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 your best and will look after me.’
A twinge of guilt passed over Tristan. What would she say when she actually knew what he had done? He dismissed it. His experiment would work. ‘I will do well by you, Lottie.’
The smoke-hung public room fell silent as Lottie entered it. The crowd of drovers, workmen and ne’er-do-wells stared at them. Lottie shrank back against Tristan’s arm. She turned her face towards his frock coat, breathed in, tried to rid her nostrils of the awful stench. He put a hand on her shoulder and lifted her chin as his dark eyes searched her face.
‘Do I have to go through there? A woman tried to buy my hair! She appeared quite put out when I refused to sell it. Apparently golden curls are all the rage. I could get a good price for them, but they are mine.’
‘If you want to get to the room, you will have to go through the throng, but I will be with you.’ He touched her golden curls, a light touch, but one that sent a quiver arching through her. ‘There should never be a need for you to sell your hair. Or your ear bobs. Trust me to provide for you.’
‘How did you know she asked about those?’
‘It stands to reason.’ He gestured around the public room with its curling smoke and clanking tankards. ‘In a place like this, people are looking to buy and sell whatever they can.’
‘Do we have to stay here?’
‘I have paid for the room.’
‘I had rather thought it would be like the coaching inn that Mama and I stayed at when we went to Yorkshire once.’ Lottie attempted a brave smile as she groped for a clean handkerchief, but could only find the crumpled one from earlier. ‘Large clean rooms and an apple-cheeked proprietor. This inn has probably not been cleaned since the Jacobite rebellion. The ceiling is positively black with smoke.’
‘I regret that it is not up to your standards but it is where we are staying.’
‘It is not what was I was expecting.’ Lottie tried to keep her skirts out of the unidentified puddle on the floor, but failed. A small cry of distress escaped her lips. ‘It was my best afternoon dress.’
‘The room is better than this.’ His fingers tightened on her elbow.
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Dyvelston!’ A voice hailed Tristan from a corner table. ‘Here you are. Just the man for a game of cards.’
‘A friend of yours?’ Lottie asked, and her forehead puckered. Her husband was a gambler. He had to be if he was being hailed with such familiarity in an inn such as this one. She should have expected it, but she knew how much her father had hated cards. How he blamed them for his brother’s downfall. For some men, cards was more than a pleasant pastime, they were a way of life, a religion.
‘He is someone I knew once.’
‘From your dissolute days.’ Lottie strove to keep her voice light. ‘Are you going to have a game of cards?’
Tristan paused, frowning.
‘I will see you to the room. You need not worry about that.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We are newly married, Lottie.’
‘That is no answer.’
‘It is all you will get.’ He started towards the stairs. ‘Are you coming with me or do you wish to be accosted by another buyer of hair? Or an owner of a nanny house?’
‘I will come.’ Lottie skirted around a second unidentified puddle on the sawdust-strewn floor and hurried after Tristan, reaching him just as he opened a door to the upstairs.
She followed Tristan up the stairs, along a narrow passageway, and then up another narrow flight of stairs. She tried to push away her fears. Tristan was taking her to their room. He had not abandoned her for a game of cards. Henry would have done that. Lucy was often left on her own. Ignored. Lottie wanted more from her marriage than Lucy had. She was determined to show Henry and Lucy that she could make a success of things.
Tristan opened the door and turned to her with a grim smile. ‘How do you like the accommodation?’
Lottie started. She had expected a large poster bed with a roaring fire and a wash basin. This room was mean with bare floors and furniture that looked as if it had come from the early part of the last century. The sagging bed with its stained, greying coverlet took up a large part of the room and appeared to grow bigger with each beat of her heart. She would be expected to share it with Tristan.
For the first time in her life, she was alone in a bedroom with a man, a stranger. Lottie struggled to breathe. No, not a stranger, her husband, the man who had held her in his arms last evening. What would he expect of her?
Suddenly the public room was not as frightening as here.
Lottie wished she had had Lucy to ask about it, and Mama had been no help. All she had said was that all men were beasts and want to have their own way; women had to preserve their dignity. Beasts. Rolling around on that bed? Lottie winced, not liking to think of fleas or other insects lurking. She had enough to worry about without wondering if she would be bitten alive. She swallowed hard and risked a glance up at Tristan. His eyes were hooded, but watching her, his entire body stilled, waiting.
‘You say nothing, wife. Does it measure up to your exacting standards?’
Lottie held back the arched remark she was about to make. This room was not his fault. It was quite probably the best he could afford. If he had known about Lord Thorngrafton’s money, then perhaps he would have procured a better room, but he hadn’t. And she had no wish to mock him. ‘The room will be lovely for the night, I am sure.’
‘It
