Prejudice in Regency Society. Michelle Styles

uneasily, hating the disloyal thought, but she had seen how her mother had used the attacks before. ‘A man should respect his wife. If you keep giving in to your passion, it will be the road to ruin. Your poor papa and I had a good marriage based on mutual respect and duty.’

      And what about love? Or desire? Lottie stopped the words and allowed the remainder of her mother’s diatribe to flow over her. She did not love Tristan, but she knew that there had to be more to a marriage than respectability. And she certainly did not want a title if Sir Geoffrey Lea was offering it. She was not a pawn to be sacrificed for her mother and brother’s social ambition. She would lead her own life.

      ‘You are not attending, Carlotta.’

      ‘Mama, it is time to go.’ Lottie leant forward and kissed her mother’s cold cheek. ‘I am getting married today to a good man. I can sense it in him.’

      ‘Lottie, Lottie. There is more to being a good man than a pair of broad shoulders and a smooth dancing step.’ Her mother’s hands grasped Lottie’s upper arms and she made a clucking noise at the back of her throat. ‘You are such a child, Lottie. I blame myself. There is so much I should tell you, warn you about. Men do not like wanton creatures. They use them and discard them. When I think of your poor dear departed papa…’

      ‘Papa would have wanted me to be happy.’ Lottie stared at her mother, seeing for the first time the attempts to hold age back, the slightly over-garish jewellery, the petulant expression. Then she shook herself, hating the disloyal thoughts. Here was her mother, the woman she should revere above all others, but who had wanted to sell her for a title and reflected status. ‘It was all he ever wanted. It is why he worked so hard. He wanted to give us everything we wanted.’

      ‘Happiness is a fleeting thing. Security and connections are all.’ Her mother shook her head and buried her face once again in a handkerchief.

      ‘It just happened, Mama.’ Lottie touched her lips, remembering the sensation of Tristan’s lips against hers and knew that she would yield again.

      ‘That is no excuse. I trust you will remember where your duty lies. A woman must take responsibility for a family’s status. Remember that and behave accordingly, if nothing else. Try to grow up, Lottie…before it is too late.’

      ‘Mama, I will be a good wife.’ Lottie curled her fingers around her satchel. ‘I will make sure the marriage prospers.’

      She marched out of the room, head high and shoulders back. She would show her mother that her dire predictions were wrong. She would make this marriage a success.

      Lottie sat opposite Tristan in his borrowed carriage and watched the sunrise begin to appear on the horizon. Her bonnet had slipped over her nose and the wild exhilaration she had felt as she’d waved goodbye to the assembled throng of people had vanished. Her back ached and her feet were numb.

      What had she done? Had she done the appropriate thing? She had done the only thing.

      Each turn of the carriage wheel took her farther away from her mother, her family, her former life and closer to Gretna Green and marriage, marriage to Tristan. She would snatch a sip from the cup of happiness. Somehow. She refused to believe her mother’s dire predictions about marrying for passion.

      The carriage hit a rut, and her shoulder met the side of the carriage with a thump. Lottie winced at the pain, stifled the gasp behind her gloved hand.

      ‘Careful.’ Tristan, from where he sat, put out a hand to steady her. The touch of his hand burnt through the thin material of her dress. ‘You don’t want to injure yourself.’

      ‘I will be fine.’ She sat up straighter. Her hands curled around the edge of her seat, holding her there. ‘I was unprepared. The road to Gretna Green is heavily rutted.’

      ‘It is a well-travelled route.’

      ‘Yes.’ Lottie agreed. Well travelled. As if she needed reminding how many people went there to get married because they had to or because their families objected. Some might call it wildly romantic, but the doubts had started to circle around the edges of her brain. The Tristan Dyvelston who sat opposite with his top hat, black frock coat, cream-coloured trousers and hands lightly resting on a cane was very different from the excitingly attractive man who had kissed her earlier. No less handsome, but somehow more reserved, as if he were waiting and watching for something. Self-contained.

      Lottie searched her mind. What did one say politely to the man who was about to become one’s husband, but appeared now more than ever to be a stranger? And in such a fashion? How could she explain that she was terrified of what the future might hold?

      She had no wish to appear a ninny or a brainless fool. She thought of topics like the weather or music, only to reject them. Some were too impersonal. Others far too personal. It was difficult, particularly as she simply wanted to curl up next to him and feel his arms about her. The silence seemed to hang between them, growing with each turn of the wheel until it was a palpable living thing that threatened to crush her.

      ‘Wasn’t it kind of your cousin to lend us his carriage?’ she said, finally, in desperation.

      ‘Mycousin?’ He raised an eyebrow and his face did not invite further enquiries. ‘What does my cousin have to do with this carriage?’

      ‘His arms are on the carriage door,’ Lottie said, sitting up. Her hands adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet and tension appeared to ease from her shoulder. Finally a subject they could discuss—social niceties. ‘I noticed it when we got in. Little details make the world go round. It eases social tensions, if one does not have to explain everything. It is something one learns rapidly when you are required to do as much visiting as Mama and I.’

      ‘I had not considered that.’

      ‘It was obvious to any who had eyes. Why else would someone paint their arms on a carriage unless they wanted to be noticed? Unless they were proud of the title?’

      ‘Why indeed?’

      Tristan’s hand tightened around his cane and his mouth became a thin white line. Was he ashamed of borrowing his cousin’s carriage? Was he worried that others would mistake him for his cousin and cause embarrassment? How awful would that be—to be mistaken for a peer when one wasn’t.

      Lottie folded her hands on her lap and crossed her ankles. Considered the possibility and decided against it.

      Anyone who had met the two would know they were different. Tristan could never be Lord Thorngrafton. They had similar looks, but their temperaments were not at alike.

      She never would have allowed Lord Thorngrafton to take her in his arms or even escort her outside into the darkness for a breath of fresh air. The air of a snake hung about him. He had presumed much last November and acted as if she was a naive miss who had no idea of what going to see etchings entailed, as if his title and status was all the reassurance a woman needed.

      Lottie concentrated on taking a deep breath, and not letting her fury at the memory overwhelm her. But he was to be family now and she needed to be charitable. She might have mistaken him, but in any case, when they next encountered each other, she would be married and related to him. Family was different.

      But she could not expect Lord Thorngrafton to apologise. It was up to women to mend bridges. And at the same time she would make Tristan see that there was nothing to be ashamed about when it came to using family connections. It was positively de rigueur, according to Mama.

      ‘When did your cousin inherit the title?’ she asked, assuming the voice she used for the more important At Homes when she wanted to make a suitably genteel appearance. She would find a way to build the bridges without revealing her distaste for the man.

      ‘I doubt we will be seeing my cousin often.’ Tristan’s tone was less than encouraging. ‘The present Lord Thorngrafton inherited the title within