Читать книгу An Impulsive Debutante - Michelle Styles, Michelle Styles - Страница 8

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.’