Prejudice in Regency Society: An Impulsive Debutante / A Question of Impropriety

‘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.’