An Impulsive Debutante. Michelle Styles
‘This is my best chance, my only chance, to get back to Newcastle this season. I know it is. My dream of a London Season has vanished for the moment, but there are appearances to maintain. And some day I shall visit all the great cities—London, Paris and Rome. I plan to be the toast of them all.’
‘How so? Haydon Bridge is very far from these places.’ The man lifted one eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed with the brilliance of her scheme.
‘I am well aware of geography.’ Lottie pressed her hands together. She had to remain calm. ‘Aunt Alice will have undying gratitude to me if I arrange this marriage between Cousin Frances and Mr Shepard. Mr Shepard has been making sheep’s eyes at Cousin Frances for weeks now, and the only thing Cousin Frances can do is blush and readjust her pince-nez.’
‘And you are an expert in these matters.’ His eyes travelled slowly down her and Lottie fought against the impulse to blush. ‘You look all of seventeen.’
‘Twenty in a month’s time. My sister-in-law sent me the Claude glass for an early birthday present. It is quite the rage, you know.’
‘Nineteen is not a great age.’ A smile tugged at his mouth, transforming his features. Darkly handsome, she believed it was called, like one of those heroes in Cousin Frances’s Minerva Press novels. ‘When you are my age, you will see that.’
‘And your age is?’
‘Thirty-one. Old enough to know interference in matters of the heart brings unforeseen consequences.’ The words were a great finality. Lottie frowned and decided to ignore his remark.
‘I helped to arrange several proposals last season in Newcastle. Proper ones as well, and not the dishonourable sort.’ Lottie resisted the urge to pat her curls. ‘I can number at least seven successful matches that I have helped promote.’
‘Including the one that sent you here.’
‘If you are going to be rude, I shall leave.’ Lottie lifted her skirt slightly and prepared to flounce off. The man made her brilliant stratagem sound like a crime, like she was intent on ruining someone. Newcastle was not London, but at least there remained a chance of meeting someone eligible. It was the most prosperous city in the whole of the British Empire, everyone knew that. ‘You must not say things like that. I have helped. Martha Dresser and her mother showered me with compliments when I brought Major Irons up to snuff.’
‘Don’t mind me. It is one of my more irritating habits.’ A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, making him seem much younger. ‘Your scheme appears to be full of holes. And I doubt you would know the difference between a proposal and a proposition.’
‘I know all about those. One learns these things, if one happens to possess golden curls, a reasonable figure and a small fortune in funds.’
‘I will take your word for the funds. I can clearly see the other two.’ His dark eyes danced. ‘I agree that they can be a heady concoction for some men.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Lottie began ticking off the points. ‘One has to be wary of the inveterates who stammer out marriage proposals at the sight of a well-trimmed ankle, the cads who try to get you into corners and steal a kiss, the let-in-pockets who only have an eye to one’s fortune and clearing their vowels. I have encountered them all. But I am quite determined to be ruthless. Mama wants a title.’
‘A title can be a difficult proposition. What makes you positive that you can snare one? What sort of mantraps do you intend on laying? It can take great skill and cunning to succeed when so many are in pursuit.’
Impossible man. He made it seem like she was some sort of predator. Lottie stuck her chin in the air and prepared to give the coup de grâce. ‘I have rejected Lord Thorngrafton. He positively begged for my hand last November.’
‘Lord Thorngrafton? The elderly Lord Thorngrafton?’ The man went still and something blazed in his eyes. The air about him crackled.
‘Not so very elderly.’ Lottie kept her gaze steady. She refused to be intimidated. As if the only titled men who might be interested in her were on their last legs or blind in both eyes! ‘Around about your age and you are hardly in your dotage.’
‘When did he propose to you?’ The man leant forward, every particle appeared coiled, ready to spring. ‘I would like to know. It is most intriguing. I have been on the Continent until recently and am unaware of certain recent events.’
‘Shortly before Christmas.’ Lottie gave a small shrug and wished she had thought to bring her parasol. She would have liked to have spun it in a disdainful fashion. ‘However, I do not think the proposal genuine as Mama never remarked upon it. I rather fancied it was the sort where the gentleman expects you to fall into his lap like a ripe peach, perfect for the plucking and tasting, but easily forgotten.’
‘You’d be right there.’ The man’s eyes became hooded and his shoulders relaxed. ‘I do not believe Lord Thorngrafton intends to wed any time soon. I should not try any of your tricks with him.’
‘Are you acquainted with Lord Thorngrafton? Is he another of your friends that you have misplaced while you were on the Continent?’ Lottie narrowed her eyes, peering at him more closely. Silently she cursed her wayward tongue. He did look like Lord Thorngrafton, if she half- closed her eyes. But this man had a wilder air about him. She would swear that he moved like a panther that she had once heard about at the Royal Zoological Society in London. ‘You look somewhat similar—dark black hair, same eyes, but he was shorter, more squarely built. He had fat, doughy hands and he spoke with a slight lisp.’
A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw and a cold prickling sensation trickled down the back of Lottie’s neck. What had Lord Thorngrafton ever done to this man?
‘We are acquainted. Relations.’
‘And you are?’ Lottie clutched her reticule tighter to her bosom. She knew the information should make her feel more secure, but somehow, it didn’t. The man knew both Jack Stanton and Lord Thorngrafton, but that did not mean a thing.
‘Tristan Dyvelston,’ he said and his dark eyes flared with something.
Tristan Dyvelston. The name rang in Lottie’s ears. She glanced about her and the giant yews began to press inwards, hemming her in. The notorious Tristan Dyvelston. Cousin Frances, in one of her more expansive moods, had whispered about him and the scandals he had left in his wake. She peered more closely at the weed-choked graves and picked out the Dyvelston name. The tale on balance was true. Why would anyone pretend to be Tristan Dyvelston? Even after ten years, the wisps of scandal clung to his name. A scandal so great that Frances only knew the barest of details.
She made a pretence of straightening her skirt. Life’s little problems were never solved through panic. She had to find a way to retreat in a dignified manner. She doubted if society’s rules and niceties would constrain Tristan Dyvelston. He would take, and pay no regard to the consequences. That was a woman’s job—looking towards the consequences of her actions.
‘But he went to the Continent, pursued by several angry husbands.’ The words slipped out. She wet her lips, drew a deep breath. ‘Are you funning me? Who are you really?’
‘Tristan Dyvelston.’ A faint hint of amusement coloured his dark features. ‘I have returned…from the Continent. It is no longer necessary for me to be there.’
‘But the scandal.’ Lottie made a small gesture. ‘The shame, the dreadful, terrible shame. Those poor women. Cousin Frances was most particular on the shame.’
‘She knew what she was on about, the lady I left with. And I use the word lady lightly.’ Tristan Dyvelston’s mouth turned down and his face took on the appearance of marble. ‘No husband pursued me. I believe he was thankful to get rid of the encumbrance of his wife. The affair cooled before we reached Calais. Last seen, the