Prejudice in Regency Society. Michelle Styles
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Lottie tilted her head. ‘Whenever possible. It saves making a spectacle.’
‘Then we had best move as we are beginning to make a spectacle.’
Tristan put his hand under her elbow and guided her away from the blacksmith’s shop. Lottie saw the curious stares from several women. With his other hand he carried her satchel as they walked slowly through the streets of Gretna Green. The market crowd had dispersed somewhat, but the streets still heaved with people. Twice, Lottie had to walk around a drunk lying the gutter.
‘Where are we going now?’ she asked as he strode along, not looking left or right. ‘What happens next?’
‘You are my wife and I shall take you back to the inn where hopefully the innkeeper will have prepared rooms for us.’
‘Do we have a private room?’ Lottie asked. She attempted a smile. She did not want to think about what men and women did in bed at night. She heard whispered rumours from the servants, and once at Martha Dresser’s house had come across Aristotle’s Complete Master Piece in a box of books that belonged to Martha’s grandmother. They had spent a half-hour giggling over the pictures before they’d been discovered and had their ears boxed.
‘Is that important to you?’
‘Yes.’ The word came out a squeak. The thought of being with her husband for the first time in a room crowded with strangers had no appeal. And yet, she could not bring herself to explain, to confess to her complete ignorance about lovemaking beyond the few kisses she had shared. ‘I know they must be at a premium, but somehow I don’t fancy sharing a bed with a stranger.’
‘And what would you call me?’ He gave a short laugh, but his eyes were sombre. ‘We are very much strangers to each other, Lottie.’
Lottie tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm.
‘My husband.’ The words sounded new and exciting, but more than a little dangerous. ‘I see no point in being old-fashioned and calling you Mr Dyvelston like Mama did with my father. It sounds so cold and formal. I…I want something more from our marriage.’
‘Somehow I can’t imagine you calling me Mr Dyvelston… ever.’ A tiny smile on his lips. ‘Tristan will suffice.’
Lottie tightened her grip on her reticule. Exactly who was her new husband? She had seen his controlled fury at the men earlier. She knew very little about him, about his prospects. And he appeared content to ignore Lord Thorngrafton’s generosity to them. No, not content, but determined. But that was a problem to be solved later.
‘And at least you call me Lottie. I loathe and detest Carlotta.’
‘I will try to remember that, Carlotta.’
Lottie started and then she saw the devilment in his eyes. She aimed a kick at him, which he neatly sidestepped.
‘But the rooms—will I be expected to go into a public room? It wouldn’t be seemly.’
‘My finances can stretch to a private room at that inn. I thought it would be better as we did marry this afternoon.’
‘You never said about money.’ Lottie stopped in the street, her slippers skidding into each other. Marriage meant sharing a bed. She forced her mind from that. ‘You never agreed to a settlement with my brother. Will we need to ask for Lord Thorngrafton’s assistance? You did borrow his carriage.’
‘I have enough. I have no need for Thorngrafton’s charity,’ he said and his eyes slid away from her.
A pain gathered behind Lottie’s eyebrows. He was trying to hide something from her. Had she fallen into a trap? She had not even thought about money; she had only thought about the shape of his lips and how they fit against hers. Mama had always told her to be sensible about men and she had failed, failed utterly and miserably. And now she was going to a mean inn for her wedding night. Her only comfort was that she remained respectable—barely.
‘What is the estate you inherited like? Is it in good repair?’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Please, I want to know. Is it a place to raise a family?’
He looked down at her and his black eyes flared with some unknown fire, a spark of something that ignited a glow within her. And she knew she had asked the right words. Then the mask came down.
‘It was a prosperous estate once, highly productive, but it has been neglected for many years. It has fine views of the river, a series of follies in the garden. It was quite well thought of in my grandfather’s day.’ Tristan looked ahead, rather than down at Lottie with her brave face and slightly torn dress. She had been battered more than he had intended before they were married, but here she remained firmly fixed on their social status. There were flashes in her of genuine concern, but he had to be sure. Too soon and he’d never know. Patience brought rewards. ‘My uncle took a perverse pride in letting me know about its neglect. How the fields were fallow, and how the garden had become choked with weeds.’
‘Neglect of good land is a crime.’ Lottie turned her gaze upwards and a furious expression came into her eyes. ‘Why would anyone do that? Was it because of a will? Was the estate stuck in chancery? Why didn’t anyone stop him?’
‘It belonged to him. What do you know about estates and chancery?’ A faint smile touched his lips as he realised a way to turn the conversation on to less rocky shoals. ‘I thought you were a city woman.’
‘I may look like just a pretty face, Tristan, but Mama was determined that I learn…as she was determined that I fulfil my destiny and marry a title or, failing that, someone very wealthy.’ Lottie paused and gave tiny shrug. ‘Not that it happened, but I needed to know something so I wouldn’t be a ninny. My skills can be put to good use.’
‘I think you are anything but a ninny.’ Tristan resisted the temptation to draw her into his arms and confess. How much did she truly know?
‘I thank you for the compliment.’ Lottie gave a little wave of her hand. ‘I know my limitations. I am not a blue stocking like Emma Stanton, nor am I the excellent housewife that my sister-in-law is. But I plan to be a social asset and help further your standing in the community.’
‘Whatever that is. I don’t recall ever worrying about it before.’
‘What did you do before you returned to England?’
‘I gambled and led a disreputable life.’ Tristan stopped and considered what to say. How much to reveal. How much to keep hidden until he was certain of her motives. ‘Most of your cousin’s stories contain an element of truth in them.’
‘Are you ashamed of the life you led?’ she asked. The rim of her bonnet shadowed her face, making it impossible for him to determine her expression.
‘Should I be?’ He raised an eyebrow and turned their footsteps once again towards the inn. He would tell her the truth and then see her reaction. ‘You probably think me wicked but, no, I am not ashamed. I did what I did for a purpose and I kept my promises.’
He waited for the gasp of horror, but instead she tightened her grip on his arm. A tiny furrow appeared between her brows. He resisted the temptation to smooth it away.
‘Some people like my cousin would say yes, you should, but I am not sure. Keeping your promises is important.’ She looked up into his face and he received the full blue gaze of her eyes. ‘Does that make me wicked as well? Everyone says that I am, but I don’t see it that way. My intentions are good.’
‘I cannot change the past, Lottie. I did what I did to survive.’ Tristan stopped by the inn’s stables. He grasped her shoulders. ‘Trust me?’
‘But…but…’ She pressed her hand to her lips, squared her shoulders. ‘I will trust you. You are my husband. I am sure you have done