‘What happens now?’ Lottie looked about the shadowy hall and shivered. Although it was neat and clean, it had not been redecorated since the war or even before. The silk wallpaper was stained and torn in places, and the white surrounds showed a yellowing that could only come with extreme age. ‘Am I supposed to find my own room? Do we have any food?’
She hated the way her voice sounded and resisted the temptation to cling to Tristan’s arm. She also wished that she had not read quite so many of Cousin Frances’s books. The memory of them provided little comfort. She was tempted to jump at every sound.
‘I am hardly likely to leave you on your own, Lottie. You are my wife.’ His smile increased. ‘The master bedroom is in good repair. I did spend a few days here, before I went to visit my parents’ graves.’
‘The master bedroom? Husbands and wives rarely share rooms.’ Lottie focussed on the ripped silk wallpaper that hung from the walls rather than on Tristan. They were here. Alone. There was no excuse for him not to touch her. She wanted him to kiss her again, like he had done on the road. But she also knew she was untried. What if she did disappoint? Desire and fear swamped her in equal measure.
‘It is well that I do not circulate in the upper echelons of the middle class, Lottie.’ His dry voice brought her back to the present. ‘I fear the rules would bring out the rebel in me. I will maintain my own separate dressing room, if you require it. My parents always slept in the same bed.’
‘Some of us have little choice in the matter, Mr Dyvelston. It is a matter of where we are born, and where we aspire to be.’
‘And you aspired to a life of pincushions, shell pictures, visiting cards and At Homes.’
‘It is good enough for my mother and sister-in-law.’ She held her reticule in front of her like a shield and pretended that her feet did not hurt. She did not even dare sink down on a chair and inspect her slippers. She had felt the cold seeping through during the last part of the walk and was certain a huge hole had developed in her right slipper. How could she have been so stupid to accept Mrs Foster’s blithe assurance that it was an easy walk? Maybe for someone in stout boots, but in slippers, her feet ached like fire.
She had kept herself going by concentrating on the journey’s end. She wanted a warming cup of hot chocolate or, failing that, tea.
Lottie regarded her hands. That was a lie. She wanted more than that. Mainly she wanted her old life back, the one she’d had before she had met Tristan. She would even like to hear one of Cousin Frances’s tales. She had had enough of adventures, but she couldn’t go back. She was married. And if she went back she would have to give up Tristan and his kisses.
‘Mama and Lucy appear content to prick pincushions and host At Homes. I like watercolours, painting landscapes. It gives me something else to converse about.’
‘That, with the greatest respect, Lottie, is not an answer. It should be what you want from life, not what other people want for you.’
Lottie regarded her gloves, picked at a smudge. ‘Very few people have ever bothered to ask me what I truly want and even fewer people have listened.’
‘I am listening now.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder, briefly for an instant. ‘Lottie, what do you want from life? What sort of life do you want to have?’
One where I am loved and can love back. The words sprang unbidden to her mind, but she knew could not say them to Tristan. Love had nothing to do with their bargain. He had married her to save them both from the social wilderness. Love and affection played no part. She had to remember that. Maybe in time, they would reach some sort of mutual friendship. Friendship? Already she knew she wanted more than that.
‘You promised me…’ Lottie felt her throat begin to close. She stepped back away from him. Gave a small yelp as a splinter worked its way through a hole in her slipper. She winced, but resisted the temptation to examine the size of it.
‘What have you done?’ Tristan’s face became hard. ‘What are you not telling me, Carlotta? What are you keeping from me?’
‘You said that you wouldn’t call me Carlotta.’ Lottie crossed her arms. This was all his fault, and he did not even care that her feet ached. He had allowed her to accept the lift, knowing full well how long of a march they would have. He had tricked her, and now he was calling her Carlotta. Tears pushed against her eyelids, threatened to spill over.
Tristan put his hand under her elbow. ‘Only when you have done injury to yourself and refuse to tell me about it. Now what have you done? You can barely stand up straight.’
‘Nothing, nothing at all.’ Lottie jerked her elbow from his grasp. She refused to give way to tears. If she did that, she would not be able to stop, and she had no wish to make a scene.
‘It looks more than nothing.’
Lottie ignored Tristan’s outstretched hand and concentrated on moving slowly towards a chair. Now that they had stopped, her feet seemed to have seized up. It had been fine while they’d been walking. She had simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, knew that there would be no respite and he would not give her any aid if she stumbled. But now, in this shadowy hall with its torn silk wallpaper and dusty pictures, her feet burned and ached. She knew she could not take another step, but she also did not want to give Tristan the satisfaction. He seemed to think she was spoilt and unfit for anything, but she wasn’t.
‘Nothing that could not have been predicted from my attire.’ She gave a shrug. ‘I told you that I was not dressed for marching. You knew how far it would be to Gortner Hall and you let me—’
‘Sit down!’
‘I am fine, I tell you.’ Lottie refused to cry. She refused to allow Tristan to bully her. ‘I may have lost my bonnet and my shoes may be ruined. I have not begun to examine the tears in my dress. How Mama could ever have considered lightweight silk a suitable costume for an elopement, I have no idea, but I made the mistake of listening to her. Many other people have weathered far worse storms, I am sure.’
Tristan closed his eyes, his hands balled at his sides. Lottie braced herself for an explosion but she would not apologise. She glared at him as he opened his eyes again, matching his dark, intent gaze with one of her own. Slowly, one by one, his fingers relaxed.
‘Lottie, please, I beg you, sit down and allow me to look at the damage.’ His voice became as smooth as silk, sliding over her skin like a caress. ‘I did not think about your shoes. I wanted to teach you a lesson about assuming things and I was wrong.’
‘You did what?’ Lottie’s breath stopped in her throat. Her brow knotted. A lesson? What right did he have to presume to teach her anything? She had thought she was helping! ‘You allowed this to happen?’
‘I failed to consider the condition of your shoes.’
‘You knew I was not dressed for walking long distances.’
‘We shall add them to the list of things that need to be replaced.’
‘They were my favourite pair.’ Lottie gazed down at them ruefully. ‘They were beautiful.’
‘I shall see what can be done.’ He placed a hand on her elbow. ‘But right now, my main concern is your feet. The shoes were objects. You are a person and in pain. I never meant to cause you pain. I am sorry, Lottie. Truly and abjectly sorry.’
The quick retort died on her lips. He was contrite? He had apologised? Tristan? She had been prepared to hate him and he did this. Looked at her with such intensity and regret that her heart turned over. And she knew she could forgive him almost anything.
Lottie sank gratefully down onto the small chair next to the table. He knelt beside her and eased off one of her slippers. His face darkened as the stocking revealed the extent of the damage. Lottie stared at the mess of torn stockings and her reddened feet. Tristan’s mouth twisted and he shook his head.
‘I made it to the hall without complaining.’
‘Your feet are bleeding.’ He ran a finger along the sole of one foot. Gentle hands removed her stockings. Lottie tried not to wince as his fingers probed. Three blisters
had popped. ‘When were you going to tell me that your feet were this injured? Or were you enjoying playing the martyr?’
‘I thought you might think me spoilt.’ She glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I wanted to show you that I could enter into the spirit of the thing. Maybe I should have asked.’
He knelt, holding her foot, not saying anything, simply rubbing it between his two hands. She concentrated on the blue-blackness of his hair and the way it curled slightly at the nape of his neck. She resisted the urge to bury her hands in it and to bring his face to hers.
‘Tristan,’ she whispered, ‘are you very angry with me?’
He let go of her foot and stood up. Handed her the candle, seemingly oblivious to her torment. ‘Carry this. Keep it steady. Whatever you do, don’t blow it out. I have no wish to be plunged into darkness as we go up the stairs.’
‘I will try not to drop it, but my feet pain me so. I am not sure how steady I will be.’ Lottie regarded the long flight of stairs that seemed to stretch for ever into the blackness. She wasn’t sure she could walk even five steps, let alone the whole thing.
‘Concentrate and you will keep it steady. I know you can do that, Lottie.’
‘You ask too much.’ Lottie made a little movement with her hand. Angry tears came to her eyes. He kept asking her to do things, impossible things. Yesterday, he had left her on her own; today, he had made her take a parliamentary, spend time in a third-class waiting room, beg for a lift from a farmer’s widow and then walk miles in her slippers. Now he expected her to do more. ‘I have tried, Tristan, you must believe that. But here I stay. My legs refuse your command.’
‘I did not ask you to walk, only to hold a candle. You must stop assuming things, Lottie. You always make assumptions about people and things.’ Without waiting for an answer, he swung her into his arms and advanced towards the stairs. His boots resounded on the marble floor. ‘I never wanted to hurt you.’
‘You will drop me.’ Lottie hastily wrapped an arm about his neck and clung as he began to mount the stairs. He made it seem as if she were featherlight and he had not been walking as far as she had. ‘I am going to fall.’
‘Not with my arms about you. Keep the candle steady, Lottie, and hold it higher.’ His lips were just above her hair. The sound of his heart thumped in her ears.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the bedroom. I have something there that might ease your aches and pains.’ He readjusted his hold on her, moved his arms so she was propped against his chest, but his touch was impersonal.
A liquid fire went through her limbs. She wanted to go there, but not like this. She must more closely resemble a drowned rat or a street urchin. And there would be no one to help with her clothes except for Tristan. Once again she would fail in her duty as a wife. She concentrated on the portraits, rather than on the beating of his heart. This time, she did not want to give him an excuse to leave her.
‘Your family?’ she asked as many of the portraits had a look of Tristan about them—a wild, untamed look as if they were ready to take on the world.
‘The Dyvelstons. I am the last one.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘All this history has come down to one person. One unworthy person.’
Her brain buzzed, but she was so tired that she could not think straight. All she could think was that he wasn’t unworthy. He had saved her twice. Underneath everything, there was kindness. ‘There is your cousin—Lord Thorngrafton.’
‘I try not to think about him.’
‘But surely your uncle—?’ Lottie began, turning her head.
‘Hold the candle steady. Do you want to plunge us into darkness? I need to see where to put my feet.’
‘I am trying to.’ Lottie lifted the candle higher and strange elongated shadows danced in the hallway. Then she stared at the ruined portrait of the woman dressed in clothes fashionable about a decade before. The gilt frame was lavish, but the portrait was slashed from top to bottom several times. ‘Who did that?’
‘Did you know that you are getting heavy?’ He shifted her so that she was no longer looking at the portrait, but instead facing his lips.
‘You should let me hobble. I will be too heavy for you. Cousin Frances told me that I look like a stuffed pig.’
‘You have walked enough for today. Hold on tight, and you are no stuffed pig. Far too light for that.’
‘I will believe you.’
He reached down and opened a door, and, banging it against the wall, he carried her into the bedroom. A large four-poster mahogany bed hung with heavy velvet curtains dominated. To one side stood a birchwood washbasin. The carpet was thick and the walls clean and cobweb free. ‘This was to be my room. It is now ours. There are two dressing rooms that connect to it.’
‘It is a lovely room.’
‘I am glad you approve. It was my grandparents’.’ He took the candle from her hand and placed it on the chair beside the bed. ‘Release your arms.’
She obeyed him. His hands guided her so that she slid down the contours of his body, her curves meeting the hard planes of his muscles. A tiny spark ignited inside her, but she damped it down, telling herself that he had only wanted to set her down gently.
‘And what happens next?’ she asked in a voice that sounded unnaturally high to her ears as she sat, balanced precariously on the edge of the bed.
‘Your feet are seen to. You should have told me about your footwear before we left Hexham.’ He went over to the dressing table and pulled out a canister. ‘Ointment. It was given to me by a doctor in Antioch.’
‘I will put it on myself.’
‘Are you sure you know how to apply it properly?’
A mental image of him stroking her feet, his long fingers curving around her calves and ankles, gliding over them, rose unbidden in her mind, infusing her with heat. She concentrated on a spot somewhere above his head. She would not make last night’s mistake. She would show him that she had learnt her lesson. She knew how to behave with the decorum one would expect from a gently reared lady.
‘I would prefer to do it myself. I know which blisters are the worst.’
‘If that is what you want.’
‘It is.’ Lottie put out her hand and he placed the cold tin on her palm, then stepped back away from her.
‘You only need a little bit.’
She nodded and concentrated on opening the tin, instead of on his lips. Held back the words begging him to stay. She would be dignified about it. She was not going to give in to her passion. If he touched her feet, she was sure to say something vulgar like demanding to be kissed. Her time as a proper wife started now. ‘I am sure they are not as bad as they look.’
‘It is no bother. I feel responsible.’
‘Let me do it.’ She put the ointment on her feet, rubbing it in. First one foot and then the other. Tristan had been right. The cool liquid took the fire from her feet. ‘You told the truth. They are much better. In a few days, I am sure they will be vastly improved.’
‘You seem to be very able and in no need of assistance from me, despite my offer.’ He stood there, looking at her. ‘Shall I leave the candle?’
‘It would be kind of you.’ Lottie hated the way her voice had become small. She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Goodnight, Tristan.’
He ignored her fingers, picked up another candle and lit it. ‘If that is what you want…’
Lottie bit her lip. He was about to leave. In the morning, they would be more estranged than ever. She found her earlier fears had ebbed away. She wanted to be his wife in truth. She wanted his lips to glide over hers and to have that heady fiery sensation fill her again.
She summoned all of her courage. ‘Stay.’
‘Why?’ Tristan watched her with wary eyes. He blamed himself for her predicament. All the words she had flung at him were correct. He had known and had not thought. He had wanted to teach her a lesson, not injure her. He found it too difficult watch her rub the ointment in, knowing she had refused his help. He had nev
er considered her footwear, never considered it at all.
‘I can’t sleep in my corset.’ She stood up. Fiery pain shot through her feet, crippling her, but she ignored it. She started to undo her buttons, twisting herself into a strange shape. Her cheeks were bright pink and her eyes downcast as she worked with a feverish intensity. Was that all she wanted—to be free of her confining garments? ‘The button in the middle is a bit difficult.’
‘You will do yourself injury…’ Tristan barely recognised his own voice as he fought against his desires to tear her clothes from her body and reveal her silken skin, to explore her hidden peaks and valleys until he heard the low moaning in the back of her throat again. But he had to go slowly. A little at a time. Her pace.
He forced his fingers to undo the button and to draw back. She said nothing, continued to stand with her back to him as the silk dress gaped and revealed her creamy skin. He had thought when he’d carried her up the stairs that she had understood his need. He had pushed her too hard today, demanded too much of her. He would wait until tomorrow when she was less tired and her feet less painful. He had to be patient, even though his body urged him to take her into his arms…and bury himself within her.
‘The first of your buttons is undone.’
‘Thank you,’ she breathed and her flesh quivered slightly.
‘Now keep still, or otherwise you will undo the good that the ointment has done.’ He counted the number of buttons and knew he could do this. He had done them up this morning. But somehow, a mean room at an inn with noises about them was very different from the hushed silence of his bedroom.
‘I will try to be. I pride myself on being good. Sometimes things seem to happen.’ Her voice was small and tight. She trembled, much as a thoroughbred does before a race. ‘Sometimes it is very difficult to get my dresses off without assistance. The buttons go straight down my back. I have undone the first few buttons, but the ones further down are impossible.’
Michelle Styles Page 15