chance, far better than the marriage plans for Frances and Mr Shepard. She had to show that she had learnt from her exile. ‘Is my dear sister-in-law planning to come out to Haydon Bridge? There are some fine walks around here. I can tell her the legend of Cruel Sykes burn and she can look for the blood in the water.’
‘Yes, Carlotta and I went to the Cruel Sykes burn today.’ Frances nodded and her cheeks flamed to a bright pink. ‘It is quite a pleasant walk. I nearly fell in the burn, but Mr Shepard rescued me. Fished me out.’
‘I had no idea that Mr Shepard had accompanied you.’ Aunt Alice’s voice was chilling. ‘Who arranged this?’
‘He did not accompany us, exactly, Mama. We met him on the pathway and Carlotta suggested that he walk with us for a while.’
‘One can hardly be rude to one’s acquaintances, someone one has been formally introduced to.’ Lottie shifted uneasily. Perhaps she should have discovered Aunt Alice’s feelings towards Kent Shepard first, beyond noticing the warmth with which he was greeted at church.
‘Niece, are you going to explain further?’ Her aunt tapped her fan against the small table. ‘Is this some new scheme of yours? Why precisely did Mr Shepard join you and my daughter? Had he experienced difficulty with one of his cows? Goodness knows I have tried many topics with Mr Shepard but he always returns to his irksome cattle and their breeding.’
‘Our paths crossed,’ Lottie said, trying to forestall more of Frances’s confidences. From the thunderous look on Aunt Alice’s face, she was beginning to think that perhaps she had been mistaken. Perhaps Aunt Alice had not wanted the match for Frances. ‘And I…that is…we suggested that he might like to join us. He appeared quite willing to do so and in a jovial mood.’
‘Yes, yes, Carlotta made the suggestion. Mr Shepard is very good at rescuing, Mama.’
‘Ah, and did he rescue you from the burn as well, Carlotta?’ Her aunt gave her an icy stare, one that caused her to shift uneasily in her boots.
Suddenly Lottie was very aware of the glaring and obvious flaws in her matchmaking scheme, fundamental flaws that she should have anticipated. She could not lie, but to tell the full truth would invite disaster. She had no wish to explain about Tristan Dyvelston, and the kiss on her wrist.
‘You might well ask that, but the truth is…’
‘Niece, none of your smoked gammon and pickles for me. You appeared to have outgrown the tendency once you were away from your mother and under an altogether steadier influence. Did or did not Mr Shepard fish you out of the burn?’ Aunt Alice raised her spectacles. And her piercing gaze appeared to look into the depths of Lottie’s soul. ‘You are rather less damp than my daughter. Your clothing shows no sign of being rumpled.’
‘No.’ Lottie kept her chin high, but she swallowed hard. How was she going to explain this away, particularly as Henry had put Aunt Alice into one of her moods? ‘He did not.’
‘He couldn’t.’ Frances gave a high-pitched giggle that echoed around the room. ‘She wasn’t there.’
Lottie heard her aunt’s little screech of horror and wished the floor would open up. Why had she ever considered that today could be called a good day?
‘Was not there?’ Her aunt’s voice sounded like a church bell tolling out a funeral march. ‘Why not there? You depart together. You come back together. But Lottie was not with you at the burn when Mr Shepard oh so gallantly fished you out.’
‘Lottie, what were you doing?’ Henry thundered. ‘Are you up to your old tricks? I warned you.’
‘I had gone to look at the old church’s ruins with the Claude glass that Lucy sent me as an early birthday present and I could have sworn they were right behind me.’ Lottie opened her eyes, and used the slightly singsong voice she adopted whenever her mother accused her of anything untoward. ‘It was only when I arrived that I discovered my mistake. They had taken the turning to Cruel Sykes burn. Seeing that I was there, I had a look about the church… Cousin Frances had extolled its virtues as a…subject for a watercolour…’
She glanced between Aunt Alice and Henry to see if they were going to accept the story. Cousin Frances made encouraging noises about the Claude glass.
‘Mr Shepard and Cousin Frances soon caught up with me.’ Lottie wiped her hand across her mouth and hoped. ‘And that is all to the story. A simple misunderstanding.’
‘Carlotta Charlton,’ her brother thundered, ‘how could you do such a thing!’
‘We were right behind Lottie. Only but a moment, once we realised there had been a mistake,’ Frances agreed, nodding vigorously, impressing Lottie with the way she entered into the spirit of the thing. Perhaps she had mistaken Frances’s intentions. Perhaps they could become friends. ‘Mr Shepard thought he heard voices. Lottie’s and a man’s.’
Lottie put her hands over her ears and turned her head away as everyone began to speak at once. No, definitely not friends.
‘That settles it, then.’ Her brother’s tone boomed out over the rest.
‘Settles what?’ Lottie asked into the sudden silence.
‘Haydon Bridge has singularly failed to curb your wayward tendencies.’
Lottie curled her fingers as she tried to suppress the wave of hurt that washed over her. ‘I think you are being harsh, Brother. I have led an exemplary life. Ask Aunt Alice, or Cousin Frances.’
‘Carlotta Charlton, you have been attempting to do mischief, serious mischief.’ Henry stabbed his forefinger into the air. ‘I told you at Christmas, I have had enough of your minx tricks! You treat your reputation with a casual contempt and a woman without a reputation might as well not live. Polite society certainly will not recognise her.’
‘I…I am entirely innocent,’ Lottie said through gritted teeth as Cousin Frances gaped, opening and closing her mouth like some demented cod fish. Right at that instant, she was not entirely certain whom she hated more— Cousin Frances, Mr Shepard or Tristan Dyvelston.
‘It is no matter.’ Henry brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his frock coat. ‘Mama is determined that her daughter will marry a title. There is no reasoning with her. You know what she is like with her enthusiasms.’
‘I am hardly likely to catch an aristocrat in Haydon Bridge.’
‘True, true.’ Henry gave an exaggerate sigh. ‘Mama has been bending my ear about the very subject. I had hopes when she left to take at the waters at Gilsland Spa that she would be distracted, but her experience has only served to renew her determination. She has sent me letter after letter on the subject. Hardly a post goes by without yet another epistle arriving.’
‘Do you mean to send me to London?’ Lottie felt the room tilt slightly. Perhaps today was not terrible after all. Perhaps everything was a blessing. She attempted to keep the eagerness from her voice. ‘I know I have missed the Queen Charlotte Ball, but a number of events remain in the Season. Mrs Fullen did say that she might be prepared to sponsor me and she is the sister of Lady Rowland. She knows the patronesses of Almack’s.’
‘Lucy considers otherwise. She thinks Mrs Fullen exaggerates about her connection with the patronesses.’
‘Lucy forgets what Mrs Fullen did for Ann Mason only two years ago. Lady Rowland is a respected member of the ton, Henry. I read her antecedents in Burke’s Peerage, Baronetage and Knightage, and if she is in Burke’s…’
Henry held up his hand. ‘I am unprepared to countenance you set loose in London. Lottie, you would be ruined within moments of stepping on a dance floor. Were very nearly, by all accounts, ruined by an unknown man in a deserted churchyard. You have no sense with men, Sister.’
‘Then Newcastle? You are taking me back home.’ Lottie refused to let the disappointment of London bow her spirits. Once she returned to Newcastle’s society, she could work on her mother. Mama would realise the true importance of having a London Season to securing a title.
‘Gilsland Spa where Mama is taking the waters.’
‘Gilsland?’ Lottie’s heart sunk. ‘What is at Gilsland? Who is at Gilsland at this time of year? It is fine for Mama, but does she intend to marry me off to some gouty lord or a creaking count from some unknown European principality?’
‘Lord Thorngrafton currently resides there. He has taken a suite at Shaw’s Hotel, as have several other members of the aristocracy. Mama has sent a list of the titled currently residing there. The prospects quite excite her and I must say that they make for quite intriguing reading. I had never considered Gilsland Spa as a possibility before.’ Henry puffed his chest out. ‘I am given to understand that Lord Thorngrafton was very interested in you at an Assembly ball last autumn, Lottie.’
Aunt Alice gave an audible gasp and Cousin Frances’s eyes gleamed as Lottie gave a sigh of relief. Here at last was an opening.
‘I believed Lord Thorngrafton’s attention was of a dis¬ honourable nature than honourable.’ Lottie settled on the horsehair sofa, crossing her ankles and arranging the folds of her gown. If she could turn Henry’s attention away from Lord Thorngrafton, she might be able to return to Newcastle after all. It was a matter of persuasion, applying the right sort of pressure. He would yield.
‘Our mother believes otherwise. She has had a conversation with the man in question and he remarked on your fine eyes and how much he admired them.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton spent most of last November speaking to my bosom. I do not believe that he once noticed my eyes.’
‘Carlotta!’ her aunt shrieked. ‘Unmentionables in front of Frances! Cover your ears, Daughter!’
‘I have done so, Mama.’
Lottie crossed her arms and glared at them. ‘It is true.’
‘Mama stated in her letter that he asked after you particularly.’ Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not play the sly puss with me, Carlotta. I have it on good authority that Lord Thorngrafton is possessed of a more than agreeable fortune. He saw the possibilities of railways, long before I. He is a business associate of Jack Stanton, a partner in some of his ventures. And you know how rich Stanton is. I have done some investigating.’
‘So rich that Mama would have happily forgone a title.’ Lottie made sure that her smile was sweet. ‘Letter or no, Lord Thorngrafton is up to no good. Why should a titled gentleman possessed of an agreeable fortune wish to ally himself with our family?’
Aunt Alice began to fan herself rapidly at the outburst as Henry’s face turned a sort of mottled purple.
‘Explain yourself!’
‘I simply feel there are other better places where I could go.’
‘You do, do you?’ Henry jabbed his finger at her. ‘Let me tell you this, Miss Butter Would Not Melt in Her Mouth! Should you fail to bring Lord Thorngrafton up to the mark, I will marry you off to the next person who asks. In fact, I am tempted to marry you off to the next person— Lord Thorngrafton or whomever—after this latest outburst. I have it on good authority that Mr Lynch is currently on the lookout for a wife, or should I say nursemaid, for his brood of seven children.’
Lottie stared at her brother in horror. He could not do that. Could he? She fought against the panic that swept over her, struggling to breathe against the confines of her corset.
‘Where is Mama? Let me speak to her. You cannot do that, Henry. I forbid it. Mama will be distraught when she learns of your unkind and uncharitable attitude.’
‘Mama is at Shaw’s Hotel, waiting for your arrival. And despite Lucy’s misgivings, I must conclude that it is the best place for you. You will catch a titled husband there, so help me God.’
‘Why are you doing this, Henry?’ Lottie asked in a small voice. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘My sister’s marriage is a matter of business. You have two weeks, Lottie. I am not an unkind man, but it is all the time I wish to be away from my family. You and our mother together…’
‘But…but…’
‘Perhaps we send for Mr Lynch now?’
Lottie stared at her brother. Once she had thought him a god, but now she knew he was a hard, unfeeling monster. He did not care for her future happiness, merely for what prestige or power her marriage could bring to him. What business opportunities might arise. Her value on the marriage market. Lottie refused to cry or give way to temper. That, she knew from bitter experience, would not help the situation. She had to be calm. Somehow, she would find a way.
‘I will go,’ she whispered.
‘Good.’ Henry turned his back on her. ‘Now, Aunt, may I have another of your esteemed muffins?’
‘Lottie, dry your eyes.’ Cousin Frances patted her shoulder. ‘Things like this are always happening in my Minerva Press novels and they turn out all right in the end.’
Lottie gave a small hiccup. Somehow, Cousin Frances’s sudden solicitude made everything worse.
‘Time to wake up, Lord Thorngrafton.’ Tristan strode across the darkened room, pulled apart the curtains and let the fresh air enter the wine-soaked room. ‘Or should I say, Cousin Peter? I had wondered who I might find at Shaw’s and had suspected that it might be you.’
The prone figure on the bed groaned, mumbled a few incoherent words before pulling the pillow over his head. ‘Go away. It is the middle of the night.’
‘Time to be up, Peter. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Play time has finished.’ Tristan controlled his fury at his first cousin. ‘Quit your shamming or you will have cause to regret it. Can you give me any reason why I should not summon the parish constable?’
At the mention of the parish constable, the man sat straight up. His florid complexion paled as Tristan regarded his first cousin with a dispassionate eye. There was a vague family resemblance, but nothing remarkable.
‘You…you…you are supposed to be on the Continent. Or, better yet, dead in some alleyway.’ Peter’s hand trembled as he passed it over his eyes. ‘I was sure you would never return to England. And Uncle swore it when I changed my name from Burford to Dyvelston.’
‘Changing a name and being acknowledged as his heir does not change the order of succession, Peter.’
‘I know that, but…’
‘I returned, Cousin, as I promised I would.’ Tristan stared at him. ‘I always keep my promises…unlike some.’
‘Allow me some moments to dress. This is quite a shock to me. You here. Alive.’
‘Not as big of a shock as it was to me to discover that Lord Thorngrafton had been responsible for a variety of actions. What amazes me is how brazen you have been about it.’
His cousin stood up and started to dress.
‘Don’t begrudge me, Tris,’ he said. ‘I thought you dead. I was sure you were dead. Uncle Jeremiah swore it as well. He told me that you were seriously ill in Florence… or was it Venice? Don’t matter, but I didn’t expect you to appear.’
‘Reports of my demise were premature.’ Tristan paused and brushed a speck off his frock coat. ‘And never call me Tris. It implies a familiarity that does not exist between us.’
‘But I am your heir. There ain’t no other and if you were dead…’ Peter ran his hand through his hair. ‘Be fair, Tristan. Uncle’s obituary, of course, made the papers and everyone naturally assumed that I would be the one… Who am I to dissuade them?’
‘And who are you charging all this to?’ Tristan made a sweep of his hand. ‘The best suite at Shaw’s is ruinously expensive.’
‘You need not worry. I only borrowed the title.’ Peter shook his head. ‘I am not that let in the pocket. And one has to speculate to accumulate.’
‘Good use?’
‘Exploring business opportunities…’ Peter gave a practised smile. ‘I have a plan about lead mining, and I just need a little capital. There is a piece of property.’
‘And it has nothing to do with the card game I heard about being arranged at Mumps ha’ not a mile from here. Or the two aged widows Lord Thorngrafton pursued without success last month.’
Peter winced and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. ‘You heard about that.’
‘Certain parties were keen to inform me of this development once I enquired. I am not without friends, Peter.’ Tristan regarded his cousin. ‘I warn you, Peter, the current Lord Thorngrafton will be above reproach, his name unblemished. I intend to restore the estate to its former glory, to undo the damage our uncle did.’
‘But…but scandal dogs your footsteps.’ Peter blinked. ‘It is why you went to the Continent. You killed a man.’
‘He failed to die.’
‘But you shot him.’
‘For cheating at cards. I had had too much to drink and my aim was less than true.’ Tristan gave a cold smile. ‘It has improved. Now your exploits are at an end.’
‘You remind me more and more of Uncle Jeremiah! He had the same aptitude for a chilling phrase. The same ice-cold eye.’
‘Shall I forget we are related?’ Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Please, Tristan, for old time’s sake, let me do this one thing. I have prospects. There are three youngish widows whose heads are turned at the thought of a title. Then there is this businessman, whose mother is impressed with titles, but if I can persuade him to invest in the old lead mine, it will return a thousandfold…’ Peter laid his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. ‘When we were young, we used to help each other out. I helped you escape to the Continent. You can’t deny it. You owe me, Tristan. I was the one who aided you and Suzanne. Made things possible.’
Tristan regarded his cousin. Peter’s body was already starting to run to fat and his face showed a certain thickening. Perhaps the widows and the businessmen deserved what they got. But neither was he ready to forgive Peter’s observation. He and his uncle did not share a temperament.
‘You did indeed. Perhaps I do owe you for that. I recall precisely why I was there as well.’
‘A simple misunderstanding.’ Peter held up his hands and began to speak very quickly as he dressed. ‘It is my best chance of getting the readies I need. I have spent time conversing with the businessman’s mother. She is here taking the waters. He is coming to visit and bringing his sister.’
‘His sister?’
‘She has a small fortune in funds… A week—that is all I want and then I shall never trouble you again.’ Peter’s eyes grew crafty.
‘Who exactly is this businessman?’
‘Henry Charlton. His sister is mad for titles.’ Peter gave a laugh. ‘I had thought to seduce her last November, but she slipped through my fingers. Then her mother appears here, an odious woman with aspirations, and informs me of her daughter’s fortune in funds.’
‘You tried to seduce a number of women last November.’
‘Yes, but they knew what they were on about.’
‘As long as you are sure. Virgins and the like can lead to unforeseen complications.’ Tristan paused. ‘We leave now.’
‘This very instant? But it will take me a time to pack and it is past checking out. I will have to pay for tonight’s room.’
‘That is your problem.’
Peter’s eyes grew crafty. ‘You will need a place to lay your head. Stay here tonight. One night and see if I can’t persuade you to invest. For days gone by. Please.’
Tristan regarded his cousin, with his face pleading. ‘I want no more of this deception. You will put matters right.’
‘If I must…’ Peter’s face showed signs of clear relief.
‘I positively insist. You will follow my lead. Do not attempt to cross me, Peter. The next time, I will forget that you are kin.’
‘Have you memorised the list I gave you, Lottie, so you will know which gentlemen to dance with?’ Her mother grabbed Lottie’s elbow as they descended the stairs at Shaw’s Hotel the next evening. ‘You must make sure that you speak very loudly to Lord Crawley. He is as deaf as a post. And Sir Geoffrey Lea…’
‘Mama, I have read the list and committed it to memory. You have asked me this twice already.’ Lottie fought the temptation to roll her eyes heavenwards.
‘I know how inattentive you can be, Carlotta. This is a serious campaign. I had expected you two days ago.’
‘Aunt Alice sends her apologies, but the packing took time.’
‘Not when I do it.’ Her mother gave a loud sniff and muttered something about the incompetence of sisters-in- law.
Several hours at Shaw’s Hotel and Lottie come to the conclusion that her options were limited. Nearly every person she had encountered was well past the age of fifty or appeared to be suffering from a weak chin and watery eyes. Or both. The only possible glimmer of an idea she had was to steer the men towards other women. If they all found wives, she would be free.
‘But Mama, the men here are more likely to want a nurse than a wife. I will make a very bad nurse.’
‘A young titled widow is always in demand, Lottie. You can marry for other things later.’ Her mother caught Lottie’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, twisting Lottie’s head to the left and right before releasing it. ‘Your looks should hold another five years at least. Plenty of time. You need to think towards the future. I would see you married well.’ Her mother went down the stairs with a determination that Wellington would have admired.
‘Are you sure this neckline is not a touch too low?’ Lottie asked Henry as they followed in her wake. ‘Mama appears to have forgotten the lace. Perhaps I ought to go back.’
‘You never bothered about such things before,’ Henry said. ‘I feel certain that Lord Thorngrafton will appreciate the…dress. Or one of the other gentlemen. I dare say Mama was correct. There are any number of titled widowers here.’
‘They are all about one hundred years old except for Lord Thorngrafton, and I warned you, Henry, about him.’
‘You appear to know a great deal about Lord Thorngrafton all of a sudden.’ Henry frowned. ‘And he has yet to make an appearance.’
‘We encountered each other last November. Martha Irons saved me from disaster with her timely swoon.’ Lottie demurely lowered her eyelashes. ‘But my lace, Henry. Is the neckline not a bit daring? The dress is two seasons old.’
‘It looks lovely from where I stand.’ The low rumble of a voice washed over her. Lottie froze as she felt a hot tide of red flush her face. He was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be safely in Haydon Bridge or wherever rakes went. Certainly not here.
‘Are we acquainted, sir?’ Henry’s voice had become frigid.
‘Tristan Dyvelston.’ Tristan’s voice was cool. ‘Perhaps, Peter, you would be so good to introduce us.’
‘My cousin, Henry, my cousin.’ Peter Dyvelston, Lord Thorngrafton, came forward and caught Henry by the arm. ‘It was my mistake. Tristan, I told you about Henry Charlton and his charming sister, Miss Charlton. Where is your delightful mother? I was looking forward to speaking with her again. We had such an amusing conversation the other night.’
Lottie stared at the impeccably dressed gentleman standing next to Lord Thorngrafton. Her pulse began to race and she struggled to remember how to breathe. She had told herself that she had been mistaken, that Tristan could not be that handsome. But her memory had lied.
He was far more.
The darkness of his frock coat contrasted with his face, and his cream trousers skimmed his figure. But what was he doing here and in the company of Lord Thorngrafton? He had given the impression the other day that he had very little to do with the man. Lottie tightened her grip on her fan and hoped that he would not make any untoward remarks about their last meeting.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie held out a gloved hand, prayed that his lips wouldn’t brush it, then prayed that they would.
Chapter Three
Tristan regarded the trio in front of him. The mother and the brother were types he was used to, but Lottie Charlton in an evening gown was a piece of shimmering blue confection. The form-fitting bodice bowed out at her waist and her petticoats swirled about her ankles in a sea of white foam. Tristan wondered if his hands could span her waist or would there be a gap? Would her flesh feel as warm between his fingers as her wrist had felt against his mouth the other day?
Her ear bobs swayed gently and her blonde ringlets were artfully placed on the top of her head. No expense had been spared. She was obviously angling for a husband, but which one of the geriatrics did she want? And what would happen if she knew his title? Would she use their earlier meeting against him? A pulse of anger ran through him. He would not be so easily ensnared into marriage.
‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance at long last, Miss Charlton. I was confused as to your identity.’ Tristan bowed low over her hand. His breath touched the thin kid of her glove, though Lottie drew back before his lips encountered her palm. But he had seen the slight flaring of her nostrils. ‘I have heard a great deal about you from my cousin.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Lord Thorngrafton has taken a suite of rooms here and my cousin is permitting me to share them.’ Tristan watched the comprehension grow on Peter’s face. The masquerade would continue for tonight, until the precise nature of the situation was clear. It paid to be cautious.
‘How did you get here?’ Lottie asked in a furious undertone, pointedly ignoring his arm. ‘You were in Haydon Bridge looking after your parents’ graves and hopefully feeling remorse at the state you allowed them to get into.’
‘I could ask the same of you.’ His eyes stopped at her neckline and flicked up to her generous mouth. ‘What did you come in search of? A husband? Your gown is admirably suited for the hunt.’
The corners of her mouth turned down and her blue eyes took on a mulish expression. ‘You do take the strangest notions into your head, Mr Dyvelston. Do you always give lectures in this manner?’
‘My cousin is here but for a short while.’ Tristan gestured towards where Peter stood, rapidly expounding on the virtues of lead mining in the district to Lottie’s brother. An unforeseen complication, but one he intended to his advantage. If Lottie discovered his true status, would she tell her mother about the incident in the cemetery? Would the mother use it as an excuse to ensnare him? He refused to take the risk. Peter would keep silent, he was certain of that. ‘I do not feel that he would be good husband material.’
‘And is there anyone you recommend in his place?’ Her tone was light, but her eyes narrowed as she fluttered her fan.
‘I have not been here long enough to advise properly,’ Tristan said, allowing his eyes to dance.
‘You should not assume, then.’ Lottie snapped her fan shut. ‘I declined your cousin’s offer before Christmas.’
‘So you did. I had forgotten.’
‘I am here because my brother brought me.’ Lottie risked a glance at Tristan’s unyielding profile. It irritated her that he thought her so blindingly obvious in her husband-hunting. And if he had made that assumption, how many of the other guests had also come to the same conclusion? Her mother could be terribly indiscreet. ‘My mother is taking the waters. She swears that they do her nerves a power of good. She enjoys the company.’
‘The sulphur water at Gilsland is renowned as is its matchmaking Popping Stone. I believe the numbers are about even.’
Lottie gritted her teeth. ‘My mother desired a bit of company. I shall not be following the footsteps of Sir Walter Scott.’
‘Did everything work out as you had planned for your cousin?’ he asked in an arch tone, seemingly amused rather than quelled by her remark. ‘Is your aunt pleased with your interference in matters matrimonial?’
Lottie examined the pattern of the carpet. He would have to bring that up. ‘I maintain hopes, but I misjudged the situation slightly. It was felt that perhaps I was better off departing as Mama was desirous of me arriving here. I am to be the belle of tonight’s ball, so I understand.’
‘Ah, you are here for the matchmaking.’
‘No, I am here to prove to my mother and brother that I can be trusted. I wish to make my mark in London.’
‘Do you think you will be able to? Many young ladies vie to become to the Incomparable, the Diamond of the Season. The vast majority are condemned to be wallflowers.’
She glanced up and noticed that his dark eyes were fringed with impossibly long lashes, the sort of lashes that were wasted on a man. But his gaze held no malice, only concern. A queer trembling overtook her. He, a near stranger, cared. ‘I think there are other places where I stand a better chance of achieving my goal.’
‘And the goal is…’
‘To make a brilliant match.’ She threw back her shoulders and made sure her eyes danced. ‘And you do not need to worry. I have no designs on your virtuous name. Mama is insistent on a title.’
‘That fact relieves me no end.’ He gave a short laugh.
‘I thought it would.’
‘Who are you hunting?’
‘Mama has made a list, but I fear she has not consulted Burke’s recently and is doomed to disappointment.’ Lottie rubbed her eye, relieved to be explaining the problems. Tristan Dyvelston, at least, was a sympathetic ear and he might have a solution to her problem. ‘I distinctly heard Lord Foster mention a wife and she has him down as a widower. I am not sure if she has been careless or if she simply made a mistake. These things can happen even in the best ordered of campaigns. But it doesn’t really matter as I have no intention of marrying, simply demonstrating to Mama that I can behave properly. There will be no scandals clinging to my skirts.’
‘Sometimes scandals happen whether one is trying to avoid them or not.’
‘What does it feel like to be on the outside of society, Mr Dyvelston?’ Lottie tilted her head to one side, making her smile sweet.
His eyes became a deep black as the barb hit home and he inclined his head. ‘It is a cold and bleak place, Miss Charlton. You would not care for it. And yet women are easily banished there. Too easily.’
Lottie grasped her fan tighter and struggled to breathe against the tightness of her corset.
‘No, I probably would not, but then it is unlikely I shall have to encounter it.’ She gave her ringlets a little toss. ‘I plan to be at the very heart of society. It is my natural place.’
‘Are you determined to marry a title, then? Against the odds?’
‘It is as easy to love a titled man as an untitled one.’ Lottie glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice. ‘One of Mama’s little sayings, and it does seem to mean so much to her. She has aspirations.’
‘So your sights are set on Thorngrafton, as much as you try to deny it. I will warn you for the last time, Miss Charlton, my cousin is not to be trusted. Please consider long and hard if he does make an offer.’
‘His title includes a baronetcy, one of the original ones purchased from Charles I, or so Henry says.’ Lottie tapped her fan against her mouth, suddenly aware that she had perhaps revealed too much. ‘It is an honourable title, but I hope to do better. I want to convince Mama that a London Season is what I need.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Because I have yet to convince my brother.’ Lottie held up her hand. ‘I know what you must think of me. Coldhearted, unemotional and obsessed with titles, Mr Dyvelston, but may I remind you that you are hardly a person to be sitting in judgement.’
‘I never judge my fellow human beings, Miss Charlton.’ A dimple flashed in the corner of his mouth. ‘Particularly when the person in question is as refreshing about her intentions as you.’
Lottie’s breath caught in her throat. Why couldn’t Tristan Dyvelston have a title? It would make life much simpler. She would not have minded setting her cap for him, despite saying otherwise. He was exciting, different. He did not melt at a flutter of her eyelashes, and, more importantly, he did not treat her as an inanimate object or speak exclusively to her breasts. ‘I hardly see any point in pretence, Mr Dyvelston.’
‘Will you save a waltz for me?’
Lottie turned her face towards the corniced ceiling as she tried to resist the sudden quickening of her pulse. A waltz in his arms. ‘If you like…’
‘Lottie, do hurry up. Lottie!’ her mother called. ‘There are a number of people who are desirous of meeting you.’
‘One should always be careful about whom one meets in a hotel, Miss Charlton.’ His eyes held something hidden. ‘There can be no telling if they are the genuine article or not.’
‘One should be careful about whom one meets in a ruined churchyard, Mr Dyvelston.’ She tilted her chin upwards and prepared to sweep away.
‘One meets all the best sorts of people there.’ His voice held a note of amusement that rose around her and held her spellbound.
‘Lottie, why do you dally?’ Her mother’s voice resounded across the foyer, recalling her to her duty. ‘There is someone here who insists on making your acquaintance. I am certain you will find him most agreeable.’
‘My mother calls. She will wonder why I have been detained.’
‘Do not let me keep you, Miss Charlton. I have no wish to cause a scandal.’
‘I thought that was what you did best.’
‘You mistook me. My scandalous days have long past. I lead a sober and uneventful life.’
‘Mr Dyvelston.’
Lottie picked up her skirts and hurried over to her mother. She stopped short as she saw the wizened man that her mother was sitting next to. Her heart sank. Sir Geoffrey Lea. The name that was proudly written below Lord Thorngrafton’s. He was over seventy. How could her mother do this to her?
She forced her shoulders to stay straight, refusing to glance back at where Mr Dyvelston stood.
Why were men such as he always dishonourable and forbidden?
Tristan bided his time during the early part of the evening, observing the current guests of Shaw’s Hotel, waiting and watching. They were a mixed group and, as far as he could tell from the accents, not from the general vicinity. It was becoming clear why Peter had been able to carry off his impersonation.
Many of the men were elderly and comfortable in their own self-importance. He felt sorry that Lottie Charlton was going to be sacrificed to one of them. But he had to trust that her family would not marry her off if she objected.
He watched as Lottie’s blue gown with its swirling lace flashed by and heard her laughter float out over the crowd. A number of matrons and their other less well-endowed daughters clicked their tongues, but Tristan sensed a sort of desperation in her moves as if she was determined to show that she was having fun. He had been tempted to confess the truth about his title and watch her face. But there was also the mother to consider. One false step and he could find himself shackled.
‘Congratulate me, Thorngrafton.’ Sir Geoffrey Lea, one of the more decrepit denizens of Shaw’s came up to Tristan.
‘My cousin—’ Tristan gestured towards where Peter stood, speaking about his lead mine to any who would listen.
‘Is plain Mr Dyvelston. Being adopted does not mean inheriting the title.’ Sir Geoffrey tapped his nose. ‘I am not past it yet, whatever anyone might say. Took me until I saw you to put my finger on why I did not trust him. I dare say that most people have forgotten which cousin would inherit, particularly as your uncle was so marked in his preferences. Won’t enquire into the game you two are playing either, it is not my place. But your cousin will not get the Charlton heiress. You may inform him of that.’
‘I never intended that he should.’ Tristan tightened his jaw. The elderly gentleman made Lottie sound as if she was some sort of bone to be fought over. He had forgotten quite how depressing the English marriage market could be. ‘I have my reasons, Sir Geoffrey, please respect them. I ask this as a gentleman.’
He held out his hand and, after a moment, Sir Geoffrey took it.
‘I shall keep your identity secret while you are at Shaw’s, Thorngrafton. I give you my word. We are both men of honour.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There was bad blood between you and your uncle. Shouldn’t happen in families, but it does.’ Sir Geoffrey gave a wheezing laugh. His watery eyes narrowed as he peered at Tristan. ‘You are like your father in many ways, but I see your uncle as well. You had best be careful. You know how life treated him. A pity—he showed such promise at Eton.’
‘What should I be congratulating you for?’ Tristan said firmly, drawing the man from his reminisces. He refused to be compared with his uncle. He knew what a bitter and twisted man his uncle had become.
‘Pipped your cousin at the post. Pipped everyone. That’s what. I have spoken to that vision’s mother.’ Sir Geoffrey used his walking stick to indicate where Lottie danced with an elderly man. ‘She is as charming in person as she is to look at. A true picture, an ornament worthy of appreciation. Her mother assures me that she is an excellent nurse.’
‘Does she, indeed?’
‘She also assures me that her daughter is every bit as virtuous as she is good-looking. She will make an admirable wife. I shall have to make a visit to the Popping Stone with that gel.’ Sir Geoffrey gave a wheezing laugh.
‘And virtue is important to you, Sir Geoffrey? I would have thought conversation, wit and a general attraction.’
‘Virtue is everything. Without virtue, the woman has nothing.’ Sir Geoffrey thumped his cane on the floor.
‘Except a fortune in funds.’
‘The fortune allows me to overlook other certain less favourable aspects about the match.’ Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘Did you know her paternal great-grandfather was in trade? A grocer!’
‘I had no idea, but the family, I believe, has high aspirations.’
‘It is true.’ Sir Geoffrey nodded and a twinkle came into his eye. ‘She will make an admirable companion for my waning years, don’t you think? Quite a well-turned ankle. It will show them at the club that I am not past it, that I can still attract the fillies.’
‘Some might entertain that notion.’
A huge bubble of pleasure coursed through Lottie. She had forgotten how much fun it was to waltz, polka and generally be the centre of attention. True, Shaw’s Hotel was not London or even the Assembly Rooms in Newcastle, but there was dancing. Ever since the five-piece orchestra had begun to play, she had had no time to sit down. One after another the gentlemen had begged for the favour of a dance. Lord Thorngrafton had staked his claim to the Sir Roger de Coverley before disappearing to converse with Henry about lead mines.
Her only disappointment was that Tristan Dyvelston had not come near, not once. She had seen him following her with his eyes, and twice he led other ladies out onto the dance floor. Stately widows with well-upholstered bosoms and braying laughs, the sort one might dance with if one was looking for a wealthy wife who would not be picky about his lack of a title.
Was that in truth why he was there? That he was seeking a wealthy wife? It made a certain amount of sense, but it annoyed her that he had made remarks about her husband-hunting.
She redoubled her efforts to be charming and to forget him, but it appeared her body had developed an acute awareness when he was around. Each time she circled the floor, she wondered what it would be like to have his hand on her waist, clasping his fingers instead of her partner’s.
‘Shall you dance with me next?’ a bewhiskered elderly gentleman asked. ‘Your mother has proclaimed how divinely you waltz.’
‘This waltz is already spoken for.’ A shadow loomed over her.
Lottie glanced up into Tristan’s darkly intent face. Her body tingled as her breath caught in her throat. ‘Is it?’
‘You agreed to waltz with me earlier,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten?’
‘So I did. I cannot think what might have come over me.’ Lottie tried to ignore the frisson of pleasure that rippled through her. She wanted to waltz with him. She wanted to forget everything else, to forget her future. She simply wanted to dance and take pleasure in the moment. ‘Shall we waltz then, Mr Dyvelston? They are playing one of the Strauss waltzes.’
‘It is not one of the most fashionable, but it has a pleasant enough melody.’
He put his hand on her waist and they started off. Somehow, dancing with him was different from every time she had danced before. His steps were perfect—not overly showy like a dancing master’s or clumsy. She concentrated on his shoulder rather than on his mouth.
‘Where did you learn to waltz like this?’
‘In Vienna.’
‘One day, I should like to travel. I have only been as far as Yorkshire. Mama does not believe in foreign travel, but I think it must be tremendously exciting.’ Lottie was aware she was babbling, but it kept her mind off the gentle pressure on her waist and how their bodies fitted exactly, moving in time with each other.
She looked down at the smooth floor. Less than a week ago she had had no idea of his existence, but by ten o’clock this evening, she could think of nothing but him. She wanted to say that it was Cousin Frances’s scandalous tales but there was something else that drew her to him. She had seen the way he’d looked at his parents’ graves.
‘You are not attending me, Miss Charlton,’ he said. ‘I just gave you a witty sally about Vienna and you remain silent. Not even a smile passed your lips.’
‘I shall try harder.’ Lottie glanced up into his face and saw the crinkles around his eyes. She swallowed hard and struggled to think beyond his hand upon her waist. ‘Was there something in particular that you wished me to be amused at? Repeat it and I will attend. You will find me the perfect conversationalist from now.’
He gave a husky laugh and she felt his hand tighten, pull her closer so that their bodies collided. His breath fanned her ear. ‘Sir Geoffrey Lea. He was in a very self-congratulatory mood.’
A stab of fear went through her and she missed a step. Her fingers clutched at his shoulder as if it were a life raft as the ballroom tilted sideways. Her slippers skidded into each other. ‘Sir Geoffrey? Congratulations?’
‘He is very pleased with what he has done. Matrimony.’
Lottie looked wildly about her and tried not to panic. She had to remember to breathe, and not to give way to wild imaginings. Such things were for Cousin Frances, not for her. Her mother would not have done such a thing without speaking to her.
‘Is there some problem?’
‘He figured highly on my mother’s list. My mother’s list of eligible men.’ She struggled to draw a breath and found she could not. Her fingers curled around his arm. ‘Please say his congratulatory mood had nothing to do with me, that he has found some well-endowed widow of about fifty. I saw him with my mother earlier. He is more than three times my age.’
‘I would say that is an accurate assessment.’
‘You are not providing much comfort, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie tried to draw a deep breath and mentally cursed her corset and the need for a fashionably tiny waist. She should not have insisted that they be done up so tightly. She had to do something or she would faint. She swallowed hard.
‘You become pale. The air in here is close.’ His arm came around her, an iron band of support. Lottie leant back against it, grateful. ‘I must insist we go outside.’
‘A breath of fresh air would be helpful, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she leant on his arm. Around her the sound of the waltz swelled, mocking her.
How could she have taken such pleasure in such a transitory thing?
Her life teetered about her, threatened to collapse. Mama would insist and Henry would agree. He had already begun to make noises about the expense of staying here and how he longed to be back within the bosom of his family. And she would be sentenced to a life of misery.
Tristan threw open the French doors and led the way out onto the terrace. The blackness of his hair and coat mingled with the darkness that surrounded him.
The cool air rushed out to meet her, caressing her fevered skin. In the distance she could hear the River Irthing. Above her were the first faint glimmerings of stars. The whole world was at peace. She was aware of Tristan coming to stand by her. Not touching her, just standing close enough that he could act if she fainted. Lottie pressed her lips together. She would not faint and give way to her feelings. Such things were for women like Frances. When one fainted, one lost all control. She drew in another breath and concentrated on the shadows in the lawn.
‘Have you recovered, Miss Charlton?’ His hand hovered at her elbow. ‘We may go in if you like. I am certain no one noticed us coming out here. Your virtue is quite safe.’
‘Who has Sir Geoffrey found to marry?’ she asked in a strained voice as she dug her nails into her palms. ‘Exactly which widow will look after him in his declining years?’
She glanced up and saw the sombreness of Tristan’s face. Slowly he shook his head and his eyes showed pity. ‘The woman in question is no widow.’
She clutched the balustrade, forced her lungs to strain against her stays. ‘Does it have anything to do with me?’
‘Would it matter if it did?’
‘Several days ago, I played a game, Mr Dyvelston, an innocent game.’ Lottie looked out into the blackness. She could make out the vague shape of the trees. ‘I sought to help my cousin to become engaged to a man whom I felt she had affection for. This afternoon, my mother gave me a list of eligible men, men I have no affection for, but one of whom I am supposed to marry. It is my task.’
‘Does affection have anything to do with marriage? I would have thought security and status were high on your list.’
Tears pricked Lottie’s eyelids. She blinked rapidly. He was being kind. It had been a long time since anyone had been kind. She wanted him to be cruel or to laugh at her. Anything but be kind. He knew what her mother and Henry had planned for her. It felt as if great prison doors were swinging shut.
‘I used to think, like my sister-in-law, that security was important, but then I saw how happy Emma Harrison was…is and knew I was mistaken. Emma waited years for the love of her life. She is adored.’
‘Is being adored something you wish?’
Lottie nodded mutely. She half-turned and her cheek encountered the starched front of his shirt. She rested her head, listening to the reassuring heartbeat, the steady thumping. His hand went under her chin and raised it so she could look into his eyes. They were larger than she remembered, warm. She could drown in eyes like that.
‘Lottie, you must be strong.’
‘I will try.’ She gave a slight sniff.
‘That’s my girl.’
She knew that propriety demanded that she move away. She was anything but his girl. She was nothing to him. She was about to be promised to Sir Geoffrey Lea. Sacrificed on her mother’s altar of social ambition. Ever since she had made her début, she had paid attention to the consequences. But for what? To be married to a fossil, a man older than her late father. To submit to his horny-handed embrace. Fate was cruel and she wanted to cheat it.
Her feet stayed still as he placed a strong hand on her shoulder, drawing her closer. She struggled to breathe, to remember her name, to remember anything beyond the shape of his lips. She raised a hand in mute appeal. Touched his shirt front.
He lowered his mouth, captured hers. A featherlight touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her. She felt her body arch towards his, wanted it to continue. But he lifted his mouth and regarded her.
His face was all shadows and angles. Moonlight shone down, giving it another glow. In the distance she could hear the faint strains of a polka, but much closer she heard the pounding of her heart. Her tongue explored her aching lips and a sigh escaped her throat.
His arms tightened about her again, held her there against the length of his body. A fiery glow built inside her. She was alive in a way she would never be again, if she were married to Sir Geoffrey Lea or whichever other titled fossil her mother might discover.
‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, pulling his head down to hers. Whispered against his firm mouth, ‘One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.’
Her hands came up and clung to his shirt front. He lowered his mouth again and pressed kisses along her neck and then returned to recapture her mouth. This time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot pulsating waves.
Her body collided with his as the meeting of lips stretched. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her face. A warmth grew deep inside Lottie, melting her limbs, forcing her to seek the support of his body. Her breasts strained against the confines of her corset. Ached. She felt the material give and his cool fingers slide against her fevered skin. Her entire world had come down to this one moment, this one point in time. She sighed and parted her lips, drank in the scent of him. His lips trailed down her neck, tasted her skin, and began to slowly travel lower.
‘Unhand that woman, you…you cad!’
The words pierced her inner core. Lottie froze, hoping they were directed at someone else. Tristan raised his head, looked over her shoulder towards where the voice resounded. He put her away from him. Lottie looked up at him, unable to turn around. His face changed, became hard, but his arm remained about her, holding her. She resisted the temptation to bury her face in his shoulder. Both enormity of what she had done, what she had been discovered doing, and the knowledge that if it had continued for much longer, she would have been powerless to stop it, weighed in on her.
‘Is there a problem, Sir Geoffrey?’ Tristan said, drawling the words.
Lottie flinched and moved out of the circle of his arms. He made no attempt to keep her in them. She turned and looked back towards the French doors. Sir Geoffrey stood there, leaning on his cane, surrounded by other figures. How long had they been standing there? How much had they seen? She glanced down to where her bodice gaped open, brought her hands up and tried to rearrange it. Her curls tumbled in disarray about her shoulders, the artful hairstyle her mother’s maid had arranged earlier this evening gone in a moment’s passion. She winced, knowing the wanton picture she must make.
‘What is going on here?’ Her brother’s voice floated over the rapidly increasing crowd. ‘Oh my God, Lottie, what have you done?’
‘He has seduced her.’ Sir Geoffrey’s voice boomed out over the rest. ‘He coldheartedly took her innocence and virtue. Look at her state of undress.’
‘It all depends on your definition of seduction.’ Tristan’s voice dripped with ice.
‘Mr Dyvelston was helping me because I felt faint.’ Lottie forced the words from her mouth. She looked up at Tristan for confirmation. His eyes blazed black. ‘I needed a breath of fresh air. Nothing happened.’
‘It looked rather different to me,’ Sir Geoffrey thundered.
‘I kissed her, yes. I overpowered her.’ The words exploded from Tristan Dyvelston.
‘Did you kiss this man, Carlotta?’ her brother asked. ‘Did you allow him to kiss you?’
Lottie’s tongue explored her lips—full, swollen and aching for the pressure of his mouth once again. She dreaded to think what the front of her gown looked like. They had been caught. Denial was impossible. Everything appeared to be happening from a long way away. She nodded as she crossed her hands over her chest. Waited.
‘Charlton, our bargain has ended.’ Sir Geoffrey’s voice resounded across the veranda. Strident. Furious. ‘She is damaged goods, sir. Given towards lewd and licentious behaviour. I wish you luck in finding a husband for that baggage. No gentleman will have her. Thank God I discovered what she was like before I married her. She’d have run away with her dancing master, soon as look at you.’
Lottie heard the swell of voices rise around her, echoing Sir Geoffrey’s harsh sentiments. Everyone speaking at once. Ruined. She was ruined. The dreaded consequences that Lucy had so confidently predicted for her all those months ago had happened. There would be no London Season. No triumphant return to Newcastle. Nothing, all because she had not been able resist the temptation of Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth.
‘I…I…’ Lottie put a hand to her head and groped for words, something that would explain it all and that would restore everything to its natural order. Her mother and Henry had to see that it was not the end of the world, that she was still an asset to the family. In time, she might once again have marriage prospects.
She scanned the rapidly expanding crowd for a friendly face and found none.
‘What do you intend to do about it, Dyvelston?’ Sir Geoffrey shook his stick at Tristan. ‘You have ruined this young person. Taken advantage of her youth. The tales they whispered about you were true, even though I have always vigorously denied them. No son of your father would behave in such a libertine manner.’
‘Do? Why should he do anything?’ Lord Thorngrafton came forward. ‘All he did was kiss the girl. She asked for it. There was that incident in Newcastle—’
‘Stay out of this, Peter!’ Tristan Dyvelston thundered. ‘You have done enough damage already.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton is right. He simply kissed me. Nothing more.’ Lottie hated the way her voice shook. She tried for a smile. She might be ruined, but Tristan should not be held entirely to blame. ‘Might this whole thing be…?’
The faces turned towards her were less than encouraging. Several of the old ladies lifted their fans to gossip behind. The tale was already being embroidered. By morning she’d be a harlot and there would be no hiding from the scandal.
Lottie took a step backwards, encountered the railing. The enormity of what she had done washed over her. She had kissed a man, passionately kissed him, without expectation or forethought. A huge gaping hole opened in her middle. She wished she could turn back the hands of time.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, whatever shall we do? All the love and attention I gave her and she repays me like this.’ Her mother stood next to Sir Geoffrey, white-faced and wringing her hands. Her ample bosom trembled as she raised an accusatory finger. ‘Carlotta, look what you have done to the family. To me. It is not just your reputation you have tarnished. You have shamed the family.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’ Lottie held out her hands and willed her mother to smile at her, to make some small sign that she would stand by her. Her mother buried her face in her hands and the sound of sobbing increased.
‘You only have yourself to blame, Mother.’ Henry put a hand on their mother’s shoulder and turned his furious gaze on Lottie. ‘You encouraged her far too much. I knew one day she would go too far and she has. You have disgraced us, Carlotta.’
Lottie kept her back straight. She had to get through this somehow, and then she’d decide what she could do. Perhaps there was a way to hush the whole thing up. If only everyone would stop yelling at once.
‘He has ruined her, I say. I demand to know what he intends to do about it!’ Sir Geoffrey drew himself up to his full height. ‘I may be old, sir, but I am not without influence. I will have it known that you are debaucher of virgins, a man not to be trusted. What are you going to do? Are you totally devoid of honour?’
Tristan stared at the elderly man as the diatribe washed over him. He knew Sir Geoffrey was correct. Doors would be closed to him. He’d spent ten years in the wilderness. He did not intend to go there again. He glanced at Lottie Charlton. At first she had winced every time someone said something, but now she stood, straight, not moving a muscle. It would not just be he who was ruined, but also this woman.
He gave an ironic smile. He should have remembered his own advice—virgins were complicated. He should never have tasted her lips. He wanted to taste her skin again. He wanted her lips to softly yield under his again.
‘Marry her. I will marry Miss Charlton.’
The veranda went silent.
‘You are going to do what?’ Mrs Charlton squeaked and began to furiously wave her fan.
‘As I have ruined her, there is only one course open to me, I will take the responsibility and marry her. My honour demands it.’
‘I knew you had it in you, Dyvelston,’ Lottie’s brother said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘There, Mama, problem solved. Dyvelston will marry Lottie. We will have a quiet wedding and no one in the business community will turn their faces from us. While Dyvelston might not be what we would have wished, he will at least do the decent thing.’
‘I am so grateful you solved the problem, Sir Geoffrey.’ Mrs Charlton grabbed on to the elderly man’s arm. Her plump face was very close to his. ‘Eternally grateful.’
Sir Geoffrey patted her arm absentmindedly. ‘My pleasure.’
‘Where will the marriage take place?’ Henry Charlton’s eyes became crafty. ‘It is all well and good to agree a marriage, but does he have any intention of actually marrying her? I know how these rakes operate. When do you intend to marry my sister?’
Tristan rubbed his chin. He could see Mrs Charlton’s eyes gleaming. How much did she know? How much of this had been planned? ‘I don’t want banns. It might cause talk.’
‘Let it be a special.’ Mrs Charlton’s eyes lit up. ‘I always wanted my daughter to be married by special licence. So much more status than an ordinary license.’
‘Oh, yes, Mama, a special licence would be splendid.’ Lottie clapped her hands, like a child in a sweet shop. ‘What a wonderful idea. Can you arrange that, Mr Dyvelston?’
‘No special,’ Tristan said through gritted teeth.
‘What are you saying?’ Her bottom lip trembled like a child who had sweets taken away from her. Her blue eyes shimmered with tears. ‘We are going to marry, aren’t we? An ordinary licence, then.’
Tristan looked at where Lottie stood. It would be easy to indulge her when she looked at him like that. He wanted her to go on looking at him like that for the rest of his life, but he was a realist. Lottie Charlton, through no fault of her own, had all the hallmarks of a spoilt child who would grow into a spoilt woman. He knew what sort of trouble a woman like that could cause, if left unchecked. He would marry her, but she needed to be taught a lesson. If he confessed now who he really was, he would always wonder.
Had tonight’s events been fabricated for her benefit? Did she really know who he was and was that the reason she had kissed him so passionately? And asked him to kiss her?
He needed to know; until he discovered the truth, he would keep his identity a secret.
‘Gretna Green is but a few miles from here.’
The entire crowd fell silent.
‘You mean to elope?’ Mrs Charlton’s shawls quivered. ‘You are proposing to elope with my daughter.’
‘It is the most sensible solution in the circumstances,’ Sir Geoffrey said, giving a decisive nod. ‘I will vouch for this man’s honour, madam.’
‘My sister is to elope? Married under Scottish law?’ Henry Charlton’s face expanded and he bore a distinct resemblance to a walrus. ‘Do you know what you are on about, man?’
‘I have agreed to do the decent thing and marry the woman, but it will be at Gretna Green, and not in some church wedding.’ Tristan straightened his cuffs. ‘It will save gossip.’
He took great pleasure in watching Henry Charlton’s mouth open, but have no sound come out. Three times he started to say something, but somehow the words would not appear. He tried jabbing with a finger. ‘You…you bounder. You will create a scandal if you marry her in that fashion.’
‘I have agreed to marry your sister. I am hardly a bounder. And there is already a scandal of sorts.’ Tristan gave a shrug. ‘I am sorry if the terms of my offer are not to your liking, but there they are. You must decide which is the greater scandal—your sister unwed but kissed, or your sister married at Gretna Green.’
‘But…’
‘You must decide. Or, better yet, let your sister decide. It is her life and reputation we are discussing.’
‘I suppose you do have a point.’ Henry Charlton gave a harrumph. ‘Carlotta?’
Tristan watched Lottie. What would she do? Would she risk it? A wild exultation grew within him. The risk. The gamble. What would she choose?
‘Thank you for allowing me to make the choice, Henry.’ Lottie came forward and tucked her hand into Tristan’s. He glanced down at her, impressed with her dignity in the face of her brother’s blustering and her mother’s shrieking. She appeared to have accepted her fate. ‘Mr Dyvelston is correct. Banns and the like will simply point to a harum-scarum marriage. I will make a runaway match. Far more romantic.’
Chapter Four
‘Not the watercolours, Lottie. And only one satchel, you heard Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie’s mother hurried into the room where Lottie sat packing. ‘You will need a complete new wardrobe now that you are married. I dare say that he plans to buy it. It is the best way.’
Lottie tucked the watercolours and brushes into her bag. The first words her mother had said to her were a complaint. ‘I heard Mr Dyvelston the first time, Mama, and I intend to paint on my wedding trip. I am being practical.’
‘You have dashed all my hopes and plans for your future.’ Her mother gave a loud sniff. ‘And now all you can talk of is painting. Have you no consideration for my nerves? For what you have done to your brother? To me? You were supposed to wed a titled man. It was to be the culmination of everything.’
‘I am getting married, Mama. He is connected to a title.’
‘Yes, but will anyone know? I should never have let Sir Geoffrey sway me. I should have insisted on a proper marriage.’ Her mother buried her face in a handkerchief. ‘Lucy warned me that you would come to a bad end with your tricks and you have. You are a lucky woman that Mr Dyvelston turned out to be a gentleman. Goodness knows what you were thinking…Sir Geoffrey had made an offer for you. How could you do this to me?’
Lottie slammed another pair of stockings into the satchel. She refused to dignify her mother’s remark with a reply.
‘Well, Carlotta, what do you have to say for yourself? How can you explain away what you did? The man has no title, nothing to recommend him. Why did you kiss him?’
‘You were quite prepared to marry me off to Jack Stanton.’
‘Lottie, you ungrateful child!’ Her mother gave a sharp intake of breath, went white and she waved her hand in front of her face, choking. ‘My medicine, Lottie.’
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Michelle Styles
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesA kiss, a carriage ride, a hasty wedding!Carlotta Charlton can’t wait for her first season – until her impulsive behaviour lands her right in the lap of notorious rake Tristan, Lord Thorngrafton! Tristan is cynically convinced that she’s a fortunehunter. But he can’t keep away from her. Several heated kisses lead to scandal and, one outraged mama later, they’re on their way to Gretna Green.Catching his breath on the carriage ride to the border, Tristan decides it’s time that Lottie learns her lesson. If she wants to play with fire, he’ll notch up his seduction and set her ablaze!