Michelle Styles

by An Impulsive Debutante

  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.’

  ‘You still play cards?’

  ‘Avidly—you should have seen the money Saidy won off some high-flaunting lord lately returned from India. The nabob thought he were a king at cards, but we got his vowels in the end.’

  ‘I will watch you play.’ Tristan smiled as an idea on how to teach Peter a lesson came to him. Simple. Neat. It simply took a cool head and a steady nerve. The same approach he had to use with Lottie. ‘There is a proposition I wish to put to you and Saidy. A little job that will put your…skills to good use, but you will be amply rewarded.’

  ‘You interest me greatly.’

  Dearest Henry and Lucy,

  I cannot tell you what a splendid wedding Tristan and I had. You have never seen the like! You would have been so proud. My step never faltered and I said my vows so all could hear.

  Lottie turned her face away from the letter and wiped a tear. She would allow no blotches on the paper. They would never know her wedding was anything less than marvellous. The shame would be unbearable. With a shaking hand, she added a few more lines enquiring about Mama’s nerves, and her nieces and nephews. Then she sealed the letter and handed it to the serving girl.

  ‘Will that be all, ma’am?’

  ‘Your assistance is no longer required.’ Lottie took the last few coins from her reticule. ‘You have been most helpful. This should pay for the stamp as well as a little extra for your trouble. I do appreciate your help with the dress.’

  The girl made another curtsy and left. Somewhere in the distance a door banged and l
oud footsteps sounded on the stairs. She hurried to the bed, dove in and pulled the sheets up to her chin.

  ‘Where are you, Tristan? Why did you leave me alone?’ she whispered and willed the door to open and her husband to appear.

  Nothing.

  A second set of footsteps came up the stairs, and several drunken voices argued about how much money was left in their purse and whether or not one or two of the lovely ladies downstairs would care to warm their beds.

  Lottie clutched the sheet to her, and looked wildly about the room for a poker, for anything to defend her honour with. Her whole being longed for Tristan to appear and to cradle her. But when no one entered the room, she forced her hands to relax.

  Her last waking thought before sleep overtook was that Tristan had not bothered to return. He was not interested in her. She wiped away a few tears and refused to cry. Crying only turned her nose red.

  How everyone would laugh if they knew—the incomparable Lottie Charlton spending her wedding night alone in a filthy flea-infested coaching inn, fearful of drunken drovers and abandoned in favour of a card game by a husband who had married her out of duty. Married in a torn dress, a crushed bonnet and with an iron ring for a wedding band.

  This was not how her life was supposed to go—at all.

  Lottie slammed her fist into the pillow and resolved that, somehow, she would triumph. She would make this into a glorious match, if she could only figure out a way. She wanted a different way. She deserved better. She would find that way.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Oy, you in there, get up. We need the room. You only paid until morning. It’s first light now!’

  A steady pounding on the door opposite them woke Lottie from her slumber. She pushed at the unaccustomed weight of an arm around her middle and suddenly realised that yesterday had been no dream. She was married. And Tristan was in bed with her. Not only in bed, but her bottom was snuggled up against him in a suggestive manner and her whole being infused with the warmth of him as his breath tickled the nape of her neck.

  He must have come in some time in the night. And so great was her exhaustion that she hadn’t woken. She should have done. Lottie bit her lip, regretting her late-night thoughts, regretting her damp pillow.

  Had he noticed?

  She resolved to be a better wife. She would give him no cause to run away and play cards. Her mother must have been right and her passionate response to his kiss disgusted him. She longed to have been wrong.

  Half-turning her head, she caught his deep dark gaze watching her. The sight took her breath away and took all thoughts from her head. She could only drown in his eyes as deep hunger grew within her.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, running a finger down her arm and sending a warm sensation pulsating through her. ‘You were sleeping like an angel when I came to bed.’

  ‘There is someone banging on all the doors,’ Lottie said, hanging on to the last remnant of common sense. ‘He wants money. Do we owe him money?’

  ‘He won’t come in here.’

  ‘I rather think he means business. He will kick the door down.’ Lottie fought against the tide of rising panic that threatened to engulf.

  ‘He wouldn’t want to damage his own property.’ His breath tickled her neck.

  ‘Tristan!’ Lottie covered her ears with her hands.

  ‘If you insist, I will see what can be done to preserve your sensibilities.’

  Tristan removed his arm and stood up, totally unconcerned about his nakedness. His skin gleamed golden in the morning light. Lottie looked at his chest with its sprinkling of dark hair and then forced her eyes higher. She had been sleeping with a naked man and had brazenly pushed herself up against him. Was she a wanton creature?

  He pulled his trousers on, and did up the buttons.

  ‘How can you be so casual about this?’ Lottie clutched the sheet and raised it to her chin. ‘We will be disgraced! He is only next door. I am sure of it!’

  ‘The room! Or more money!’ The pounding increased. ‘I will have the law on you.’

  ‘We will leave in less time than it takes to get the constable!’ a man shouted back. And a woman’s voice hurled abuse at the innkeeper.

  ‘Quit your blathering! You will wake the dead!’ another yelled.

  ‘Are you telling me to get the constable? I will and I will have every man Jack of you out of this inn. This here inn is a respectable place.’

  Lottie regarded the door with horror. What was happening out there? Was the innkeeper demanding money from everyone? Was she going to be treated like some wastrel?

  ‘Please, Tristan, I beg you—do something.’ She made a little gesture as insults were exchanged between the innkeeper and the unknown guest. ‘I am not decent. Goodness knows what sort of mood the innkeeper will be in when he knocks on our door. Please, Tristan.’

  ‘Relax, Lottie. I have taken care of matters. We are safe, but if you are worried…’ He opened the door, and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. ‘Is there some problem?’

  The reply was muffled, but the knocking ceased abruptly and the innkeeper went off, grumbling. Lottie rested her head against her chest. She was safe. She was not going to face the humiliation of being thrown out of the inn without any clothes on. But would the innkeeper come back? She tucked a strand behind her ear and tried to collect her thoughts.

  Tristan came back to bed and put his hands on either side of her face. ‘He has gone now, Lottie. You can stop trembling with fear. You won’t have the innkeeper barging in.’

  ‘The shame of it. I couldn’t stand the shame.’ She concentrated on taking steady breaths. ‘That poor couple. Do you think they had just married?’

  ‘I have no idea. They have nothing to do with me. I did not want you to be fearful of the innkeeper.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Lottie watched the muscles ripple on his shoulder and her lips ached.

  ‘Perhaps I should have come back to bed earlier. Then you could have expressed your gratitude more properly.’ He trailed a hand down her arm. ‘But it is too late for regrets. We have to move. The day is wasting.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Lottie asked quickly. If his hand continued to stroke her arm, she would lose all power of movement. All her resolutions would be forgotten before she had even risen from the bed. ‘What are your plans?’

  ‘To Gortner Hall, the house I inherited in the North Tyne Valley.’ Tristan withdrew his hands and stood up. He picked his shirt up from the end of the bed. ‘Where we shall spend our days.’

  ‘There is to be no wedding trip, then?’ Lottie hated the plaintive note to her voice. She knew their wedding was unorthodox, but she had thought they might have a trip, go somewhere before she was buried in the country. Even Henry had taken Lucy to France. A week in Calais. She was going nowhere. There were no doubt some who would say the punishment was justified, but she had always dreamt of a splendid wedding trip.

  ‘I had not planned to marry. There are things that need my attention. The estate was left vacant for a long period. There is much to do. It will be restored to its former glory.’

  ‘Lord Thorngrafton’s coachman has gone.’ Lottie wrapped her arms about her knees. She had to be practical. She had to put aside her girlish fantasies, even if it pained her to do so. She had not married a fairy-tale prince; she had married Tristan, a man who had inherited a small, vacant estate. In time, things would improve. She had to be practical, but there remained a little piece of her that wished she didn’t. The sooner they arrived at Gortner Hall, the better. A long, low wail resounded through the room and gave Lottie an idea. ‘Shall we take the express? There is one that runs to Carlisle. I overheard Henry speaking about it the other night at dinner. The speeds are incredible—over forty miles per hour in some places. The first-class carriage has real armchairs.’

  Tristan’s hands stilled on his shirt buttons and his face once again wore his remote look. Lottie shifted slightly. Had her tongue run away with her again? What was wrong with
the train? It was surely practical. She had not suggested buying a new carriage.

  ‘That train costs large sums of money. A third of a month’s wage for a labourer.’

  ‘But you are not a labourer.’ Lottie swallowed hard and struggled to breathe normally. What was Tristan saying? How poor were they? ‘You are a gentleman. You were born one.’

  ‘You have not seen what needs to be done on the estate.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘My hands will soon become as rough as any farmer’s.’

  ‘You are not suggesting we walk all the way there?’ Lottie strove for a laugh.

  ‘Walking is one way of travelling. Country folk do it all the time.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ She thought about her slippers and wished she had brought her boots. She had never considered the possibility of walking. Surely he had to be joking. Her slippers would not make it and her feet would be cut to ribbons. If they were going to walk, she’d need stout boots. A train journey would cost less than stout boots. It had to. ‘Gortner Hall is…in the North Tyne and we are in Scotland. It took us all night to drive here from Gilsland and we travelled with fast horses. How long would it take us to walk that distance and more? A day? Two?’

  ‘Don’t you fancy a night or two out on the open countryside—you, me and a friendly haystack?’ His dark eyes danced as he expertly did up his cravat. He had once again become remote. It was as if suddenly there was a wall between them.

  ‘Surely we are not reduced to begging.’ The blanket she had been clutching to her chest fell unheeded as Lottie realised the potential. Begging. Being classed as a vagrant. Maybe if she was very unlucky, being thrown in the stocks. She would become one of the despised. There had to be a way of avoiding that fate. ‘My settlement…we can borrow against that. It will be more than enough to take the first-class express.’