Prejudice in Regency Society. Michelle Styles

she had had no idea of his existence, but by ten o’clock this evening, she could think of nothing but him. She wanted to say that it was Cousin Frances’s scandalous tales but there was something else that drew her to him. She had seen the way he’d looked at his parents’ graves.

      ‘You are not attending me, Miss Charlton,’ he said. ‘I just gave you a witty sally about Vienna and you remain silent. Not even a smile passed your lips.’

      ‘I shall try harder.’ Lottie glanced up into his face and saw the crinkles around his eyes. She swallowed hard and struggled to think beyond his hand upon her waist. ‘Was there something in particular that you wished me to be amused at? Repeat it and I will attend. You will find me the perfect conversationalist from now.’

      He gave a husky laugh and she felt his hand tighten, pull her closer so that their bodies collided. His breath fanned her ear. ‘Sir Geoffrey Lea. He was in a very self-congratulatory mood.’

      A stab of fear went through her and she missed a step. Her fingers clutched at his shoulder as if it were a life raft as the ballroom tilted sideways. Her slippers skidded into each other. ‘Sir Geoffrey? Congratulations?’

      ‘He is very pleased with what he has done. Matrimony.’

      Lottie looked wildly about her and tried not to panic. She had to remember to breathe, and not to give way to wild imaginings. Such things were for Cousin Frances, not for her. Her mother would not have done such a thing without speaking to her.

      ‘Is there some problem?’

      ‘He figured highly on my mother’s list. My mother’s list of eligible men.’ She struggled to draw a breath and found she could not. Her fingers curled around his arm. ‘Please say his congratulatory mood had nothing to do with me, that he has found some well-endowed widow of about fifty. I saw him with my mother earlier. He is more than three times my age.’

      ‘I would say that is an accurate assessment.’

      ‘You are not providing much comfort, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie tried to draw a deep breath and mentally cursed her corset and the need for a fashionably tiny waist. She should not have insisted that they be done up so tightly. She had to do something or she would faint. She swallowed hard.

      ‘You become pale. The air in here is close.’ His arm came around her, an iron band of support. Lottie leant back against it, grateful. ‘I must insist we go outside.’

      ‘A breath of fresh air would be helpful, Mr Dyvelston.’ Lottie concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she leant on his arm. Around her the sound of the waltz swelled, mocking her.

      How could she have taken such pleasure in such a transitory thing?

      Her life teetered about her, threatened to collapse. Mama would insist and Henry would agree. He had already begun to make noises about the expense of staying here and how he longed to be back within the bosom of his family. And she would be sentenced to a life of misery.

      Tristan threw open the French doors and led the way out onto the terrace. The blackness of his hair and coat mingled with the darkness that surrounded him.

      The cool air rushed out to meet her, caressing her fevered skin. In the distance she could hear the River Irthing. Above her were the first faint glimmerings of stars. The whole world was at peace. She was aware of Tristan coming to stand by her. Not touching her, just standing close enough that he could act if she fainted. Lottie pressed her lips together. She would not faint and give way to her feelings. Such things were for women like Frances. When one fainted, one lost all control. She drew in another breath and concentrated on the shadows in the lawn.

      ‘Have you recovered, Miss Charlton?’ His hand hovered at her elbow. ‘We may go in if you like. I am certain no one noticed us coming out here. Your virtue is quite safe.’

      ‘Who has Sir Geoffrey found to marry?’ she asked in a strained voice as she dug her nails into her palms. ‘Exactly which widow will look after him in his declining years?’

      She glanced up and saw the sombreness of Tristan’s face. Slowly he shook his head and his eyes showed pity. ‘The woman in question is no widow.’

      She clutched the balustrade, forced her lungs to strain against her stays. ‘Does it have anything to do with me?’

      ‘Would it matter if it did?’

      ‘Several days ago, I played a game, Mr Dyvelston, an innocent game.’ Lottie looked out into the blackness. She could make out the vague shape of the trees. ‘I sought to help my cousin to become engaged to a man whom I felt she had affection for. This afternoon, my mother gave me a list of eligible men, men I have no affection for, but one of whom I am supposed to marry. It is my task.’

      ‘Does affection have anything to do with marriage? I would have thought security and status were high on your list.’

      Tears pricked Lottie’s eyelids. She blinked rapidly. He was being kind. It had been a long time since anyone had been kind. She wanted him to be cruel or to laugh at her. Anything but be kind. He knew what her mother and Henry had planned for her. It felt as if great prison doors were swinging shut.

      ‘I used to think, like my sister-in-law, that security was important, but then I saw how happy Emma Harrison was…is and knew I was mistaken. Emma waited years for the love of her life. She is adored.’

      ‘Is being adored something you wish?’

      Lottie nodded mutely. She half-turned and her cheek encountered the starched front of his shirt. She rested her head, listening to the reassuring heartbeat, the steady thumping. His hand went under her chin and raised it so she could look into his eyes. They were larger than she remembered, warm. She could drown in eyes like that.

      ‘Lottie, you must be strong.’

      ‘I will try.’ She gave a slight sniff.

      ‘That’s my girl.’

      She knew that propriety demanded that she move away. She was anything but his girl. She was nothing to him. She was about to be promised to Sir Geoffrey Lea. Sacrificed on her mother’s altar of social ambition. Ever since she had made her début, she had paid attention to the consequences. But for what? To be married to a fossil, a man older than her late father. To submit to his horny-handed embrace. Fate was cruel and she wanted to cheat it.

      Her feet stayed still as he placed a strong hand on her shoulder, drawing her closer. She struggled to breathe, to remember her name, to remember anything beyond the shape of his lips. She raised a hand in mute appeal. Touched his shirt front.

      He lowered his mouth, captured hers. A featherlight touch that rapidly became firmer, deeper, called to her. She felt her body arch towards his, wanted it to continue. But he lifted his mouth and regarded her.

      His face was all shadows and angles. Moonlight shone down, giving it another glow. In the distance she could hear the faint strains of a polka, but much closer she heard the pounding of her heart. Her tongue explored her aching lips and a sigh escaped her throat.

      His arms tightened about her again, held her there against the length of his body. A fiery glow built inside her. She was alive in a way she would never be again, if she were married to Sir Geoffrey Lea or whichever other titled fossil her mother might discover.

      ‘Kiss me again,’ she whispered, pulling his head down to hers. Whispered against his firm mouth, ‘One last time. No one is here. Tomorrow will be too late.’

      Her hands came up and clung to his shirt front. He lowered his mouth again and pressed kisses along her neck and then returned to recapture her mouth. This time the kiss was harder, more insistent. Penetrating. Sensation coursed through her body in hot pulsating waves.

      Her body collided with his as the meeting of lips stretched. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her face. A warmth grew deep inside