An Impulsive Debutante

‘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.’

‘It is true.’ Sir Geoffrey nodded and a twinkle came into his eye. ‘She will make an admirable companion for my waning years, don’t you think? Quite a well-turned ankle. It will show them at the club that I am not past it, that I can still attract the fillies.’

‘Some might entertain that notion.’

A huge bubble of pleasure coursed through Lottie. She had forgotten how much fun it was to waltz, polka and generally be the centre of attention. True, Shaw’s Hotel was not London or even the Assembly Rooms in Newcastle, but there was dancing. Ever since the five-piece orchestra had begun to play, she had had no time to sit down. One after another the gentlemen had begged for the favour of a dance. Lord Thorngrafton had staked his claim to the Sir Roger de Coverley before disappearing to converse with Henry about lead mines.

Her only disappointment was that Tristan Dyvelston had not come near, not once. She had seen him following her with his eyes, and twice he led other ladies out onto the dance floor. Stately widows with well-upholstered bosoms and braying laughs, the sort one might dance with if one was looking for a wealthy wife who would not be picky about his lack of a title.

Was that in truth why he was there? That he was seeking a wealthy wife? It made a certain amount of sense, but it annoyed her that he had made remarks about her husband-hunting.

She redoubled her efforts to be charming and to forget him, but it appeared her body had developed an acute awareness when he was around. Each time she circled the floor, she wondered what it would be like to have his hand on her waist, clasping his fingers instead of her partner’s.

‘Shall you dance with me next?’ a bewhiskered elderly gentleman asked. ‘Your mother has proclaimed how divinely you waltz.’

‘This waltz is already spoken for.’ A shadow loomed over her.

Lottie glanced up into Tristan’s darkly intent face. Her body tingled as her breath caught in her throat. ‘Is it?’

‘You agreed to waltz with me earlier,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten?’

‘So I did. I cannot think what might have come over me.’ Lottie tried to ignore the frisson of pleasure that rippled through her. She wanted to waltz with him. She wanted to forget everything else, to forget her future. She simply wanted to dance and take pleasure in the moment. ‘Shall we waltz then, Mr Dyvelston? They are playing one of the Strauss waltzes.’

‘It is not one of the most fashionable, but it has a pleasant enough melody.’

He put his hand on her waist and they started off. Somehow, dancing with him was different from every time she had danced before. His steps were perfect—not overly showy like a dancing master’s or clumsy. She concentrated on his shoulder rather than on his mouth.

‘Where did you learn to waltz like this?’

‘In Vienna.’

‘One day, I should like to travel. I have only been as far as Yorkshire. Mama does not believe in foreign travel, but I think it must be tremendously exciting.’ Lottie was aware she was babbling, but it kept her mind off the gentle pressure on her waist and how their bodies fitted exactly, moving in time with each other.

She looked down at the smooth floor. Less than a week ago she had had no idea of his existence, but by ten o’clock this evening, she could think of nothing but him. She wanted to say that it was Cousin Frances’s scandalous tales but there was something else that drew her to him. She had seen the way he’d looked at his parents’ graves.

‘You are not attending me, Miss Charlton,’ he said. ‘I just gave you a witty sally about Vienna and you remain silent. Not even a smile passed your lips.’

‘I shall try harder.’ Lottie glanced up into his face and saw the crinkles around his eyes. She swallowed hard and struggled to think beyond his hand upon her waist. ‘Was there something in particular that you wished me to be amused at? Repeat it and I will attend. You will find me the perfect conversationalist from now.’

He gave a husky laugh and she felt his hand tighten, pull her closer so that their bodies collided. His breath fanned her ear. ‘Sir Geoffrey Lea. He was in a very self-congratulatory mood.’

A stab of fear went through her and she missed a step. Her fingers clutched at his shoulder as if it were a life raft as the ballroom tilted sideways. Her slippers skidded into each other. ‘Sir Geoffrey? Congratulations?’

‘He is very pleased with what he has done. Matrimony.’

Lottie looked wildly about her and tried not to panic. She had to remember to breathe, and not to give way to wild imaginings. Such things were for Cousin Frances, not for her. Her mother would not have done such a thing without speaking to her.

‘Is there some problem?’

‘He figured highly on my mother’s list. My mother’s list of eligible men.’ She struggled to draw a breath and found she could not. Her fingers curled around his arm. ‘Please say his congratulatory mood had nothing to do with me, that he has found some well-endowed widow of about fifty. I saw him with my mother earlier. He is more than three times my age.’

‘I would say that is an accurate assessment.’

‘You are not providing much comfort, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie tried to draw a deep breath and mentally cursed her corset and the need for a fashionably tiny waist. She should not have insisted that they be done up so tightly. She had to do something or she would faint. She swallowed hard.

‘You become pale. The air in here is close.’ His arm came around her, an iron band of support. Lottie leant back against it, grateful. ‘I must insist we go outside.’

‘A breath of fresh air would be helpful, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she leant on his arm. Around her the sound of the waltz swelled, mocking her.

How could she have taken such pleasure in such a transitory thing?

Her life teetered about her, threatened to collapse. Mama would insist and Henry would agree. He had already begun to make noises about the expense of staying here and how he longed to be back within the bosom of his family. And she would be sentenced to a life of misery.

Tristan threw open the French doors and led the way out onto the terrace. The blackness of his hair and coat mingled with the darkness that surrounded him.

The cool air rushed out to meet her, caressing her fevered skin. In the distance she could hear the River Irthing. Above her were the first faint glimmerings of stars. The whole world was at peace. She was aware of Tristan coming to stand by her. Not touching her, just standing close enough that he could act if she fainted. Lottie pressed her lips together. She would not faint and give way to her feelings. Such things were for women like Frances. When one fainted, one lost all control. She drew in another breath and concentrated on the shadows in the lawn.

‘Have you recovered, Miss Charlton?’ His hand hovered at her elbow. ‘We may go in if you like. I am certain no one noticed us coming out here. Your virtue is quite safe.’

‘Who has Sir Geoffrey found to marry?’ she asked in a strained voice as she dug her nails into her palms. ‘Exactly which widow will look after him in his declining years?’

She glanced up and saw the sombreness of Tristan’s face. Slowly he shook his head and his eyes showed pity. ‘The woman in question is no widow.’

She clutched the balustrade, forced her lungs to strain against her stays. ‘Does it have anything to do with me?’

‘Would it matter if it did?’

‘Several days ago, I played a game, Mr Dyvelston, an innocent game.’ Lottie looked out into the blackness. She could make out the vague shape of the trees. ‘I sought to help my cousin to become engaged to a man whom I felt she had affection for. This afternoon, my mother gave me a list of eligible men, men I have no affection for, but one of whom I am supposed to marry. It is my task.’

‘Does affection have anything to do with marriage? I would have thought security and status were high on your list.’

Tears pricked Lottie’s eyelids. She blinked rapidly. He was being kind. It had been a long time since anyone had been kind. She wanted him to be cruel or to laugh at her. Anything but be kind. He knew what her mother and Henry had planned for her. It felt as if great prison doors were swinging shut.

‘I used to think, like my sister-in-law, that security was important, but then I saw how happy Emma Harrison was…is and knew I was mistaken. Emma waited years for the love of her life. She is adored.’

‘Is being adored something you wish?’

Lottie nodded mutely. She half-turned and her cheek encountered the starched front of his shirt. She rested her head, listening to the reassuring heartbeat, the steady thumping. His hand went under her chin and raised it so she could look into his eyes. They were larger than she remembered, warm. She could drown in eyes like that.

‘Lottie, you must be strong.’

‘I will try.’ She gave a slight sniff.

‘That’s my girl.’

She knew that propriety demanded that she move away. She was anything but his girl. She was nothing to him. She was about to be promised to Sir Geoffrey Lea. Sacrificed on her mother’s altar of social ambition. Ever since she had made her début, she had paid attention to the consequences. But for what? To be married to a fossil, a man older than her late father. To submit to his horny-handed embrace. Fate was cruel and she wanted to cheat it.

Her feet stayed still as he placed a strong hand on her shoulder, drawing her closer. She struggled to breathe, to remember her name, to remember anything beyond the shape of his lips. She raised a hand in mute appeal. Touched his shirt front.

He lowered his mouth, captured hers. A featherlight touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her. She felt her body arch towards his, wanted it to continue. But he lifted his mouth and regarded her.

His face was all shadows and angles. Moonlight shone down, giving it another glow. In the distance she could hear the faint strains of a polka, but much closer she heard the pounding of her heart. Her tongue explored her aching lips and a sigh escaped her throat.

His arms tightened about her again, held her there against the length of his body. A fiery glow built inside her. She was alive in a way she would never be again, if she were married to Sir Geoffrey Lea or whichever other titled fossil her mother might discover.

‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, pulling his head down to hers. Whispered against his firm mouth, ‘One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.’

Her hands came up and clung to his shirt front. He lowered his mouth again and pressed kisses along her neck and then returned to recapture her mouth. This time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot pulsating waves.

Her body collided with his as the meeting of lips stretched. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her face. A warmth grew deep inside Lottie, melting her limbs, forcing her to seek the support of his body. Her breasts strained against the confines of her corset. Ached. She felt the material give and his cool fingers slide against her fevered skin. Her entire world had come down to this one moment, this one point in time. She sighed and parted her lips, drank in the scent of him. His lips trailed down her neck, tasted her skin, and began to slowly travel lower.

‘Unhand that woman, you…you cad!’

The words pierced her inner core. Lottie froze, hoping they were directed at someone else. Tristan raised his head, looked over her shoulder towards where the voice resounded. He put her away from him. Lottie looked up at him, unable to turn around. His face changed, became hard, but his arm remained about her, holding her. She resisted the temptation to bury her face in his shoulder. Both enormity of what she had done, what she had been discovered doing, and the knowledge that if it had continued for much longer, she would have been powerless to stop it, weighed in on her.

‘Is there a problem, Sir Geoffrey?’ Tristan said, drawling the words.

Lottie flinched and moved out of the circle of his arms. He made no attempt to keep her in them. She turned and looked back towards the French doors. Sir Geoffrey stood there, leaning on his cane, surrounded by other figures. How long had they been standing there? How much had they seen? She glanced down to where her bodice gaped open, brought her hands up and tried to rearrange it. Her curls tumbled in disarray about her shoulders, the artful hairstyle her mother’s maid had arranged earlier this evening gone in a moment’s passion. She winced, knowing the wanton picture she must make.

‘What is going on here?’ Her brother’s voice floated over the rapidly increasing crowd. ‘Oh my God, Lottie, what have you done?’

‘He has seduced her.’ Sir Geoffrey’s voice boomed out over the rest. ‘He coldheartedly took her innocence and virtue. Look at her state of undress.’

‘It all depends on your definition of seduction.’ Tristan’s voice dripped with ice.

‘Mr Dyvelston was helping me because I felt faint.’ Lottie forced the words from her mouth. She looked up at Tristan for confirmation. His eyes blazed black. ‘I needed a breath of fresh air. Nothing happened.’

‘It looked rather different to me,’ Sir Geoffrey thundered.

‘I kissed her, yes. I overpowered her.’ The words exploded from Tristan Dyvelston.

‘Did you kiss this man, Carlotta?’ her brother asked. ‘Did you allow him to kiss you?’

Lottie’s tongue explored her lips—full, swollen and aching for the pressure of his mouth once again. She dreaded to think what the front of her gown looked like. They had been caught. Denial was impossible. Everything appeared to be happening from a long way away. She nodded as she crossed her hands over her chest. Waited.

‘Charlton, our bargain has ended.’ Sir Geoffrey’s voice resounded across the veranda. Strident. Furious. ‘She is damaged goods, sir. Given towards lewd and licentious behaviour. I wish you luck in finding a husband for that baggage. No gentleman will have her. Thank God I discovered what she was like before I married her. She’d have run away with her dancing master, soon as look at you.’

Lottie heard the swell of voices rise around her, echoing Sir Geoffrey’s harsh sentiments. Everyone speaking at once. Ruined. She was ruined. The dreaded consequences that Lucy had so confidently predicted for her all those months ago had happened. There would be no London Season. No triumphant return to Newcastle. Nothing, all because she had not been able resist the temptation of Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth.

‘I…I…’ Lottie put a hand to her head and groped for words, something that would explain it all and that would restore everything to its natural order. Her mother and Henry had to see that it was not the end of the world, that she was still an asset to the family. In time, she might once again have marriage prospects.

She scanned the rapidly expanding crowd for a friendly face and found none.

‘What do you intend to do about it, Dyvelston?’ Sir Geoffrey shook his stick at Tristan. ‘You have ruined this young person. Taken advantage of her youth. The tales they whispered about you were true, even though I have always vigorously denied them. No son of your father would behave in such a libertine manner.’

‘Do? Why should he do anything?’ Lord Thorngrafton came forward. ‘All he did was kiss the girl. She asked for it. There was that incident in Newcastle—’

‘Stay out of this, Peter!’ Tristan Dyvelston thundered. ‘You have done enough damage already.’

‘Lord Thorngrafton is right. He simply kissed me. Nothing more.’ Lottie hated the way her voice shook. She tried for a smile. She might be ruined, but Tristan should not be held entirely to blame. ‘Might this whole thing be…?’

The faces turned towards her were less than encouraging. Several of the old ladies lifted their fans to gossip behind. The tale was already being embroidered. By morning she’d be a harlot and there would be no hiding from the scandal.

Lottie took a step backwards, encountered the railing. The enormity of what she had done washed over her. She had kissed a man, passionately kissed him, without expectation or forethought. A huge gaping hole opened in her middle. She wished she could turn back the hands of time.

‘Oh dear, oh dear, whatever shall we do? All the love and attention I gave her and she repays me like this.’ Her mother stood next to Sir Geoffrey, white-faced and wringing her hands. Her ample bosom trembled as she raised an accusatory finger. ‘Carlotta, look what you have done to the family. To me. It is not just your reputation you have tarnished. You have shamed the family.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’ Lottie held out her hands and willed her mother to smile at her, to make some small sign that she would stand by her. Her mother buried her face in her hands and the sound of sobbing increased.

‘You only have yourself to blame, Mother.’ Henry put a hand on their mother’s shoulder and turned his furious gaze on Lottie. ‘You encouraged her far too much. I knew one day she would go too far and she has. You have disgraced us, Carlotta.’

Lottie kept her back straight. She had to get through this somehow, and then she’d decide what she could do. Perhaps there was a way to hush the whole thing up. If only everyone would stop yelling at once.

‘He has ruined her, I say. I demand to know what he intends to do about it!’ Sir Geoffrey drew himself up to his full height. ‘I may be old, sir, but I am not without influence. I will have it known that you are debaucher of virgins, a man not to be trusted. What are you going to do? Are you totally devoid of honour?’

Tristan stared at the elderly man as the diatribe washed over him. He knew Sir Geoffrey was correct. Doors would be closed to him. He’d spent ten years in the wilderness. He did not intend to go there again. He glanced at Lottie Charlton. At first she had winced every time someone said something, but now she stood, straight, not moving a muscle. It would not just be he who was ruined, but also this woman.

He gave an ironic smile. He should have remembered his own advice—virgins were complicated. He should never have tasted her lips. He wanted to taste her skin again. He wanted her lips to softly yield under his again.