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‘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?’