Michelle Styles
Page 1
Tristan lowered his mouth, captured hers.
A feather-light touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her.
“Kiss me again,” she whispered, pulling his head down to hers, whispering against his firm mouth. “One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.”
He lowered his mouth again, and this time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot, pulsating waves.
Her breasts strained against the confines of her corset. Ached. She felt the material give and his cool fingers slide against her fevered skin. She sighed and parted her lips, drunk on the scent of him. His lips trailed down her neck, tasted her skin and began to slowly travel lower.
An Impulsive Debutante
Harlequin® Historical #286—June 2010
Author Note
This story came about because my daughter loved and adored a secondary character in A Christmas Wedding Wager. She begged and pleaded that Lottie Charlton needed to have her own story, and so, wishing to keep peace and harmony within my family, I agreed. It turned out to be a real pleasure to write.
As ever, I love getting reader feedback, either via post to Harlequin, my Web site, www.michellestyles.co.uk, or my blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com.
MICHELLE STYLES
An Impulsive Debutante
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
MICHELLE STYLES
The Gladiator’s Honor #817
The Roman’s Virgin Mistress #858
A Christmas Wedding Wager #878
Taken by the Viking #898
Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife #926
The Viking’s Captive Princess #974
Sold and Seduced #278
A Noble Captive #282
An Impulsive Debutante #286
Praise for Michelle Styles
THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS
“Basing her love story on an ancient Viking legend, Styles spins the tale of a Viking warrior and a princess. She maintains the myth while adding sexual tension, nonstop action and spice.”
—RT Book Reviews
VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE
“A family in conflict, an ambitious hero bent on vengeance and a bold woman hiding a secret quest for salvation combine for a heady, tension-filled, passionate sequel to Taken by the Viking.”
—RT Book Reviews
TAKEN BY THE VIKING
“Styles’ descriptive writing and jump-off-the-pages characters shine in this awesome story.”
—RT Book Reviews
MICHELLE STYLES
Although born and raised near San Francisco, Michelle Styles currently lives in England, a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she has always been interested in history, and a historical romance is her idea of the perfect way to relax. She is particularly interested in how ordinary people lived during ancient times, and in the course of her research she has learned how to cook Roman food as well as how to use a drop spindle. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework, in particular counted cross-stitch. Michelle maintains a Web site, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.
For the students and teachers of Crystal Springs Uplands School, class of 1982, in particular for the head of the English Department— Mrs. Norma Fifer.
Truly an inspirational teacher.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter One
1847 Haydon Bridge, Northumberland
‘I kept my promise, Father.’ Tristan Dyvelston, the new Lord Thorngrafton, placed his hand on his father’s grave and his fingers touched the smooth black marble, tracing his father’s name. He glanced down at the weed-infested grave.
‘Your brother has died,’ he said solemnly, repeating the vow he had made on this very spot ten years ago. ‘I have returned to take the title. I will be above reproach now. But while my uncle was alive I wanted him to think the worst about me and to fear for the future of his beloved title.’
He bowed his head and stepped back from the grave. One part of his oath was complete.
The late morning sunlight broke through the cloud and illuminated the ruins for a single glorious moment, making it seem like he had stepped into one of John Martin’s more evocative paintings. Tristan tightened his grip on his cane. Here was no picture to be admired. The scene showed how much had to be done. How much would be done.
He was under no illusion about the enormity of his task. His parents’ graves lay under a tangled mass of nettles and brambles. In the ten years since he had last been here, the entire churchyard had fallen into decay, echoing the state of Gortner Hall, some fifteen miles away. He would put that right, eventually. His uncle was no longer there to object.
He traced the lettering on his mother’s grave. How would the county greet the return of the black sheep? He had heard the tales his uncle had spread—the gossip, the scandal and the plain twisting of the facts. His uncle had sought to deny him everything but the title and the entailed estate, a dry husk, long starved of any funds. Tristan took great pleasure in confounding his expectations.
The clicking of a gate caused him to turn. Irritated.
A blonde woman with a determined expression on her face tiptoed into the churchyard, glanced furtively about and raised a shining object into the air. The sunlight glinted on it, sending a beam of light to dance on the yew trees. Tristan relaxed slightly. She was not someone he had ever encountered before and therefore was unlikely to recognise him. But there was something about the way the petite woman held her head that intrigued him.
Why would anyone come here?
She wrinkled her nose, fiddled with the object again and finally gave a huge sigh of satisfaction. ‘I told Cousin Frances that a moonlight aspect would work better than a Gilpin tint, and I was correct. She will have to retract her scornful words. The church could be romantic in the moonlight. One would have to imagine the hooting owl, but it could be done. It could be painted.’
Tristan jumped and considered how best to respond to the statement. Then he gave an irritated frown as he realised that the woman was not speaking to him. He regarded her for another instant as she peered intently at the object in her hand. He gave a wry smile as he realised the object’s identity—a Claude glass, a mirror that prettified the landscape and allowed the viewer to see it at different times of the year, or hours of the day, simply through changing the tinted glass. It all made sense. She had come in search of landscapes.
If he was lucky, it would be just the Claude glass and a few ladies to coo and ahh at the ruins. If he was unlucky, they would have brought their watercolour paints, brushes and easels, the better to capture the romantic ruins. He lifted his eyes towards heaven. God preserve him from ladies wielding Claude glasses, their pursuit of culture and their self-righteous indignation that others should not share their same view of the world, interrupting his first chance to pay his respects to his parents. Tristan frowned. Not if he acted first.
‘Precisely how many more of you are there?’ he asked, making sure his voice carried across the disused churchyard. �
��How many more are there in the horde?’
The woman spun around, her mouth forming an O. She had one of those fashionable china-doll faces—blue eyes and pink cheeked in a porcelain oval. The lightness of her complexion was highlighted against the darkness of the yew hedge, giving her almost an angelic appearance, but there was a sensuousness about her mouth, a hint of slumbering passion in her eyes. Her well-cut walking dress hinted at her rounded curves as well as revealing her tiny waist. A temptress rather than a blue stocking.
‘You are not supposed to be here,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips and gesturing with her Claude glass. ‘Nobody ever comes here. Cousin Frances told me emphatically—Haydon Church is always deserted.’
‘Your cousin was obviously mistaken. I am here.’
‘My cousin dislikes admitting mistakes, but she will be forced to concede this time.’ The woman hid her mouth behind her hand and gave a little laugh. ‘She much prefers to think that since she has her nose in a book all the time, she knows rather more than me. But she can be blind to the world around her, the little details that make life so interesting and pleasant.’
‘And you are not? Looking at the world through a mirror can give a distorted view.’
‘I am using both my eyes now.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you up to no good? Cousin Frances says that often you meet the nefarious sort in churchyards. It says so in all the novels she reads. It is why she refused to visit.’
‘But she thinks it deserted.’
‘Except for the desperate. Are you desperate?’
‘I am visiting my parents’ graves.’
‘You are an orphan!’ The woman clasped her gloved hands together. ‘How thrilling. I mean, it’s perfectly tragic and all that, but rather romantic. What is it like not to have family considerations? Or expectations? Is it lonely being an orphan?’ Her face sobered. ‘How silly of me. If it wasn’t lonely, you wouldn’t be visiting your parents and attempting to derive some small amount of comfort from their graves.’
‘There is that.’ Tristan allowed the woman’s words to flow over him, a pleasing sound much like a brook.
She came over and stood by him, peering at the ground. ‘You should tend their graves better. They are swamped in nettles and brambles. It is the right and proper thing to do. An orphan should look after his parents’ graves.’
‘I intend to. I have only recently returned from the continent after a long absence.’ Tristan stared at her with her ridiculous straw bonnet and cupid’s-bow mouth. Right and proper? Who was she to lecture him?
‘That explains the entire situation. You had expectations of another’s help, but that person failed you.’ She gave him a beatific smile. ‘Orphans cannot depend on other people. They can only look to themselves.’
‘How very perceptive of you.’
‘I try. I am interested in people.’ She modestly lowered her lashes.
He straightened his cuffs, drew his mind away from the dark smudges her lashes made against her skin. ‘How many more shall be invading my peace? Ladies with Claude glasses have the annoying habit of travelling in packs, intent on devouring culture and the picturesque.’
Her pink cheeks flamed brighter and she scuffed a toe of her boot along the dirt path. ‘I am the only one. And I have never hunted in a pack. You make society ladies sound like ravening beasts, longing to bring men down when, in fact, they are the ones who provide the niceties of civilisation. They make communities thrive. When I think about the good works—’
‘Only you? Are you sure that is prudent?’ Tristan cut off the discussion on good works with a wave of his hand.
Even though Haydon Bridge was rural Northumberland, the woman did not appear the sort who would be allowed to roam free and unaccompanied. Her pink-and-white-checked gown was too well cut and her straw bonnet too new and finely made. Her accent, although it held faint traces of the north-east, was clear enough to indicate she had been trained from an early age by a succession of governesses.
‘I am able to look after myself. I know the value of a well-sharpened hat pin.’
‘You never know what sort of people you might meet.’
‘It is the country, after all, not London or Newcastle.’ Her cheeks took on a rosy hue and she lowered her tone to a confidential whisper. ‘I am aiding and abetting a proposal. At times like these, positive action is required, even if there is an element of risk.’
‘A proposal?’ Tristan glanced over his shoulder, fully expecting to see some puffed-up dandy or farmer advancing towards them. ‘Tell me where the unfortunate man is and I shall beat a hasty retreat.’
‘Not mine. My cousin’s.’
‘The one who is mistaken about graveyards,’ Tristan said, and struggled to keep his face straight. It made a change to speak about things other than the state of Gortner Hall’s leaking roof, the fallow fields and the other ravages that his uncle had wreaked on the estate.
‘That’s right.’ There was a sort of confidence about the woman, the sort that is easily destroyed later in life. ‘All Frances ever does is read Minerva Press novels and sigh about Mr Shepard’s fine eyes and his gentle manner. What is the good with sighing and not acting positively? She needed some help and advice.’
‘Which you have offered…unasked.’
She held up her hand and her body stilled; an intent expression crossed her face. ‘There, can you hear it?’
The sound of a faint shriek wafted on the breeze. Tristan lifted an eyebrow. ‘It sounds as if someone is strangling a cat. Is this something you are concerned about? Should I investigate?’
‘My cousin Frances, actually. She is busy being rescued from the Cruel Sykes burn.’ She tilted her head, listening and then gave a decided nod. The bow of her mouth tilted upwards. ‘Definitely Cousin Frances. We practised the shriek a dozen times and she still managed to get it wrong. She needed to gently shriek, and to grab his arm, but not to claw it. I do hope she has not pulled him in. That would be insupportable. Truly insupportable.’
‘All this is in aid of?’
‘Her forthcoming marriage to Mr Kent Shepard.’
The woman drew a breath and Tristan noticed the agreeable manner in which she filled out her gingham bodice. But he knew she was also well aware of the picture she created. A minx who should be left alone. Trouble. He would make his excuses and depart before he became ensnared in any of her ill-considered schemes.
‘Cousin Frances has to get engaged. She simply has to. Everything in my life depends on it.’
‘Why should it matter to you?’ His curiosity overcame him.
‘I was unjustly banished.’ The woman wrinkled her nose. ‘It was hardly my fault that Miss Emma Harrison kissed Jack Stanton in a sleigh in full view of any passing stranger.’
‘Jack Stanton is well able to look after himself.’ Tristan gave a laugh. His impression had been correct. She was the sort of woman to stay away from. Trouble with a capital T. ‘I hope your friend was not too inconvenienced, but she picked the wrong man to kiss. Jack is a good friend of mine and not given to observing the niceties of society.’
‘Do you?’
‘When the occasion demands. I was born a gentleman. But Jack…is immune to such stratagems. It is amazing the lengths some women will go to.’
‘It all ended happily as they were married, just before Christmas.’ Her eyes blazed as she drew herself up to her full height. ‘You obviously do not know your friends as well as you think you do.’
‘I have been travelling on the Continent. But if it ended happily, why were you banished?’
‘My brother Henry was furious. He turned a sort of mottled purple and sent me out here to Aunt Alice until I could learn to keep my mouth quiet. “Lottie,” he said, “you have no more sense than a gnat,” which was a severely unkind thing to say.’
‘And have you? Learnt to keep your mouth quiet?’
‘Yes.’ Lottie Charlton looked at the elegantly dressed man lounging against a yew tree with exaspe
ration. Who was he with his dark eyes and frowning mouth to sit judgement on her? He was not her brother or any sort of relation. She snapped the Claude glass shut and took as deep a breath as her stays would allow her. ‘I have, but Henry refuses to answer any of my impassioned pleas. He ignores me. And Mama is being no help at all. She keeps going on about her nerves and how unsettling family disagreements are, but she refuses to do anything.’
‘And you dislike being ignored, forced to the margins.’
Lottie retained a check on her temper—barely. They were not even formally introduced and already this man had picked her character to shreds. ‘This is my best chance, my only chance, to get back to Newcastle this season. I know it is. My dream of a London Season has vanished for the moment, but there are appearances to maintain. And some day I shall visit all the great cities—London, Paris and Rome. I plan to be the toast of them all.’
‘How so? Haydon Bridge is very far from these places.’ The man lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed with the brilliance of her scheme.
‘I am well aware of geography.’ Lottie pressed her hands together. She had to remain calm. ‘Aunt Alice will have undying gratitude to me if I arrange this marriage between Cousin Frances and Mr Shepard. Mr Shepard has been making sheep’s eyes at Cousin Frances for weeks now, and the only thing Cousin Frances can do is blush and readjust her pince-nez.’
‘And you are an expert in these matters.’ His eyes travelled slowly down her and Lottie fought against the impulse to blush. ‘You look all of seventeen.’
‘Twenty in a month’s time. My sister-in-law sent me the Claude glass for an early birthday present. It is quite the rage, you know.’
‘Nineteen is not a great age.’ A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his features. Darkly handsome, she believed it was called, like one of those heroes in Cousin Frances’s Minerva Press novels. ‘When you are my age, you will see that.’