Prejudice in Regency Society: An Impulsive Debutante / A Question of Impropriety. Michelle Styles

profile. It irritated her that he thought her so blindingly obvious in her husband-hunting. And if he had made that assumption, how many of the other guests had also come to the same conclusion? Her mother could be terribly indiscreet. ‘My mother is taking the waters. She swears that they do her nerves a power of good. She enjoys the company.’

      ‘The sulphur water at Gilsland is renowned as is its matchmaking Popping Stone. I believe the numbers are about even.’

      Lottie gritted her teeth. ‘My mother desired a bit of company. I shall not be following the footsteps of Sir Walter Scott.’

      ‘Did everything work out as you had planned for your cousin?’ he asked in an arch tone, seemingly amused rather than quelled by her remark. ‘Is your aunt pleased with your interference in matters matrimonial?’

      Lottie examined the pattern of the carpet. He would have to bring that up. ‘I maintain hopes, but I misjudged the situation slightly. It was felt that perhaps I was better off departing as Mama was desirous of me arriving here. I am to be the belle of tonight’s ball, so I understand.’

      ‘Ah, you are here for the matchmaking.’

      ‘No, I am here to prove to my mother and brother that I can be trusted. I wish to make my mark in London.’

      ‘Do you think you will be able to? Many young ladies vie to become to the Incomparable, the Diamond of the Season. The vast majority are condemned to be wallflowers.’

      She glanced up and noticed that his dark eyes were fringed with impossibly long lashes, the sort of lashes that were wasted on a man. But his gaze held no malice, only concern. A queer trembling overtook her. He, a near stranger, cared. ‘I think there are other places where I stand a better chance of achieving my goal.’

      ‘And the goal is…’

      ‘To make a brilliant match.’ She threw back her shoulders and made sure her eyes danced. ‘And you do not need to worry. I have no designs on your virtuous name. Mama is insistent on a title.’

      ‘That fact relieves me no end.’ He gave a short laugh.

      ‘I thought it would.’

      ‘Who are you hunting?’

      ‘Mama has made a list, but I fear she has not consulted Burke’s recently and is doomed to disappointment.’ Lottie rubbed her eye, relieved to be explaining the problems. Tristan Dyvelston, at least, was a sympathetic ear and he might have a solution to her problem. ‘I distinctly heard Lord Foster mention a wife and she has him down as a widower. I am not sure if she has been careless or if she simply made a mistake. These things can happen even in the best ordered of campaigns. But it doesn’t really matter as I have no intention of marrying, simply demonstrating to Mama that I can behave properly. There will be no scandals clinging to my skirts.’

      ‘Sometimes scandals happen whether one is trying to avoid them or not.’

      ‘What does it feel like to be on the outside of society, Mr Dyvelston?’ Lottie tilted her head to one side, making her smile sweet.

      His eyes became a deep black as the barb hit home and he inclined his head. ‘It is a cold and bleak place, Miss Charlton. You would not care for it. And yet women are easily banished there. Too easily.’

      Lottie grasped her fan tighter and struggled to breathe against the tightness of her corset.

      ‘No, I probably would not, but then it is unlikely I shall have to encounter it.’ She gave her ringlets a little toss. ‘I plan to be at the very heart of society. It is my natural place.’

      ‘Are you determined to marry a title, then? Against the odds?’

      ‘It is as easy to love a titled man as an untitled one.’ Lottie glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice. ‘One of Mama’s little sayings, and it does seem to mean so much to her. She has aspirations.’

      ‘So your sights are set on Thorngrafton, as much as you try to deny it. I will warn you for the last time, Miss Charlton, my cousin is not to be trusted. Please consider long and hard if he does make an offer.’

      ‘His title includes a baronetcy, one of the original ones purchased from Charles I, or so Henry says.’ Lottie tapped her fan against her mouth, suddenly aware that she had perhaps revealed too much. ‘It is an honourable title, but I hope to do better. I want to convince Mama that a London Season is what I need.’

      ‘Then why are you here?’

      ‘Because I have yet to convince my brother.’ Lottie held up her hand. ‘I know what you must think of me. Coldhearted, unemotional and obsessed with titles, Mr Dyvelston, but may I remind you that you are hardly a person to be sitting in judgement.’

      ‘I never judge my fellow human beings, Miss Charlton.’ A dimple flashed in the corner of his mouth. ‘Particularly when the person in question is as refreshing about her intentions as you.’

      Lottie’s breath caught in her throat. Why couldn’t Tristan Dyvelston have a title? It would make life much simpler. She would not have minded setting her cap for him, despite saying otherwise. He was exciting, different. He did not melt at a flutter of her eyelashes, and, more importantly, he did not treat her as an inanimate 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