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‘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.’
