SEDUCTION in Regency Society August 2014

DECEPTION in Regency Society September 2014

PROPOSALS in Regency Society October 2014

PRIDE in Regency Society November 2014

MISCHIEF in Regency Society December 2014

INNOCENCE in Regency Society January 2015

ENCHANTED in Regency Society February 2015

HEIRESS in Regency Society March 2015

PREJUDICE in Regency Society April 2015

FORBIDDEN in Regency Society May 2015

TEMPTATION in Regency Society June 2015

REVENGE in Regency Society July 2015

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 became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape.

Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. 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. She would be delighted to hear from you.

Prejudice in

Regency

Society

An Impulsive Debutante
A Question of Impropriety

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Cover

About the Author

Title Page

An Impulsive Debutante

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

A Question of Impropriety

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Copyright

An Impulsive Debutante

Michelle Styles

For the students and teachers of Crystal Springs Uplands School, class of 1982, in particular for the head 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.’

Lottie rushed to the washstand, picked up the small vial, pulled off the stopper and held the smelling salts under her mother’s nose. Her mother inhaled deeply; gradually, her colour returned to normal. Lottie breathed again. ‘Are you better, Mama? I did not intend to give you another attack. You should take more care.’

‘Me? You are the one who should have been cautious. I had everything arranged.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You threw it all away, you ungrateful spoilt child. Well, young lady—’

‘I am marrying Mr Dyvelston, Mama.’ Lottie fastened the satchel. She adjusted her pelisse and bonnet. It made a charming picture over her paisley silk afternoon dress. The cut was fashionable and Lottie had made sure the corset was laced extra tight in order to show off her waist. She wanted Tristan to look again at her with those smouldering eyes. ‘Neither of us planned it, but it will save me and the family from ruin. I cannot undo the past. And Tristan does have connections, Mama. He is Lord Thorngrafton’s cousin.’

‘Lottie, Lottie. I cannot help but worry. Though Sir Geoffrey says that this is the best way and I must trust him.’

‘And it saves the expense of a London Season. You might remind Henry of that, if he intends on huffing and puffing.’

Her mother gave a loud sniff. ‘Yes, I suppose Dyvelston is doing the decent thing. But I care about my daughter’s future. You were given every advantage.’

‘I believe in my case, if I fail to marry, the advantages will mean nothing. I will be ruined, Mama. And won’t I spend my life repenting that as well?’

‘Oh, you young creatures are all the same. You think you know everything.’ Her mother threw up her hands and Lottie wondered if she was going to have to retrieve the smelling salts again. She shifted uneasily, hating the disloyal thought, but she had seen how her mother had used the attacks before. ‘A man should respect his wife. If you keep giving in to your passion, it will be the road to ruin. Your poor papa and I had a good marriage based on mutual respect and duty.’

And what about love? Or desire? Lottie stopped the words and allowed the remainder of her mother’s diatribe to flow over her. She did not love Tristan, but she knew that there had to be more to a marriage than respectability. And she certainly did not want a title if Sir Geoffrey Lea was offering it. She was not a pawn to be sacrificed for her mother and brother’s social ambition. She would lead her own life.

‘You are not attending, Carlotta.’

‘Mama, it is time to go.’ Lottie leant forward and kissed her mother’s cold cheek. ‘I am getting married today to a good man. I can sense it in him.’

‘Lottie, Lottie. There is more to being a good man than a pair of broad shoulders and a smooth dancing step.’ Her mother’s hands grasped Lottie’s upper arms and she made a clucking noise at the back of her throat. ‘You are such a child, Lottie. I blame myself. There is so much I should tell you, warn you about. Men do not like wanton creatures. They use them and discard them. When I think of your poor dear departed papa…’

‘Papa would have wanted me to be happy.’ Lottie stared at her mother, seeing for the first time the attempts to hold age back, the slightly over-garish jewellery, the petulant expression. Then she shook herself, hating the disloyal thoughts. Here was her mother, the woman she should revere above all others, but who had wanted to sell her for a title and reflected status. ‘It was all he ever wanted. It is why he worked so hard. He wanted to give us everything we wanted.’

‘Happiness is a fleeting thing. Security and connections are all.’ Her mother shook her head and buried her face once again in a handkerchief.

‘It just happened, Mama.’ Lottie touched her lips, remembering the sensation of Tristan’s lips against hers and knew that she would yield again.

‘That is no excuse. I trust you will remember where your duty lies. A woman must take responsibility for a family’s status. Remember that and behave accordingly, if nothing else. Try to grow up, Lottie…before it is too late.’

‘Mama, I will be a good wife.’ Lottie curled her fingers around her satchel. ‘I will make sure the marriage prospers.’

She marched out of the room, head high and shoulders back. She would show her mother that her dire predictions were wrong. She would make this marriage a success.

Lottie sat opposite Tristan in his borrowed carriage and watched the sunrise begin to appear on the horizon. Her bonnet had slipped over her nose and the wild exhilaration she had felt as she’d waved goodbye to the assembled throng of people had vanished. Her back ached and her feet were numb.

What had she done? Had she done the appropriate thing? She had done the only thing.

Each turn of the carriage wheel took her farther away from her mother, her family, her former life and closer to Gretna Green and marriage, marriage to Tristan. She would snatch a sip from the cup of happiness. Somehow. She refused to believe her mother’s dire predictions about marrying for passion.

The carriage hit a rut, and her shoulder met the side of the carriage with a thump. Lottie winced at the pain, stifled the gasp behind her gloved hand.

‘Careful.’ Tristan, from where he sat, put out a hand to steady her. The touch of his hand burnt through the thin material of her dress. ‘You don’t want to injure yourself.’

‘I will be fine.’ She sat up straighter. Her hands curled around the edge of her seat, holding her there. ‘I was unprepared. The road to Gretna Green is heavily rutted.’

‘It is a well-travelled route.’

‘Yes.’ Lottie agreed. Well travelled. As if she needed reminding how many people went there to get married because they had to or because their families objected. Some might call it wildly romantic, but the doubts had started to circle around the edges of her brain. The Tristan Dyvelston who sat opposite with his top hat, black frock coat, cream-coloured trousers and hands lightly resting on a cane was very different from the excitingly attractive man who had kissed her earlier. No less handsome, but somehow more reserved, as if he were waiting and watching for something. Self-contained.

Lottie searched her mind. What did one say politely to the man who was about to become one’s husband, but appeared now more than ever to be a stranger? And in such a fashion? How could she explain that she was terrified of what the future might hold?

She had no wish to appear a ninny or a brainless fool. She thought of topics like the weather or music, only to reject them. Some were too impersonal. Others far too personal. It was difficult, particularly as she simply wanted to curl up next to him and feel his arms about her. The silence seemed to hang between them, growing with each turn of the wheel until it was a palpable living thing that threatened to crush her.

‘Wasn’t it kind of your cousin to lend us his carriage?’ she said, finally, in desperation.

‘Mycousin?’ He raised an eyebrow and his face did not invite further enquiries. ‘What does my cousin have to do with this carriage?’

‘His arms are on the carriage door,’ Lottie said, sitting up. Her hands adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet and tension appeared to ease from her shoulder. Finally a subject they could discuss—social niceties. ‘I noticed it when we got in. Little details make the world go round. It eases social tensions, if one does not have to explain everything. It is something one learns rapidly when you are required to do as much visiting as Mama and I.’

‘I had not considered that.’

‘It was obvious to any who had eyes. Why else would someone paint their arms on a carriage unless they wanted to be noticed? Unless they were proud of the title?’

‘Why indeed?’

Tristan’s hand tightened around his cane and his mouth became a thin white line. Was he ashamed of borrowing his cousin’s carriage? Was he worried that others would mistake him for his cousin and cause embarrassment? How awful would that be—to be mistaken for a peer when one wasn’t.

Lottie folded her hands on her lap and crossed her ankles. Considered the possibility and decided against it.

Anyone who had met the two would know they were different. Tristan could never be Lord Thorngrafton. They had similar looks, but their temperaments were not at alike.

She never would have allowed Lord Thorngrafton to take her in his arms or even escort her outside into the darkness for a breath of fresh air. The air of a snake hung about him. He had presumed much last November and acted as if she was a naive miss who had no idea of what going to see etchings entailed, as if his title and status was all the reassurance a woman needed.

Lottie concentrated on taking a deep breath, and not letting her fury at the memory overwhelm her. But he was to be family now and she needed to be charitable. She might have mistaken him, but in any case, when they next encountered each other, she would be married and related to him. Family was different.

But she could not expect Lord Thorngrafton to apologise. It was up to women to mend bridges. And at the same time she would make Tristan see that there was nothing to be ashamed about when it came to using family connections. It was positively de rigueur, according to Mama.

‘When did your cousin inherit the title?’ she asked, assuming the voice she used for the more important At Homes when she wanted to make a suitably genteel appearance. She would find a way to build the bridges without revealing her distaste for the man.

‘I doubt we will be seeing my cousin often.’ Tristan’s tone was less than encouraging. ‘The present Lord Thorngrafton inherited the title within the last year. I was travelling on the Continent at the time.’

‘But he is family.’

‘Yes, of a sort. The old lord was my uncle.’ The merest hint of a smile touched Tristan’s lips. ‘One cannot pick and choose one’s family as easily as one’s friends.’

‘That is why family is all the more important.’ Lottie batted her eyes and made her voice sugar sweet. It was obvious to her that there had been a quarrel between Tristan and his cousin. Perhaps she could do something to get them to make up. It was never good to quarrel with those who might be in a position to help you. ‘Friends may come and go, but families are always there.’

‘You are not encumbered with my relations.’ Tristan’s reply was crushing. He tilted his hat over his eyes and stretched out his legs as if to indicate the conversation had ended and the topic was no longer up for discussion.

Lottie looked out of the carriage window at the darkened countryside sweeping past and felt the prick of tears. This ride was not going as planned. He was not behaving how he ought. She swallowed her annoyance at Tristan’s obstinacy and tried again. She had to explain why this overture from his cousin had to be treated with respect and gratitude. Why it was the only way. Anything to keep her mind off the closeness of Tristan and how she wished he’d take her in his arms and tell her not to worry.

‘But he is your cousin, and titled,’ she said, trying again. This time she ran a hand down the horsehair seats. ‘It was very kind of him to lend us his carriage and driver. Most unexpected and done with such grace. Does he do this sort of thing often?’

‘Kindness had nothing to do with it.’ Tristan lifted his hat and peered at her. His dark eyes flashed with some barely suppressed emotion, but then he leant forward and touched her hand briefly. The tiniest of touches, but one that made her heart pound slightly faster. ‘Lottie, my cousin Peter has never done anything for the benefit of others. It is part of his creed.’

‘I suppose you are right. You have known him longer than I have.’ Lottie resisted the urge to put her glove to her cheek and savour the lingering imprint of his fingers. ‘He must have been pleased that you were finally going to settle down.’

‘I expect he was.’ There was a note of surprise in Tristan’s voice. ‘I had not considered it. He is probably pleased to see me gone from Shaw’s. I was not adding to his general state of well being. Destroying his ambiance, as he put it to me before we came down to dinner. I believe he rather wished I had stayed on the Continent.’

‘I am certain you are wrong.’

‘I know I am right.’

Lottie shifted, sliding slightly on the horsehair seats. He was not making this easy for her. All she wanted was some reassurance that he would make his peace with his cousin. And maybe, one day, when Tristan and she had children, his cousin would ease their way in society. Lottie drew in a breath. Children. Babies. Lying in Tristan’s arms. Suddenly the carriage appeared to shrink, to push her closer to his chest, his lips. This topic was supposed to keep her mind off such things, not bring it back to his kisses.

‘The carriage is very new,’ she said, searching for another topic, one which did not lead her thoughts on such dangerous paths. ‘He obviously thought enough of you to lend it. He trusts you.’

Tristan’s hands tightened on his cane. ‘You are very observant, but your conclusions are wrong. Neither of us trusts the other further than he can toss him. There is much that lies between my cousin and me. He wished me gone with all speed.’

‘I try to be observant.’ Lottie cleared her throat, pleased that she had found a subject they could converse on, a chance to show off her social skills without suddenly blurting out that she wanted to be kissed or held. Already, she could imagine introducing him to her friends: my husband—not only is he handsome but also a cousin to a lord. Martha, Caroline and the rest would forgive the elopement once they had met him. ‘It makes it easier when I go calling. Fifteen minutes is barely any time and the hostess is often tired of repeating the same story over and over again. It saves idle chit-chat or speaking about the weather. Some days it seems I never speak about anything but the weather. There is only so much one can say about the rain.’

‘Is there? I never participate in At Homes if at all possible.’ A shudder went through him. ‘On point of principle.’

A sudden pain coursed through Lottie as her future plans crumbled to dust. Not participate. But the After the Marriage calls were some of the most significant calls a woman could ever make. She might not be having the wedding of her dreams, but she thought she’d at least have the calls and the attention. She had dreamt of making such calls ever since she had first been allowed to participate in At Homes.

‘But you will have to.’ Lottie leant forward, placing her hands on her knees to keep them from trembling. ‘We will need to make calls when we get back to Newcastle. The After the Marriage calls are a necessity, or how else will anyone know that we will continue to see them socially? And all of my friends will be anxious to meet you. I dare say they will be quite green with envy. Pea green.’

‘We won’t be living in Newcastle.’ Tristan regarded the woman sitting opposite him. Her head was full of society and outward appearances. At Homes. Dances. Positions. Furthering her status at the expense of others. She had to be made to realise that there was more to life than such things. He wanted to glimpse again the woman who had berated him for not looking after his parents’ graves.

‘Where? London? Or on the Continent? Paris, maybe? I do think I would quite like Paris and its salons.’

‘Not there,’ Tristan said firmly, gritting his teeth. He would test her, and she would learn the lesson. He would reach the woman from the cemetery.

‘Where will we be living?’

‘My uncle left me an estate—Gortner Hall. I have a fancy to settle down. It is up in the North Tyne Valley, about fifteen miles from Haydon Bridge.’

‘Then I will be expected to make calls on the various ladies who live near there.’ Lottie folded her hands in her lap with maddening complacency. ‘It will be expected. You will have to go calling with me. There must be someone I know from Newcastle who could smooth our way…’

‘No one of any consequence lives near.’ Tristan paused. ‘It will not be expected. It is the country, not the town.’

‘Aunt Alice and Cousin Frances are bound to know several.’ Lottie waved a dismissive hand. ‘Aunt Alice knows positively everyone in the Tyne Valley. She can offer introductions. It may be the country, but there is always somebody. Calling and socialising is what makes the world go around.’ Lottie sat up straighter. She shook out the folds of her dress. ‘It is the lifeblood of the community. I plan to play my part as your wife. I will show them the right and proper way to behave.’

‘I have been on the Continent for years. And as your cousin quite rightly pointed out to you, I led a somewhat scandalous life in my youth.’ Tristan struggled to maintain his temper. He would give her one more chance. ‘I am uncertain how many might wish to acknowledge me.’

‘Oh. How truly thoughtless and terrible of me.’ Lottie sat back against the hard seat and her face crumpled. She reached out and touched his hand. ‘No doubt we shall meet them in due course and convince them of our worthiness to be befriended.’

‘It may take some time.’

‘But working together, we will convince them in the end. For our children’s sake.’ Her cheek flushed scarlet. ‘You have proved your worth to me. You have saved me from ruin.’

‘It was something any gentleman would have done.’ Tristan shifted slightly. His plan would be harsh, but it should work. She had a good heart.

Lottie drew a shaking breath. Why was he making it so difficult? Tears pricked at her eyelids. He had to understand what she was attempting to do and why. He had to accept her apology. She would try much harder in the future, truly she would, but right now she needed reassurance— reassurance he appeared reluctant to give.

‘Not anyone. I can name a half-dozen officers who would not have done what you did. They would have left me to my fate.’

‘I kissed you. It very nearly went much further, Lottie.’

‘You saved me from a life of cats and skirts being subtly drawn away. I do not think I would care for being my mother’s companion either—fetching and carrying all the time. We would have driven each other mad within a fortnight.’

She stuffed her hand against her mouth and looked out of the window at the grey landscape. Yesterday on the train coming to Gilsland Spa everything had seemed so fresh and new. She had never imagined that she would be sitting here, facing an almost complete stranger on her way to be married.

‘Yes, in due course, we will encounter the neighbours.’ Tristan reached forward and caught her hand with his, interlaced his fingers with hers. The slight pressure sent tremors along her arm. ‘Try to sleep now, Lottie. It has been a long day and we won’t be in Gretna Green for a few more hours.’

‘As long as that?’

‘Would it be easier if I came over and sat next to you? You may put your head on my shoulder.’

He moved over and sat by her. The pressure of his leg against hers somehow made everything appear better. He wasn’t angry with her. He did not blame her for what happened. It was not what either of them had anticipated, but she would do her best. Surely being married to him would be pleasant. A great wave of tiredness washed over her. It seemed liked for ever since she had kissed Aunt Alice and Cousin Frances goodbye. What would Frances say when she learnt her cousin had married the notorious Tristan Dyvelston? She gave a small sleepy smile and settled her back more firmly against the seat. There was at least that.

‘I will close my eyes for a moment. It is really quite pleasant to be able to lean against someone. Comforting.’

His arm came around her and held her. ‘It will work, Lottie. You must see that.’

The sun had risen and the road teemed with carts, carriages and various livestock by the time the carriage reached the outskirts of Gretna Green. Tristan’s muscles ached from the journey and his arm had gone to sleep. However, Lottie had snuggled close. Her warm body touched his. He looked to where her red lips had parted, soft and inviting. Her lavender scent rose around like a perfumed cloud.

It had taken a vast reserve of Tristan’s self-restraint not to pull her more firmly into his arms and make love to her in the carriage.

He forced his body to wait, to remember that she was a virgin and unused to such things. He would have the rest of his life to get to know her.

But first he had to be certain of why she had married him so quickly, why she had agreed to his suggestion. Did she know his true identity? Had she seen this as her only remaining chance to fulfil her mother’s expectations and marry a title? He was under no illusions how powerful an incentive such expectations could be, but he wanted to know that she had married for the man, not the status. He had to know.

The carriage slowed down to a crawl and the noise of the town resounded in the enclosed space. They had arrived in Gretna Green and Tristan knew he had to act, he could no longer afford to sit and cradle his wife-to-be. He gently eased the sleeping Lottie from his shoulder and banged on the roof with his cane. Instantly the carriage halted. Tristan stepped out and closed the door behind him.

‘Market day, my lord,’ the coachman said, coming down to stand beside him. ‘There are drovers and farmers all along the road. I am thankful today is not a hiring fair as the town must heave then.’

‘I can see the carts and the cattle. The drover’s bellowing echoes off the carriage walls.’ Tristan stretched, trying to clear his mind. Today he needed all his wits about him.

‘Where are we headed for, my lord? The headless cross? A quick marriage and then back to London?’

The coachman’s voice jerked Tristan fully awake. ‘Robinson, we had words earlier.’

The burly coach driver’s cheek tinged pink. ‘That we did, sir. I had forgotten. I don’t understand the ways of the aristos, that I don’t.’

‘You are not paid to.’

‘But what do you want me to do now?’ Robinson rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Are you going to marry her, like? You can always send her home.’

‘Of course I am. I am going to marry the girl, and I am going to tame her.’ Tristan glanced over to where Lottie softly slumbered, her red mouth now pouting slightly and her golden curls tumbled about her face. He had to admire her irrepressible spirit. ‘I have to know, Robinson. I have seen too many women forced into marriages against their will. I have seen what it does to them, what it does to their husbands. She must want to marry me for me.’

Robinson gave a long whistle. ‘It never did your uncle any good.’

Tristan’s jaw tightened. ‘That marriage brought misery to everyone.’

‘What am I to do, sir? I mean, it is not right leaving you alone like this here. The London dockyards are refined compared to this place.’

‘You are to put us down, that inn will do.’ Tristan pointed towards the disreputable-looking coaching inn. ‘Then take the carriage back to London. Wait for my word. We will take the train to Hexham. I have sent word to Mrs Elton at the hall. There will be a cart for us at the station.’

‘As you say…sir.’ Robinson’s voice betrayed his uneasiness.

‘You need not worry. I am well used to looking after myself.’ Tristan reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out several notes and handed them to Robinson. ‘These will see you to London.’

‘And beyond.’ The man gave a soft whistle.

‘I want you to leave directly, Robinson. No hanging about.’ Tristan looked pointedly at Lottie. Lottie stirred slightly in her sleep and murmured something indistinct.

Robinson ran his finger around his collar.

‘It is the part of the plan I am uneasy about, sir. The lady is Quality. You can see it from the cut of her clothes and the way she speaks. She could be in danger.’

‘Nothing is going to happen, Robinson. I promise that.’

‘It is not you that I am worried about. It is that lass. How will she react? Someone ought to watch over her, like.’ Robinson assumed a pious expression that was at odds with his former occupation as a boxer.

‘Hopefully, she will reject temptation and obey my instructions, but if not, her lessons in life and treating people properly begin now. The ride in the carriage convinced me of it.’

‘If that is what you want.’ Robinson resumed his place, grumbling about the swells and their peculiar ideas.

Tristan stepped back into the carriage and smoothed a damp curl from her forehead as the wheels began turning again. ‘Time to wake up, Lottie. We are nearly there. See. It’s the headless cross.’

She wrinkled her nose and pushed at his hand.

‘It is far too early for such things, Cousin Frances.’ Her eyes flew open and widened at the sight of her hand clutching his. Her cheeks took on an even rosier hue. And she rapidly dropped his hand. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

She sat up and began to rearrange her dress and bonnet.

‘Did you have a pleasant slumber?’ Tristan asked.

‘I fear I fell asleep on you. Our limbs became entangled and I may have mussed up your shirtfront. You should have woken me. It was presumptuous of me.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Do say that you forgive me. Please do.’

‘We will be married today, Lottie. Man and wife. No one will say a word if you fall asleep on my shoulder.’

‘I suppose not.’ She bent her head so that all he could see was the crown of her straw bonnet and its elaborate blue ribbon. ‘I keep forgetting. It is all very sudden. It is the best thing. I know it is the best thing.’

‘Good.’ Tristan lifted her chin so he looked her in the face. For an instant he drank in her luminous beauty. Then he hardened his heart. He wanted her beauty to be more than skin deep. He wanted her to want him for more than a title and his worldly goods. He had to carry out his experiment. He had to show her that there was more to life than social calls and pincushions. Life was to be lived, and not reflected in a Claude glass. ‘I want you to stay here while I procure us a room.’

‘Here? In this carriage? On my own?’ The words came out as a squeak. Her eyes widened and she clutched her reticule to her chest. ‘I have never been left in a coaching yard on my own before.’

‘You will be quite safe in the coaching yard…as long as you remain there. No one will harm you. Your dress is of a certain quality.’ Tristan forced himself to walk away from her, not to take her by the arm and lead her to another inn. He had to do it, for the sake of their future.

Chapter Five

Lottie watched Tristan walk away from her. She half- raised a hand to beg him to stay or at least to take her with him, but he never glanced back. She gazed about the coaching yard where several drovers discussed cattle in heavy Scots accents. The smell of manure and sweat seeped into the carriage. Lottie put her handkerchief over her nose and hoped the inn would be better than its yard. ‘This is a fine mess you have landed yourself in, Lottie Charlton. What happens to you now? Why did you let him go like that?’

‘You will have to get out, miss.’ The large coachman with the broken nose opened the carriage door. ‘Orders is orders. It ain’t my business to contradict Lord Thorngrafton. He says to me, leave when you get to Gretna Green.’

Lottie blinked. ‘Excuse me? Why? Mr Dyvelston is getting a room. Surely you may wait a few moments. I wish to stay in the carriage, away from the gaze of ordinary bystanders. It wouldn’t be proper for me to wait in the yard on my own.’

‘I am only a coachman. I know nothing about the ways of gentlefolk.’

‘Your master will understand if you wait. You must wait.’ Lottie tried to give her words all the imperiousness of her mother, but she heard the undercurrent of desperation.

‘I need to leave.’ The coachman’s countenance took on a mulish expression. ‘My…master said that I needed to be in London with all speed once I had brought you to Gretna Green. He didn’t say nothing about waiting until that there gentleman procured a room. He told me, go once you get to Gretna Green.’

‘Can’t you wait until Mr Dyvelston returns? Please? For my sake?’ Lottie pressed her handkerchief more firmly to her mouth and willed Tristan to return. Her whole body tensed as she peered out of the carriage door into the crowded yard: drovers, farmhands and the odd woman, but no broad shoulders encased in a fine frock coat. Her insides shook at being cast amongst those people. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’

The big man shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be proper, like. I have me orders. I like my job, miss. I won’t jeopardise it for no one.’

‘Why not? Mr Dyvelston charged you to look after me. I am sure he did. You cannot intend to leave me here with those ruffians.’ Lottie bit her lip, aware that the words had come out more harshly than she had intended. But he had to understand that she had been cosseted and looked after. She was of gentle birth.

‘No, he didn’t, like.’ The coachman lifted a bag from the back and set it down on the muddy cobblestones. ‘This is all there is, miss. I am sure he will return in a few moments. If you please, miss. I am on my way to London to wait for Lord Thorngrafton’s instructions. It is a week’s journey in good weather and I’d like to get on my way.’

‘But you have been driving through the night. Surely you will need time to rest. Mr Dyvelston will return in a few moments.’ Lottie clasped her hands together. ‘I beg you. Have mercy.’

‘That is true and you should be safe in that time. I want to be well into England afore I do that. If you please, miss….’

Lottie looked at the single bag. Her mother had said that she would send her things on. It appeared that Tristan had not bothered to pack a trunk or even a bag. She reached down and picked the satchel up. The yard blurred for a moment, but she stiffened her back. Regained her composure. She would be fine. Tristan would return before she knew it. She held out her hand and the coachman helped her from the carriage. ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you.’

She reached into her reticule and drew out a halfpenny. ‘This is for you.’

‘It’s all right, miss, Lord Thorngrafton pays me well, so he does. Best of luck.’ The coachman twisted his hat. ‘Begging your pardon, but this here is from Lord Thorngrafton… in case you change your mind. In case…’

Lottie regarded the bank note with a sinking heart. Lord Thorngrafton must believe that Tristan was planning to abandon her. ‘Don’t you trust Mr Dyvelston?’

‘I trust him all right, but…just the same. Best to be prepared, miss.’

‘I couldn’t, really.’ Lottie turned her face into her handkerchief.

‘Take it, miss, for my sake. Lord Thorngrafton has a right temper if his will is crossed.’

Her throat closed. She had wronged Lord Thorngrafton last November. He had thought about her comfort and had not been sure of his cousin. He had sought to protect her. She fingered the note and placed it in her reticule. ‘You must thank Lord Thorngrafton for me. I will thank him myself when I can.’

‘As you wish, miss. God speed.’ The coachman touched his hat and went back to his place.

He snapped the reins and the carriage started to move. It made its way through the jumble of carts and horses, rolling away from her. A single tear ran down her cheek, but she pushed it away with impatient fingers.

Lottie stood there, her head held high and her fingers clutching her satchel and reticule in the centre of the yard, aware that people were looking at her and her much creased clothes. Aware that she had rapidly become an object of interest and curiosity. Lottie tightened her grip. She refused to stand there, being gaped at like some spectacle in a diorama or other cheap entertainment. She had to act.

She walked towards the inn and peeked into the public room, hoping to discover the familiar shape of Tristan’s shoulders or his top hat floating above the crowd. The entire room appeared full of farmers, day labourers and drovers. High-pitched female laughter came from a dimly lit corner where Lottie could just make out a flurry of petticoats and entangled limbs. She stared for a heartbeat at the brazenness of it. The stench was worse than the yard. Lottie gave a soft cry and buried her face more firmly in the handkerchief.

‘Is there something you want, dearie?’ an old crone asked, leering at her with a one-toothed smile. ‘Sell your ear bobs, or your pretty hair? I pay top price for golden curls like yours.’

‘Not my hair. Not my ear bobs.’ Lottie blanched and rapidly made her way back into the coaching yard. She heard the crone’s laughter chasing her as she went.

Lottie paused by the stable entrance and tried to get her breath as she scanned the yard for any sign of Tristan. But it remained stubbornly free of her future husband. She closed her eyes and wished. Opened them. Nothing. The sun beat down on her bonnet and her shift stuck to her back. Maybe Lord Thorngrafton’s surmise was correct and Tristan did not intend to come back for her. He had only taken her here to abandon her to her fate. He would then claim she had run away and he’d be free to live his dissolute life.

Abandoned at the altar to a life of sin.

Cousin Frances had taken great pleasure in describing several Minerva Press novels where this was a main feature. The villain lures the heroine with blandishments, only to abandon her after he has had his wicked way with her, forcing her into a Life of Degradation…if it were not for the hero.

Lottie gave a tremulous smile. She had to think logically. Tristan had not had his wicked way with her, beyond the kiss they had shared on the terrace. If he had been planning to abandon her, he would have done so then, instead of taking her here. She had to be logical, and not give way to panic.

A sob built in her throat and she muffled it with the handkerchief. She refused to give way to wailing here despite the longing in her breast. She scrubbed her eyes with the now-crumpled handkerchief, replaced it in her reticule and took a fresh one as she made a slow circuit of the yard. When she returned to the stables, there was still no sign of Tristan. It was as if he had vanished.

Had something happened? Had some evil befallen him? An ice-cold hand went around her heart.

She counted to thirty and then thirty once more. Looked again hard at the door Tristan had disappeared through. Tristan failed to appear.

She bit her lips and attempted to think clearly as a pain pounded against her eyeballs. Something had happened to Tristan. She had to find where he had gone and determine if he did intend to marry her. She would search for him, all day and night if she had to, and, if he remained lost, she would return to Newcastle, much chastened, hoping for charity. She would use Lord Thorngrafton’s money to purchase her train fare back to Newcastle. The first thing she would do when she did arrive home would be to raid her savings and send the money back to Lord Thorngrafton. It would be the polite thing to do, and she would not mention the scoundrel-like behaviour of his cousin.

Henry and her mother might not be pleased to see her, but they would not turn her from their door. She was certain of that. She was part of their family, in spite of everything.

She cringed, thinking of the words Henry would use, and how Mama would cry and how Lucy would look and sigh. Behind her skirts, everyone would whisper that she had deserved it, that pride came before a fall.

Emma Stanton had had it lucky, looking after her mother. Lottie caught her lip between her teeth. She wished she had never made fun of her last Christmas. Social success was such a transitory thing. Maybe Emma would be kind and send a list of books for her to read in her exile.

But somewhere deep inside her, a little voice told her that Tristan would look after her. She had to trust him. He had no reason to abandon her like this.

‘Where is the market?’ she asked an elderly lady with a well-lived-in face. ‘I wish to find a constable. I have lost someone. He needs to be returned to me.’

The lady appeared surprised to be addressed. ‘Lost someone? A man? Mother Hetts is good at finding men for pretty doves.’

‘Yes, my fiancé appears to have gone missing.’ Lottie was unable to prevent the slight catch in her throat. She swallowed hard before she continued in a steadier voice, ‘It is imperative I find him. I am worried that something might have happened to him. It is unlike him to leave me for so long and in a place like this.’

‘Men are like that, pet. They come. They go. You will find another soon.’ The woman’s eyes roamed over Lottie’s dress. ‘Particularly in them there togs.’

‘I don’t want another. I want to find my fiancé, Tristan Dyvelston. I thought the parish constable might be able to help.’

‘His box is that way. But you won’t be catching him in his box today, mind. Market day, me pet.’ The old woman’s eyes grew crafty. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It might be best to check. Make sure you take the third turn on your right. It will take you straight there. Otherwise it is a long ways around and there are bad folks about.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’ Lottie pressed the woman’s hand. ‘I really appreciate your kindness. I am sure I will find him now.’

‘I hope you do, pet. There are them that don’t.’ The woman smiled, a cruel smile. ‘You can always come back and finds me. I will offer you a good home. You come back here and tell that there landlord Mother Hetts will give you a place to rest your pretty golden head.’

Lottie stepped over a pile of muck and turned her back on the woman and crowded yard, hurrying away from that evil place as quickly as she could. She would not think about ‘them that don’t’ and ‘a good home’. She could do this. She was capable. It would be no worse than going for a walk in Haydon Bridge. She would find the constable and explain. He could discover Tristan’s whereabouts while she waited. She would be safe.

The market-day crowd jostled her, but she kept on walking, relieved to be taking action instead of standing there panicking. She released her breath and tried to ignore the stares, acutely aware that her paisley dress was more fit for carriages than walking. Several women wrapped in woollen shawls and carrying baskets stared at her and put their heads together, whispering and pointing.

A carriage with a young girl and her mother in it swept past, splashing mud on the hem of her gown. Lottie gave a small cry and jumped back. Then she stooped and tried to wipe it off as men stopped and stared. A man said something unintelligble, but Lottie shook her head. She glanced back over her shoulder towards the inn, but it had been swallowed up by the crowd. She couldn’t go back and she had no guarantee that Tristan would even be looking for her. Once she found a constable, things could be put right. All this unpleasantness would be a bad dream.

Several of the market goers jostled her. Lottie continued on, holding her reticule close, trying not to think about the beggars and thieves. She saw the opening, more of an alleyway than a street. She hesitated, then chided herself for being a ninny. The elderly woman had been quite specific with her directions. She plunged into the narrow street. It was imperative that she find the constable as quickly as possible.

‘Going my way, my pretty dove?’ a gin-soaked voice asked. ‘See here, Fred, a fresh dolly bird has flown into our nest.’

‘Ain’t never been paid to do this before.’ The innkeeper looked skeptical, but he pocketed the coins that Tristan pushed forwards on the bar.

‘As long as it is done tomorrow morning, I don’t mind.’ Tristan pressed his hands against the bar and leant forward so that he was close to the unshaven jowls of the innkeeper. ‘I always pay my debts, keep my promises and never forget a favour or an injury.’

‘You had that look about you.’ Sweat broke out on the innkeeper’s face. ‘I will do what you ask. And your lady friend, she is your wife, isn’t she? I run a decent establishment.’

Tristan glanced around at the bar where a motley group of farm labourers, card sharps and ladies of the night were arranged. Blue smoke hung in the air. In one corner, a woman warbled a forlorn song. ‘Your opinion and mine may differ as to decent.’

‘Are you saying that I cheat my customers?’ The man wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘I ought to have you thrown out of here.’

‘But you won’t. I paid in advance and far more than that room is worth.’

The innkeeper licked his lips. ‘That you did, that you did, and I don’t say nothing to a paying customer.’

‘It is how I want it.’

A moment of unease about the deception he was playing on Lottie passed over Tristan, but he pushed it away. He was doing what was right. One short sharp shock for Lottie Charlton and their married life would be far happier. It was easier if she learnt lessons now, before it was too late.

Tristan went back to the yard, filled his lungs with clean air and swore. Loud and long. No blonde in a paisley silk afternoon dress, straw bonnet with a satchel by her side. No woman of quality waited there.

Tristan pressed his lips together. He had expected her to be there—spitting fury with her eyes perhaps to be left in the yard on her own, but to be there. He tried to think clearly. Robinson would have obeyed him. He would not have taken her with him. Tristan swore again, wishing he had told Robinson to stop and explain once he had left the yard. A mistake, but one he could not undo.

He had been gone longer than he anticipated, but not that long. She had gone. He had been mistaken.

A hard tight knot came into his throat. He had counted on her being different. He did not think she would have abandoned him so easily, not after the stand she had made at the hotel. He gave one more sweeping glance of the yard. Next time he would remember about the perfidy of women.

‘Lost something, pet?’ an elderly woman crooned to him. ‘A trinket? A pretty little dove? I know where you can find another. Mother Hetts knows everything about little doves, she does.’

‘There was a woman here. A blonde woman, well dressed. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

‘Can’t remembering having seen anyone of that description.’ The woman gave a shrug of her thin shoulder and her watery eyes turned crafty. ‘Then my memory ain’t what it used to be. Lots of folks searching for things today. Always asking Mother Hetts if she’s seen this or that. Can’t be expected to remember. It’s market day.’

The old woman gave a cackle, reminding him of a demented hen. The crackle went straight through him. He swung back and advanced towards the woman, whose crackling abruptly ceased.

‘You know something. Where did she go?’ Tristan advanced towards, his hands flexing at his sides, longing for something to hit. ‘Would a coin help to recover that memory of yours?’

‘May do? May not?’ The old woman rocked back and forth. ‘It is amazing what silver coin can do for my memory.’

Tristan reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling, holding it beyond the reach of the woman. ‘The truth. Quickly.’

‘I sent her to the parish constable…if she can find him. Mother Hetts looks after the little doves, she does,’ the woman said, holding her basket in front of her face. ‘She was looking for someone who was missing. Right concerned she was. Nearly in tears. Poor little dove. Are you lost?’

Tristan tossed her the coin. She caught it with expert claws, tested it as Tristan’s insides twisted. He had not considered the possibility that Lottie might wonder about his whereabouts and worry. He had to find her and quickly. There was no telling what trouble she might encounter.

‘Bless and keep you, sir. You are a real gentleman. If you don’t find her, I can always get you another pretty dove.’

Tristan pushed past a cart and horse blocking the entrance to the yard, and went out into the street. His blood pounded in his head.

She had to be there. She could not have gone far. That old crone would not spend for ever in the yard. He must have missed Lottie by a matter of moments.

Only farm labourers, cattle drovers and a few women wrapped in shawls and carrying baskets lined the streets. There was no sign of Lottie’s brightly coloured straw bonnet anywhere.

He fought against the sudden stab of concern.

Lottie had gone looking for him. He would find her more than likely with the parish constable. He would keep her safe. Then they would marry. All would be well.

A woman’s scream rent the air. Tristan raced towards it.

‘Let me go.’ Lottie twisted away from the evil-smelling man and screamed again. Her sleeve tore slightly as she elbowed the man hard in the stomach. His hands loosened as he doubled over in pain.

‘Why did you have to do that? I didn’t mean no harm, did I, Den?’ the rough unshaven man said to his companion.

‘No, Fred, you didn’t,’ the companion said, sticking his hands in his pockets and giving a low whistle.

‘I doubt the truth of that statement.’ Lottie kept her nose in the air; her stomach was in knots as she struggled to breathe. She wished her corset was not so tight, then she would have been able to run, but as it was, she could not draw sufficient air.

If she walked quickly, perhaps she would come to the constable’s box…if it even existed, if the woman had been correct in her directions, something Lottie was beginning to have her doubts about. She should have never gone down this alleyway. She should have never trusted that old woman. She should have stayed in the coaching yard until nightfall and then demanded the constable be brought to her. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

Her slippers resounded on the cobble stones. Only a few more steps and she’d be back in the open. She’d be safe. One more step. Lottie resisted the temptation to turn around and see where the men were. The back of her neck pricked, but she forced her feet to move. They had to let her go.

‘Playing hard to get, me little golden-haired beauty? Thinking yourself all prettified in those togs? Above the likes of me and me pals? Way aye, I have the measure of you.’

Rough hands grabbed her waist again, dragged her back into the alleyway, away from the light, and back into the dark. The scent of alcohol wafted over her. Lottie gagged and kicked backwards. But the man had lifted her off the ground and her slippers only encountered thin air.

‘Not this time.’ He wiped a dirty paw down her face. ‘You won’t get away so lightly, but I likes it when they plays rough, I do.’

‘Let me go, you—you monster!’

‘We will go somewheres quiet. You, me and Den. I knows a good game we can play.’

‘Unhand me this instant or I will call the constable.’ Lottie fought against the hands, saw her handkerchief, reticule and satchel fall to the ground and with them all her money. She gave a little cry of despair. But the arms continued to hold her tight. She kicked backwards and screamed.

‘And what is the constable going to do about it, my pretty?’ His companion laughed. ‘See here, Fred, see if you can wake him from his box. Or is he snoring his head off?’

Lottie’s throat went dry as she prayed for a miracle. She should never have gone off out of the yard. She should have stayed and waited. She whispered a prayer.

‘The lady is with me and not with you.’ Tristan’s voice cut through the man’s banter. ‘Release her. Or I won’t be held be responsible for what happens.’

Lottie froze as hope bubbled up inside her. Tristan. He was here. He had not abandoned her. He had found her. She turned her head towards the sound, hoping against hope that it had not been her imagination. He stood at the entrance to the alley, large and solid, formidable, his lips turned down in a furious expression.

‘Tristan! I am here! Thank God you are all right. I thought something must have happened to you.’ Lottie struggled against the imprisoning hands. ‘Help me.’

‘I said let the lady go.’ Tristan advanced forwards. ‘I am in no mood to repeat myself. No mood at all.’

‘Why should I?’ The man stood there, hands imprisoning her. ‘I caught her first. Prove she’s yours.’

‘In the interests of your long-term health…release her.’ Tristan’s voice was calm and cold as if he were passing the time of the day. ‘A friendly warning, if you like.’

‘How so?’ the man’s companion asked. He advanced towards Tristan, brandishing his fists. ‘Fred found her, plying her trade. You best be about your business, you jumped-up Englishman. I’m a professional boxer, like. My punch is harder than a sledgehammer. Den Casey, Sledgehammer of the North, they calls me. Won five straight.’

A loud thwack resounded in the street as Tristan’s fist connected with the man’s jaw. The man tumbled backwards, lay on the ground. ‘Remind me not to bet on any of your fights, then.’

‘Den down?’ Lottie’s captor looked at his prone companion and back at Tristan. ‘The Hammer is on the ground. Dead to the world. Felled with one punch. I ain’t never seen the like.’

‘Who is next?’ Tristan straightened his stock. ‘I want the lady released. Unharmed. Immediately.’

‘It were only a bit of sport, your worship. We did not mean no harm.’

The hands were withdrawn so suddenly that Lottie stumbled forwards and encountered Tristan’s hard body.

She gasped slightly at the sudden contact, but her feet refused to move as her entire body trembled. Safe. She longed to lay her head against his broad chest. Her knees refused to support her. She clung onto his arm and pushed all thoughts about what might have happened to her had Tristan not come by when he did out of her head.

‘I…I…’ Her throat closed and she found it difficult to speak. She swallowed and tried again, her voice barely audible. ‘I should have stayed at the inn. I went looking for you. I was worried that something might have happened and that was why you didn’t come back. I wanted to get help.’

‘Are you unhurt?’ His arm went about her waist, supporting her. Lottie gave into temptation and rested her head against his shoulder, felt his strength. She closed her eyes and breathed in his crisp, masculine scent. She was safe. He put her away from him and looked her up and down. ‘Have they harmed you?’

‘My…my reticule has vanished.’ Lottie straightened her bonnet and shook out the folds of her gown. She glanced at the rip in her sleeve, winced, but it could be mended. ‘My bag.’

‘Give the lady back her reticule. And her bag,’ Tristan said in the same deadly quiet voice to the man who was standing over his fallen companion, staring at them with fearful eyes.

‘Look what you done to our Den. There ought to be a law.’

‘There is and you are on the wrong side of it.’

‘What you mean? The wrong side?’

‘I have no little doubt the constable will be interested to learn of your whereabouts.’ Tristan held out his hand. ‘The bags. Now. And I might allow you to go.’

There was a shuffling of feet and her satchel was held out. Lottie curled her fingers around it, hugging it to her body. She opened it and saw everything her mother’s maid had packed remained there.

‘And the reticule.’

Much shuffling of feet and the reticule appeared. Lottie gave a small cry of joy.

‘Is everything there, Lottie? Check it.’

Lottie opened it with trembling fingers and gave a little cry of delight. Lord Thorngrafton’s money was there. ‘It is all there. They took nothing.’

‘You see, like I said, your worship, it’s all a big misunderstanding. We was just taking her…’

‘You were not just taking her anywhere. Next time, when a lady protests, you leave her alone. Do you understand me?’

‘We didn’t mean no harm like, your worship.’ The thickset man held up his hands and backed slowly away from Tristan. ‘We didn’t know the lady was with you, like. It was just a bit o’sport. She seemed up for it, like.’

‘I was not! I never!’ Lottie balled her fists. She glanced up into Tristan’s face, but all she saw was cold fury. At her? At the men? She tried to breathe. ‘I would never. I was trying to get to the parish constable’s box.’

‘There ain’t no constable’s box around here.’

‘I asked…the woman said…’ Lottie paused. Tristan had to believe her. ‘I thought something had happened to you. I wanted to make sure you were safe.’

His dark eyes stared at her for a long moment, searching her face, looking for something. The stern planes of his face did not change as he raised a single eyebrow. ‘The lady says you were mistaken.’

‘Maybe.’ The man flushed and ran a finger around the neck of his shirt. ‘Could have been. It were Den that—’

‘Definitely mistaken.’ Tristan’s voice could cut through granite. ‘You owe the lady an apology. The lady is my fiancée and deserves your respect. It is only the fact that it’s my wedding day that puts me in a good mood.’

‘I am…am sorry, your worship.’ The man stumbled backwards, fell over his prone friend and scrambled to stand up again, touching his cap as he did so. ‘I don’t mean no harm like. I, that is we, had no idea. Many happy returns on your marriage.’

‘Off you go.’ Tristan gestured towards the prone figure of Den. ‘Take your friend, he is cluttering up the pavement.’

‘Right you are, your worship.’ The man hoisted his friend on to his shoulder, and began to walk away, complaining loudly as he went that he did not mean any harm and how he was always hard done by.

Lottie’s body began to shake. She wanted to sink down to the ground and weep. Tristan’s arms came around her and held her against his body until the shaking passed.

‘You are safe now, Lottie,’ he said, his breath ruffling her bonnet. ‘I am here.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘And we are going to be married in a few moments.’

This was not supposed to be what her wedding day was like. She had had it all planned right down to the white silk dress, fashionable bonnet and veil and orange blossoms. Instead she had ended up brawling in an alleyway like a fishwife. She had been taken for a lady of the night.

Lottie moved backwards and Tristan’s hold loosened. She wrapped her arms about her waist and attempted to control the shivers that now racked her body. She did not want to think about what had nearly happened to her. She took a deep breath and regained a small measure of control.

‘Thank you for saving me,’ she said when she trusted her voice would not quaver. ‘Those men had evil intentions. I am sure of it. If you had not—’ Her voice broke and she could only look up at the hard planes of his face, hoping he’d understand what she meant.

‘You are safe with me now. Think no more about them.’

‘I made a mistake. I should never have listened to that old woman’s directions.’ Her voice held a pathetic quiver. She fumbled for her handkerchief, discovered she had lost it. With angry fingers, Lottie brushed away the tears. ‘None of this was supposed to happen.’

He inclined his head, but his dark gaze searched her face. ‘Did those men do anything to you?’

‘They pawed at my dress and my face, but I will live.’ She brushed a speck of dust from her sleeve, a small act, but one that did much to restore her confidence. She would not think about what might have been, but about the future. From now on, it would be the future she faced. And she would refuse to let Tristan leave her again like that. ‘It is most aggravating to be touched in that familiar manner. Most unexpected.’

‘The streets are unsafe for a woman dressed as you are. Gretna Green teems with drunks and ne’er-do-wells today. Far more than I thought possible for such a town.’ His face turned grave. ‘If you had stayed where I told you to, none of this would have happened. Why did you leave the yard? You were safe in the yard. You had no cause to go.’

‘The coach driver went off. I was left alone. I became frightened and tried to find you. I went into the inn, but there was no sign of you. A woman offered to buy my hair.’ A shudder went through Lottie at the memory. ‘I couldn’t stay there. I became worried, certain something had happened to you. I went to find the parish constable.’

‘It took longer than I anticipated to arrange the marriage and our accommodation. I had not thought to be gone so long.’ His fingers curled around hers. He brought them to his lips. Then let go. ‘I regret that.’

Lottie resisted the temptation to put her hand to her face and savour the touch. Was it an apology? She did not want to ask. All she knew was that he had not abandoned her. She hated her earlier thoughts.

‘If you had not come when you did…’ Another shiver convulsed through her.

‘Forget the unpleasantness ever happened. It is over, truly. I swear it and I keep my promises.’ He put his hand on her shoulder and looked at her with an intense expression. ‘Remember that. If I say I will return, I will return. I will protect you.’

‘Do you mean that?’ Lottie asked in shaking voice.

‘As best as I am able.’

‘That is good to know.’

‘And now if you remain willing, the blacksmith awaits.’

‘The blacksmith?’ Lottie tilted her head and tried to quell the sudden butterflies in her stomach. ‘We have no horses that need shoeing.’

‘We have a marriage that needs forging. It is where all the best marriages take place in Gretna Green, or so I am reliably informed.’

‘We are not marrying in a church?’ Lottie regarded her hands. ‘I had always imagined that I would be married in church.’

He shook his head. ‘We are marrying in Gretna Green, under Scottish law. Two witnesses are all the law requires. The blacksmith is waiting for us. All you have to say is that you don’t want to, Lottie, and I will personally put you on a coach back to your mother and Newcastle.’

‘No, I will marry you…even if it is a blacksmith’s shop.’ She drew a deep breath. Her wedding would bear no resemblance to the wedding of her dreams. A blacksmith’s anvil and a torn dress. But it was a better prospect than the future those men had planned for her. ‘Like you, Tristan Dyvelston, I keep my promises.’

He curled his fingers around her gloved hand, raised it to his lips. ‘Thank you for that.’

Lottie allowed her footsteps to match his. She was getting married. It might not be the wedding she dreamt of, but she was determined to be the right sort of wife. She would make him see that she could be helpful. It was the details that counted. She gave one last backward glance to the alleyway and turned her face to the sun. Her footsteps faltered. ‘Tristan, what sort of ring?’

‘The blacksmith will take care of it. He is used to weddings. He informs me that he has already performed two this morning.’

‘You mean it isn’t going to be a gold ring?’

‘Is a gold ring a requirement for a marriage in Scotland?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Is it ever a requirement?’

Lottie wet her lips and said goodbye to the last of her dreams. ‘I had only wanted to know.’

Chapter Six

Lottie twisted the iron band about her left ring finger, rather than look at her new husband where he stood speaking to the blacksmith. The ceremony had gone quickly, squeezed in between a horseshoeing and mending a plough. Nothing fancy. Simple and ordinary.

Her face burnt from the heat of the fire and her ears rang from the clanging of the hammer against the anvil. A quick brush of his lips against hers. Very correct. Very polite, but nothing more. But she wanted more. She wanted him to kiss her like he meant it, like he wasn’t marrying her simply because he had to, because society forced them. Lottie concentrated on the iron band. Slowly she drew on her glove, hiding the ring, but her hand remained heavy with the unaccustomed weight.

‘Shall we depart, Lottie?’ Tristan said, coming over to her; the blacksmith started striking the anvil with his hammer again. ‘Unless you want to stay and see the horses being shod, there is nothing here for us.’

Lottie shook her head and allowed Tristan to lead her from the shop.

‘So we are married. Forged as it were.’ She gave a small laugh once they had returned to the street. It looked as it had when they had entered the shop—people were still hurrying by, intent on their shopping, the mud still lay in pools. Nothing had changed. No one noticed what had happened to her. ‘I had never thought about it. My friends will be all agog when I write. One only ever hears about going to Gretna Green to get married, and the precise details are never spelt out.’

‘Yes, we are married. The ceremony was perfectly legal.’

‘I never questioned it.’ Lottie glanced quickly up at her new husband. His face was remote and held little of the warmth she had glimpsed last evening. She wondered how she could get it back. If he had looked like that, then she would not have been tempted to make this marriage. She wanted him to smile down at her, to do something to show that this marriage was more than an inconvenience caused by her own indiscretion. ‘We have both been saved from ruin. The marriage will be a nine-day wonder, if that. Undoubtedly someone somewhere will do something worse and it will be forgotten.’

‘I am no stranger to scandal but I had no wish to be outside society for ever. It is not good business.’ His eyes showed no signs of softening. ‘Neither of us had any choice in the matter, Lottie, but we do have a choice about the life we lead. Shall we look to the future, rather than live in what might have been?’

‘The ice-cold wind of disapproval.’ Lottie adjusted her bonnet and ignored the rip in her sleeve that appeared to grow each time she moved her arm. She hated the thought of being dressed like this in public, but there was nothing she could do. She had to hope no one would notice. She moved so her arm was next to Tristan’s, hiding the worst. ‘I need to know, Tristan. Why did you marry me, since you had already experienced society’s disapproval?’

‘Once you ruin a virgin…there is very little way back.’ Tristan ignored her invitation to take her arm and stood staring down at her. His voice did little to restore her confidence.

‘And did you want a way back?’ Lottie asked. She wanted to believe that there was more to this, that he had wanted to marry her.

‘I am no cad. And perhaps I no longer wanted to be an orphan.’ A cold smile touched his lips. ‘Does it matter about the reasons? We are married now, and we will go forwards without scandal. I will lead the sort of life my father had envisioned for me. Upright. Solid. The sort of life I intend to lead now that I have returned to Britain.’

‘You appear to have made a number of promises to your father.’

‘They were all part of the same promise. My father and my uncle were not friends.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I wanted to torment my uncle.’

‘And what did your uncle predict?’

‘That I would come to no good, that I would blacken the family’s name and die in an unmarked grave.’

‘It is hard when families fight, particularly if one of them is titled.’ Lottie placed her hand on his arm. ‘Didn’t your mother try to help? Or your aunt? It is the duty of the women in the family to mend quarrels.’

‘My uncle’s wife was concerned with…other matters and my mother died when I was three.’ A flash of pain crossed Tristan’s face and Lottie’s heart constricted. In that instant she caught a glimpse of the young boy Tristan must have been. How truly awful to have this long-ago quarrel blight his life. ‘I doubt she could have mended this quarrel, but I like to think she would have understood.’

‘I am sorry. I lost my father when I was twelve. I cried for days on end. Buckets and buckets.’

‘My father died when I was seventeen. I had stopped crying then.’

Lottie bit her lip, aware that she knew very little about the man standing next to her, very little about the man whose bed she would now share and whose table she would grace. She had always thought that she would have a long and proper courtship, but it had happened a different way. They would get to know each other in time. And some day, she would make him see that making social calls and being part of a community was important. It gave meaning to people’s lives. It enabled people to help each other and to help their families lead better lives.

‘We shouldn’t be talking about sad things on our wedding day.’

‘You are quite right—we should only speak of happy things.’

‘It is the polite thing to do.’

‘And you always do the polite thing.’

Lottie tilted her head. ‘Whenever possible. It saves making a spectacle.’

‘Then we had best move as we are beginning to make a spectacle.’

Tristan put his hand under her elbow and guided her away from the blacksmith’s shop. Lottie saw the curious stares from several women. With his other hand he carried her satchel as they walked slowly through the streets of Gretna Green. The market crowd had dispersed somewhat, but the streets still heaved with people. Twice, Lottie had to walk around a drunk lying the gutter.

‘Where are we going now?’ she asked as he strode along, not looking left or right. ‘What happens next?’

‘You are my wife and I shall take you back to the inn where hopefully the innkeeper will have prepared rooms for us.’

‘Do we have a private room?’ Lottie asked. She attempted a smile. She did not want to think about what men and women did in bed at night. She heard whispered rumours from the servants, and once at Martha Dresser’s house had come across Aristotle’s Complete Master Piece in a box of books that belonged to Martha’s grandmother. They had spent a half-hour giggling over the pictures before they’d been discovered and had their ears boxed.

‘Is that important to you?’

‘Yes.’ The word came out a squeak. The thought of being with her husband for the first time in a room crowded with strangers had no appeal. And yet, she could not bring herself to explain, to confess to her complete ignorance about lovemaking beyond the few kisses she had shared. ‘I know they must be at a premium, but somehow I don’t fancy sharing a bed with a stranger.’

‘And what would you call me?’ He gave a short laugh, but his eyes were sombre. ‘We are very much strangers to each other, Lottie.’

Lottie tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm.

‘My husband.’ The words sounded new and exciting, but more than a little dangerous. ‘I see no point in being old-fashioned and calling you Mr Dyvelston like Mama did with my father. It sounds so cold and formal. I…I want something more from our marriage.’

‘Somehow I can’t imagine you calling me Mr Dyvelston… ever.’ A tiny smile on his lips. ‘Tristan will suffice.’

Lottie tightened her grip on her reticule. Exactly who was her new husband? She had seen his controlled fury at the men earlier. She knew very little about him, about his prospects. And he appeared content to ignore Lord Thorngrafton’s generosity to them. No, not content, but determined. But that was a problem to be solved later.

‘And at least you call me Lottie. I loathe and detest Carlotta.’

‘I will try to remember that, Carlotta.’

Lottie started and then she saw the devilment in his eyes. She aimed a kick at him, which he neatly sidestepped.

‘But the rooms—will I be expected to go into a public room? It wouldn’t be seemly.’

‘My finances can stretch to a private room at that inn. I thought it would be better as we did marry this afternoon.’

‘You never said about money.’ Lottie stopped in the street, her slippers skidding into each other. Marriage meant sharing a bed. She forced her mind from that. ‘You never agreed to a settlement with my brother. Will we need to ask for Lord Thorngrafton’s assistance? You did borrow his carriage.’

‘I have enough. I have no need for Thorngrafton’s charity,’ he said and his eyes slid away from her.

A pain gathered behind Lottie’s eyebrows. He was trying to hide something from her. Had she fallen into a trap? She had not even thought about money; she had only thought about the shape of his lips and how they fit against hers. Mama had always told her to be sensible about men and she had failed, failed utterly and miserably. And now she was going to a mean inn for her wedding night. Her only comfort was that she remained respectable—barely.

‘What is the estate you inherited like? Is it in good repair?’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Please, I want to know. Is it a place to raise a family?’

He looked down at her and his black eyes flared with some unknown fire, a spark of something that ignited a glow within her. And she knew she had asked the right words. Then the mask came down.

‘It was a prosperous estate once, highly productive, but it has been neglected for many years. It has fine views of the river, a series of follies in the garden. It was quite well thought of in my grandfather’s day.’ Tristan looked ahead, rather than down at Lottie with her brave face and slightly torn dress. She had been battered more than he had intended before they were married, but here she remained firmly fixed on their social status. There were flashes in her of genuine concern, but he had to be sure. Too soon and he’d never know. Patience brought rewards. ‘My uncle took a perverse pride in letting me know about its neglect. How the fields were fallow, and how the garden had become choked with weeds.’

‘Neglect of good land is a crime.’ Lottie turned her gaze upwards and a furious expression came into her eyes. ‘Why would anyone do that? Was it because of a will? Was the estate stuck in chancery? Why didn’t anyone stop him?’

‘It belonged to him. What do you know about estates and chancery?’ A faint smile touched his lips as he realised a way to turn the conversation on to less rocky shoals. ‘I thought you were a city woman.’

‘I may look like just a pretty face, Tristan, but Mama was determined that I learn…as she was determined that I fulfil my destiny and marry a title or, failing that, someone very wealthy.’ Lottie paused and gave tiny shrug. ‘Not that it happened, but I needed to know something so I wouldn’t be a ninny. My skills can be put to good use.’

‘I think you are anything but a ninny.’ Tristan resisted the temptation to draw her into his arms and confess. How much did she truly know?

‘I thank you for the compliment.’ Lottie gave a little wave of her hand. ‘I know my limitations. I am not a blue stocking like Emma Stanton, nor am I the excellent housewife that my sister-in-law is. But I plan to be a social asset and help further your standing in the community.’

‘Whatever that is. I don’t recall ever worrying about it before.’

‘What did you do before you returned to England?’

‘I gambled and led a disreputable life.’ Tristan stopped and considered what to say. How much to reveal. How much to keep hidden until he was certain of her motives. ‘Most of your cousin’s stories contain an element of truth in them.’

‘Are you ashamed of the life you led?’ she asked. The rim of her bonnet shadowed her face, making it impossible for him to determine her expression.

‘Should I be?’ He raised an eyebrow and turned their footsteps once again towards the inn. He would tell her the truth and then see her reaction. ‘You probably think me wicked but, no, I am not ashamed. I did what I did for a purpose and I kept my promises.’

He waited for the gasp of horror, but instead she tightened her grip on his arm. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows. He resisted the temptation to smooth it away.

‘Some people like my cousin would say yes, you should, but I am not sure. Keeping your promises is important.’ She looked up into his face and he received the full blue gaze of her eyes. ‘Does that make me wicked as well? Everyone says that I am, but I don’t see it that way. My intentions are good.’

‘I cannot change the past, Lottie. I did what I did to survive.’ Tristan stopped by the inn’s stables. He grasped her shoulders. ‘Trust me?’

‘But…but…’ She pressed her hand to her lips, squared her shoulders. ‘I will trust you. You are my husband. I am sure you have done your best and will look after me.’

A twinge of guilt passed over Tristan. What would she say when she actually knew what he had done? He dismissed it. His experiment would work. ‘I will do well by you, Lottie.’

The smoke-hung public room fell silent as Lottie entered it. The crowd of drovers, workmen and ne’er-do-wells stared at them. Lottie shrank back against Tristan’s arm. She turned her face towards his frock coat, breathed in, tried to rid her nostrils of the awful stench. He put a hand on her shoulder and lifted her chin as his dark eyes searched her face.

‘Do I have to go through there? A woman tried to buy my hair! She appeared quite put out when I refused to sell it. Apparently golden curls are all the rage. I could get a good price for them, but they are mine.’

‘If you want to get to the room, you will have to go through the throng, but I will be with you.’ He touched her golden curls, a light touch, but one that sent a quiver arching through her. ‘There should never be a need for you to sell your hair. Or your ear bobs. Trust me to provide for you.’

‘How did you know she asked about those?’

‘It stands to reason.’ He gestured around the public room with its curling smoke and clanking tankards. ‘In a place like this, people are looking to buy and sell whatever they can.’

‘Do we have to stay here?’

‘I have paid for the room.’

‘I had rather thought it would be like the coaching inn that Mama and I stayed at when we went to Yorkshire once.’ Lottie attempted a brave smile as she groped for a clean handkerchief, but could only find the crumpled one from earlier. ‘Large clean rooms and an apple-cheeked proprietor. This inn has probably not been cleaned since the Jacobite rebellion. The ceiling is positively black with smoke.’

‘I regret that it is not up to your standards but it is where we are staying.’

‘It is not what was I was expecting.’ Lottie tried to keep her skirts out of the unidentified puddle on the floor, but failed. A small cry of distress escaped her lips. ‘It was my best afternoon dress.’

‘The room is better than this.’ His fingers tightened on her elbow.

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Dyvelston!’ A voice hailed Tristan from a corner table. ‘Here you are. Just the man for a game of cards.’

‘A friend of yours?’ Lottie asked, and her forehead puckered. Her husband was a gambler. He had to be if he was being hailed with such familiarity in an inn such as this one. She should have expected it, but she knew how much her father had hated cards. How he blamed them for his brother’s downfall. For some men, cards was more than a pleasant pastime, they were a way of life, a religion.

‘He is someone I knew once.’

‘From your dissolute days.’ Lottie strove to keep her voice light. ‘Are you going to have a game of cards?’

Tristan paused, frowning.

‘I will see you to the room. You need not worry about that.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘We are newly married, Lottie.’

‘That is no answer.’

‘It is all you will get.’ He started towards the stairs. ‘Are you coming with me or do you wish to be accosted by another buyer of hair? Or an owner of a nanny house?’

‘I will come.’ Lottie skirted around a second unidentified puddle on the sawdust-strewn floor and hurried after Tristan, reaching him just as he opened a door to the upstairs.

She followed Tristan up the stairs, along a narrow passageway, and then up another narrow flight of stairs. She tried to push away her fears. Tristan was taking her to their room. He had not abandoned her for a game of cards. Henry would have done that. Lucy was often left on her own. Ignored. Lottie wanted more from her marriage than Lucy had. She was determined to show Henry and Lucy that she could make a success of things.

Tristan opened the door and turned to her with a grim smile. ‘How do you like the accommodation?’

Lottie started. She had expected a large poster bed with a roaring fire and a wash basin. This room was mean with bare floors and furniture that looked as if it had come from the early part of the last century. The sagging bed with its stained, greying coverlet took up a large part of the room and appeared to grow bigger with each beat of her heart. She would be expected to share it with Tristan.

For the first time in her life, she was alone in a bedroom with a man, a stranger. Lottie struggled to breathe. No, not a stranger, her husband, the man who had held her in his arms last evening. What would he expect of her?

Suddenly the public room was not as frightening as here.

Lottie wished she had had Lucy to ask about it, and Mama had been no help. All she had said was that all men were beasts and want to have their own way; women had to preserve their dignity. Beasts. Rolling around on that bed? Lottie winced, not liking to think of fleas or other insects lurking. She had enough to worry about without wondering if she would be bitten alive. She swallowed hard and risked a glance up at Tristan. His eyes were hooded, but watching her, his entire body stilled, waiting.

‘You say nothing, wife. Does it measure up to your exacting standards?’

Lottie held back the arched remark she was about to make. This room was not his fault. It was quite probably the best he could afford. If he had known about Lord Thorngrafton’s money, then perhaps he would have procured a better room, but he hadn’t. And she had no wish to mock him. ‘The room will be lovely for the night, I am sure.’

‘It is a place to stay.’

‘Yes,’ Lottie said around the increasing lump in her throat. With every breath she took, it became harder and harder to pretend that this room was fine. Harder and harder to ignore the bed looming in the centre. ‘No doubt your house will be better than this.’

‘It may be. It may not be.’ Tristan gave a little shrug. ‘It has been vacant for years.’

Lottie did not dare reply. She wanted Tristan to take her in his arms again. She wanted it to be how it was last evening. She knew if his lips were against hers, she would not have to think or to worry.

‘Is there some problem, Lottie?’ Tristan put a hand on her shoulder, drew her to him. He pressed his lips to her temple. His breath against her cheek sent a pulse of warmth throughout. ‘Confide in me. What troubles you? Why don’t you like being here with me? Alone. You appeared to like being on the terrace with me last evening.’

‘Nothing troubles me.’

She turned her face upwards and met his mouth. Their lips touched, parted and she tasted him. A jolt ran through her, igniting her insides. She moaned slightly in the back of her throat, felt her body begin to arch, and stiffened, stunned by her reaction. His hands dropped away. The kiss ended as air rushed between them. He regarded her with a question in his eyes, but made no move to touch her.

‘Lottie, sweet Lottie.’

Lottie pressed her hand against her stomach, willed that the melting sensation would go away and tried not to think about what was to come. She knew her face flamed. What could happen if Tristan did not respect her?

The thoughts circled and circled in her head, making her dizzy. She had to find a way to breathe, to regain control of her thoughts and desires.

A distinct smell of wood smoke and cooking pervaded the room, gave her an excuse. ‘Is there a possibility of food? I barely had anything for supper last night. I feel a bit faint.’

It was better than the truth. She knew she had done something wrong, but she had no idea what she had done. Why he had put her away from him.

‘I will go and check.’ Tristan’s hand grasped the door. ‘It will give you time to change, and to get comfortable.’

‘Can you send someone to help me?’

‘To help you?’

‘I need a maid. I cannot undress myself.’ She gave a small shrug.

He looked puzzled, then his face cleared. His voice became velvet soft. ‘Unable to undress? Shall I play a lady’s maid?’ He came back over to her and trailed a hand along her shoulder. ‘I have had a bit of experience in how ribbons and laces become undone.’

Him? He thought her a strumpet. Her mouth went dry at the thought of his undoing her clothes. She remembered her mother’s other words. A lady did not show passion. A lady submitted. Surrendered.

She had no wish to repel him. She knew she was not ready to give away her soul. Last night at Shaw’s, his kisses had awakened something deep within her, a sort of hunger. But she wanted him to respect her. She was his wife, not his courtesan. She doubted if it would be possible to be both as much as she might like to be.

‘My corset ties at the back. It can be very tricky. A serving maid would be best. More dignified.’

‘If you wish, I only made the offer.’ His voice lost its warmth and became correct. ‘I have dealt with ladies’ laces before…in my misspent youth.’

‘Your misspent youth? It is different for a man. No one expects…no one makes comments…’ Lottie watched him. Would he help her? What would it be like to have his long fingers stroke her skin? To feel his mouth move on hers like it had last night? She daren’t ask in case he refused. She knew she was babbling, but anything to stop this growing dread inside her. What would he think of her without any clothes on? She hated her toes. Would he like her toes? Blind panic filled her. She knew nothing about lovemaking and he was an accomplished rake. He was used to women who knew how to please a man.

‘Lottie, sweetheart, tell me what you want. It is our wedding night.’ His voice played like silken velvet over her skin.

‘It would be useful to have someone.’ Lottie began to pace the room, unable to stand still, unable to think. ‘Is there anyone at Gortner Hall? I shared a maid with Mama and then Cousin Frances and we helped each other. It was not ideal, of course, but I made do. It does not have to be a French maid. Any girl would do. I could teach her to do my hair. I am sure I could.’

She knew she was babbling and watched his eyes grow cold and his hands fall to his sides.

‘I will send one of the serving maids with some bread and cheese. She should be able to help.’ He bowed and closed the door. ‘I will return shortly. That should give you enough time to make yourself decent.’

‘Decent. Yes, I will be decent.’

‘And, Lottie, there is no need to panic. I will send the maid. Remember to breathe while you wait.’ He touched his fingers to his temple. ‘It always helps.’

‘I am not panicking.’ She paused and smiled. ‘I have no desire to faint.’

‘That is a start.’ He closed the door softly behind him.

Lottie breathed again. She would have time to get her nerves together. She would make sure that she did not give in to her passion. She would be dignified. Tristan would respect her for that. Men wanted wives that they could respect, who could help them. She had to remember that. She listened to the sound of his boots going down the stairs. The despair inside her increased with each step.

Had her passion doomed the marriage before it had started?

Tristan sat nursing his second pint of bitter. The innkeeper had doctored the beer to a black sludge that gave no pleasure. He would give Lottie a bit of time before he returned to the room.

All around him, the dice rattled and the smoke swirled. Several ladies plied their trade. It was hard to imagine a more disreputable place, but it served its purpose. However, he wondered if he had made a slight error.

He had seen her face drain of colour when he suggested his playing the lady’s maid. Silently he cursed her mother or whoever had told her about the facts of life. He had never lain with a virgin before, and most in particular had never lain with one who was his wife.

He had a responsibility to awaken her properly, to teach her about passion, and that meant going slow, and not forcing her here where the memory might be distasteful. Tristan regarded the bottom of his pint glass. He had to decide where it would be. He had to balance his desire against the need to make sure her first experience went smoothly. A great deal of responsibility rested on his shoulders. He was determined that his marriage would be a passionate one. He’d felt the passion in her earlier when they’d kissed.

Tristan gave the remaining dark liquid a final swirl. He was not ready for this. He tried to think about his other piece of unfinished business—his cousin, and how he could ensure Peter remained true to his word.

‘Thorngrafton, it is you.’ A large hand pinned him to his stool. ‘I told Saidy that you weren’t answering to Dyvelston any more, not since your uncle kicked up his heels. That was why you ignored him. It is amazing what some forget.’

‘McGowan.’ Tristan nodded as he finished his drink. The only thing he could be grateful for was that McGowan had failed to accost him while Lottie was there. He needed her to remain in ignorance for a few days longer. His experiment had to succeed. ‘Is there some particular reason you are in Gretna Green?’

‘Passing through, but I am most surprised to find you in a hellhole like this one. I would have thought you were more accustomed to staying at the finer coaching inns.’

‘I have my reasons.’

‘And it doesn’t have anything to do with the beautiful blonde you were with—a real looker, that one. Golden curls, blue eyes and curves. You can pass her along to me when you’ve finished with her.’ McGowan gave a coarse laugh.

‘She’s my wife.’

‘Please give Lady Thorngrafton my compliments.’ McGowan’s leer told Tristan that he did not believe a word. ‘Do she have a sister or three?’

‘I will see that she gets your compliments.’ Tristan gritted his teeth. He had no intention of explaining his actions to McGowan, an acquaintance from those long-ago days when he had taken great pleasure in making sure his name was as scandalous as possible. The difference between them was now marked. Once McGowan had been considered handsome, but now he showed the signs of overindulgence and too much high living.

‘How came you to be let in the pockets?’ McGowan fingered his chin. ‘The last I heard you had done very nicely out of railways. One of the railway kings.’

‘People talk too much, but I have no money worries.’

‘Then why are you here? In this inn?’

‘I have my reasons.’ Tristan turned back to the barman, motioning for another pint. ‘Allow me to pay for the next round.’

‘Do you have time for a game of cards?’ McGowan persisted. ‘For old times’ sake. I can remember how you and I would play until the dawn broke. You always knew when to stop, though. You had the coolest head I have ever seen.’

‘You still play cards?’

‘Avidly—you should have seen the money Saidy won off some high-flaunting lord lately returned from India. The nabob thought he were a king at cards, but we got his vowels in the end.’

‘I will watch you play.’ Tristan smiled as an idea on how to teach Peter a lesson came to him. Simple. Neat. It simply took a cool head and a steady nerve. The same approach he had to use with Lottie. ‘There is a proposition I wish to put to you and Saidy. A little job that will put your…skills to good use, but you will be amply rewarded.’

‘You interest me greatly.’

Dearest Henry and Lucy,

I cannot tell you what a splendid wedding Tristan and I had. You have never seen the like! You would have been so proud. My step never faltered and I said my vows so all could hear.

Lottie turned her face away from the letter and wiped a tear. She would allow no blotches on the paper. They would never know her wedding was anything less than marvellous. The shame would be unbearable. With a shaking hand, she added a few more lines enquiring about Mama’s nerves, and her nieces and nephews. Then she sealed the letter and handed it to the serving girl.

‘Will that be all, ma’am?’

‘Your assistance is no longer required.’ Lottie took the last few coins from her reticule. ‘You have been most helpful. This should pay for the stamp as well as a little extra for your trouble. I do appreciate your help with the dress.’

The girl made another curtsy and left. Somewhere in the distance a door banged and loud footsteps sounded on the stairs. She hurried to the bed, dove in and pulled the sheets up to her chin.

‘Where are you, Tristan? Why did you leave me alone?’ she whispered and willed the door to open and her husband to appear.

Nothing.

A second set of footsteps came up the stairs, and several drunken voices argued about how much money was left in their purse and whether or not one or two of the lovely ladies downstairs would care to warm their beds.

Lottie clutched the sheet to her, and looked wildly about the room for a poker, for anything to defend her honour with. Her whole being longed for Tristan to appear and to cradle her. But when no one entered the room, she forced her hands to relax.

Her last waking thought before sleep overtook was that Tristan had not bothered to return. He was not interested in her. She wiped away a few tears and refused to cry. Crying only turned her nose red.

How everyone would laugh if they knew—the incomparable Lottie Charlton spending her wedding night alone in a filthy flea-infested coaching inn, fearful of drunken drovers and abandoned in favour of a card game by a husband who had married her out of duty. Married in a torn dress, a crushed bonnet and with an iron ring for a wedding band.

This was not how her life was supposed to go—at all.

Lottie slammed her fist into the pillow and resolved that, somehow, she would triumph. She would make this into a glorious match, if she could only figure out a way. She wanted a diffeent way. She deserved better. She would find that way.

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