object or speak exclusively to her breasts. ‘I hardly see any point in pretence, Mr Dyvelston.’
‘Will you save a waltz for me?’
Lottie turned her face towards the corniced ceiling as she tried to resist the sudden quickening of her pulse. A waltz in his arms. ‘If you like…’
‘Lottie, do hurry up. Lottie!’ her mother called. ‘There are a number of people who are desirous of meeting you.’
‘One should always be careful about whom one meets in a hotel, Miss Charlton.’ His eyes held something hidden. ‘There can be no telling if they are the genuine article or not.’
‘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,
