Prejudice in Regency Society: An Impulsive Debutante / A Question of Impropriety. Michelle Styles
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a chaperon.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Dyvelston—’ Lottie inclined her head ‘—we travel in different circles, but that line has been tried on me at least four times. You are not the first to use it and no doubt will not be the last. I may give the impression of being a silly blonde, but I am not. I might be not as sophisticated as some, but I can take care of myself. I have no intention of learning life’s lessons from one such as you. Or indeed any of your kind.’
He raised both eyebrows. ‘You speak in a very forthright manner for one who is barely out of the school room.’
‘Men such as you are an occupational hazard.’ Lottie smoothed the folds of her dress. A cold fury swept over her. Why was it that men expected women to swoon when confronted with something? Or to recoil in horror? Flirtations were fine, but men always went that little bit beyond. She cleared her throat and assumed an air of haughty superiority. ‘The agreed answer is that I am quite satisfied with my life at present, so thank you for the honour, but no. I shall wait until I receive the perfect proposal.’
The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as if her words amused him. Amusement! How dare he!
‘And having received this set-down, I am supposed to walk away, and not gather you up in my arms. Is that what they taught you?’ He paused and his hand brushed her gloved one, sending tingles throughout her body. ‘Or would you rather a demonstration?’
‘A demonstration?’ The word emerged as a high-pitched squeak. Lottie held up her reticule like a shield. But she was torn between the knowledge that propriety demanded that she should flee, and the desire to stay and see what he might do. What would it be like to be held in the arms of a man who knew what he was doing? ‘I have no wish for you to demonstrate anything.’
‘Don’t you?’ The words wrapped around her like a silken rope and held her.
Slowly Lottie shook her head, but she watched Tristan Dyvelston’s smile increase. Lottie took two steps backwards. Perhaps she had made a mistake. The sound of Frances’s shriek was far too distant. She had been overconfident. ‘I will be going now. Straight away.’
He threw back his head, and his laughter startled a wood pigeon out of a tree. Broke the spell. He had intended on frightening her. She wanted the earth to up and swallow her. She had been naive.
‘I fail to see the amusement in this.’
‘Your expression is that of an outraged kitten with spiky hair.’
‘My hair is not spiky.’ Lottie opted for an expression of haughty disdain. ‘I have had odes written to my hair. Lord Thorngrafton sent me an ode about the gold in my curls.’
‘Not from me. Never from me.’ The colours of his eyes changed and she wondered that she had thought them deep black. They appeared full of hidden lights, shifting, dancing. Never the same, but spellbinding to watch. ‘I never write odes to hair. Never write odes at all if I can help it.’
He crossed the distance between them in one stride. His hand brushed her curls. ‘Definitely not spiky. I retract.’
‘Oh.’ Lottie put a hand against her throat. Her heart had begun to beat very fast. She parted her lips and closed her eyes. What would it be like to feel his lips against hers? She had only been kissed twice last Season, and neither time had been what she would qualify as a success. They had been somehow dissatisfactory, particularly after she had learnt that Lieutenant Ludlow had gone around trying to catch Caroline, Diana and Leda under the mistletoe as well. She waited, lips pursed and poised.
‘Virtuous virgins hold little attraction, even those with strawberry red lips. You may lower your mouth, Miss Lottie, and next time, wait.’
Lottie opened her eyes and hurriedly lowered her chin. She could feel the heat beginning to rise on her cheeks. A mocking smile twisted his mouth and his face became like carved marble.
‘Do they indeed?’ she asked in her frostiest tone as she drew her body up to her full height.
‘Too many complications. Too many considerations.’ He gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.
Lottie released the air from her lungs. She should be relieved, but a small stab of regret ran through her. She had wanted to experience his arms holding her. ‘You make me sound positively frumpish. Highly unattractive.’
‘Not plain. Just a young lady who is far too aware of her charms and wants to play games, dangerous games that lead where neither party is prepared to go.’ His eyes darkened. ‘Women such as you provide complications, complications any sensible man would be well advised to give a wide berth, if he wished to retain his place in society. Even among my kind, we have a certain honour. I prefer someone who knows how to play the game.’
Lottie inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dyvelston. It has been enlightening.’
‘Until we meet again, Miss Lottie.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
‘One never knows. When you are older, perhaps…’
He captured her hand, raised it. His lips brushed the exact point where her glove gapped, and touched her naked flesh for the briefest of instants. It seared through her.
Lottie jerked back her hand, and fled to the echoing sound of laughter. She ran straight into Frances, who wore the look of a disgruntled hen as she squelched along the lane. Her straw bonnet dripped muddy water.
‘Ah, Cousin Carlotta, at last we discover you.’
‘I was regarding the old church through my Claude glass.’ Lottie held up her reticule with a smile. How many times had she told Frances that she hated the name Carlotta? And how many times had her cousin ignored the request? Her hand went around the reticule. She winced as she realised that she had dropped the Claude glass and returning to the ruins was impossible. Not while Tristan Dyvelston was there. ‘The moonlit aspect was quite unusual. I shall have to show you some time.’
‘You mean now?’ Cousin Frances held her hands as an alarmed expression crossed her face.
‘Impossible, Fanny dear, as you appear a bit damp and I have no wish for you to catch a chill.’
‘I hate the name Fanny.’
Lottie gave a small smile. ‘I always have difficulty remembering that.’
‘We thought we heard voices, Miss Charlton, just now.’ Mr Shepard’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He appeared to have a very damp, dead sheep look about him and Lottie was positive that she detected a tinge of pink to Frances’s cheeks. ‘Yours and someone else’s.’
‘Yes, a male voice, Cousin, and yours answering him.’ Frances gave her a piercing glance. ‘Is there anyone of our acquaintance there?’
‘How did you find the bridge at Cruel Sykes burn?’ Lottie asked quickly. They had to get away from here before Mr Dyvelston appeared with a sardonic twist to his lips. When Frances was in one of her moods, everything would come out. Then she would never get back to Newcastle. ‘Was it easy to cross?’
‘Wet,’ Frances replied. ‘Very wet. Cold and slippery.’
‘Miss Frances fell in.’ Kent Shepard puffed himself up. ‘I had to rescue her.’
Lottie did not miss the slight change of name. Some good had come of this afternoon after all. Her scheme showed definite positive signs.
The golden portals of society and triumph beckoned. Tristan was wrong. She glanced behind her at the seemingly empty churchyard, biting her lip. As long as her little encounter went undiscovered. It had to go undiscovered. No one would believe that a notorious rake like Mr Dyvelston had gone to the churchyard of his own volition. He supped with the devil, according to Cousin Frances.
Why was it that