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 woman in question had found solace in the arms of an Italian count.’
Lottie measured the distance between herself and the gate. She wanted to appear sophisticated and unconcerned, but if she was caught here alone in the company of a notorious womaniser, any hope of regaining a social life would be gone. She might as well learn to do tatting and resign herself to looking after Henry and Lucy’s children. She had to leave. Immediately.
‘An Italian count—imagine that. Really, it has been very pleasant speaking with you, but I must be going…’
‘And here I thought we were having a pleasant conversation.’ He took a step closer to her. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as if he understood precisely why she had decided to depart. ‘I regret that I disturbed you.’
‘You didn’t. I have seen all that I came for. I will return one day with my paints. There is a certain melancholy air about this place.’ She cautiously took a step backwards, then another; her foot slipped and a bramble snaked around her boot, holding her fast.
She attempted to free herself but only succeeded in catching the skirt of her dress. And it would have to be her new checked gingham. Fine lawn. Easily torn. She could hear Frances’s clucking and Aunt Alice’s sighing now. Then there would be explanations, ones she did not want to make. The dreaded Carlotta would be used in terrible tones. Carlotta—a name more suited to her aunt in Alnmouth than her.
Lottie shivered slightly and redoubled her efforts, wincing as a thorn pricked her through her glove. Her reticule with the Claude glass dropped to the ground with a slight crash. Lottie cursed under her breath. Everything was going wrong.
‘Allow me, Miss Lottie.’ Tristan Dyvelston bent down, and his long fingers caught her ankle, held it firm, while his other hand freed her from the bramble. He handed her the reticule and Lottie clutched it to her bosom. ‘No harm done and no need for unladylike utterances.’
‘You know my name.’ Lottie stilled, the reticule dangling precariously from her fingertips.
‘You said it earlier.’ He stood up, but did not move away from her. ‘You should be more cautious.’
‘Is this a warning?’ Lottie’s heart began to pound in her ears. He was very close. Earlier she had failed to notice the breadth of his shoulders or his height. She wondered how she had failed to do so. Wondered briefly what it would be like to be clasped in his arms, and she knew this was why he had his scandalous reputation.
‘An observation from one who has lived a bit longer than you.’ He looked at her. ‘I have met women like you before. They need to learn life’s lessons.’
‘And do you propose to teach me them?’ Lottie crossed her arms and forced her back straight. She gave her curls a little toss. They were back on familiar ground. She had endured such propositions before, although none given in such a warm voice. She supposed he practised it, but a small part of her wanted that voice to be just for her.
‘Do you wish me to?’ His eyes blazed with an inner fire. ‘Forgive me, but it is dangerous thing to do—provoking a man when you are quite without 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
