Michelle Styles - Prejudice in Regency Society

‘Yes, we are married. The ceremony was perfectly legal.’

‘I never questioned it.’ Lottie glanced quickly up at her new husband. His face was remote and held little of the warmth she had glimpsed last evening. She wondered how she could get it back. If he had looked like that, then she would not have been tempted to make this marriage. She wanted him to smile down at her, to do something to show that this marriage was more than an inconvenience caused by her own indiscretion. ‘We have both been saved from ruin. The marriage will be a nine-day wonder, if that. Undoubtedly someone somewhere will do something worse and it will be forgotten.’

‘I am no stranger to scandal but I had no wish to be outside society for ever. It is not good business.’ His eyes showed no signs of softening. ‘Neither of us had any choice in the matter, Lottie, but we do have a choice about the life we lead. Shall we look to the future, rather than live in what might have been?’

‘The ice-cold wind of disapproval.’ Lottie adjusted her bonnet and ignored the rip in her sleeve that appeared to grow each time she moved her arm. She hated the thought of being dressed like this in public, but there was nothing she could do. She had to hope no one would notice. She moved so her arm was next to Tristan’s, hiding the worst. ‘I need to know, Tristan. Why did you marry me, since you had already experienced society’s disapproval?’

‘Once you ruin a virgin…there is very little way back.’ Tristan ignored her invitation to take her arm and stood staring down at her. His voice did little to restore her confidence.

‘And did you want a way back?’ Lottie asked. She wanted to believe that there was more to this, that he had wanted to marry her.

‘I am no cad. And perhaps I no longer wanted to be an orphan.’ A cold smile touched his lips. ‘Does it matter about the reasons? We are married now, and we will go forwards without scandal. I will lead the sort of life my father had envisioned for me. Upright. Solid. The sort of life I intend to lead now that I have returned to Britain.’

‘You appear to have made a number of promises to your father.’

‘They were all part of the same promise. My father and my uncle were not friends.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I wanted to torment my uncle.’

‘And what did your uncle predict?’

‘That I would come to no good, that I would blacken the family’s name and die in an unmarked grave.’

‘It is hard when families fight, particularly if one of them is titled.’ Lottie placed her hand on his arm. ‘Didn’t your mother try to help? Or your aunt? It is the duty of the women in the family to mend quarrels.’

‘My uncle’s wife was concerned with…other matters and my mother died when I was three.’ A flash of pain crossed Tristan’s face and Lottie’s heart constricted. In that instant she caught a glimpse of the young boy Tristan must have been. How truly awful to have this long-ago quarrel blight his life. ‘I doubt she could have mended this quarrel, but I like to think she would have understood.’

‘I am sorry. I lost my father when I was twelve. I cried for days on end. Buckets and buckets.’

‘My father died when I was seventeen. I had stopped crying then.’

Lottie bit her lip, aware that she knew very little about the man standing next to her, very little about the man whose bed she would now share and whose table she would grace. She had always thought that she would have a long and proper courtship, but it had happened a different way. They would get to know each other in time. And some day, she would make him see that making social calls and being part of a community was important. It gave meaning to people’s lives. It enabled people to help each other and to help their families lead better lives.

‘We shouldn’t be talking about sad things on our wedding day.’

‘You are quite right—we should only speak of happy things.’

‘It is the polite thing to do.’

‘And you always do the polite thing.’

Lottie tilted her head. ‘Whenever possible. It saves making a spectacle.’

‘Then we had best move as we are beginning to make a spectacle.’

Tristan put his hand under her elbow and guided her away from the blacksmith’s shop. Lottie saw the curious stares from several women. With his other hand he carried her satchel as they walked slowly through the streets of Gretna Green. The market crowd had dispersed somewhat, but the streets still heaved with people. Twice, Lottie had to walk around a drunk lying the gutter.

‘Where are we going now?’ she asked as he strode along, not looking left or right. ‘What happens next?’

‘You are my wife and I shall take you back to the inn where hopefully the innkeeper will have prepared rooms for us.’

‘Do we have a private room?’ Lottie asked. She attempted a smile. She did not want to think about what men and women did in bed at night. She heard whispered rumours from the servants, and once at Martha Dresser’s house had come across Aristotle’s Complete Master Piece in a box of books that belonged to Martha’s grandmother. They had spent a half-hour giggling over the pictures before they’d been discovered and had their ears boxed.

‘Is that important to you?’

‘Yes.’ The word came out a squeak. The thought of being with her husband for the first time in a room crowded with strangers had no appeal. And yet, she could not bring herself to explain, to confess to her complete ignorance about lovemaking beyond the few kisses she had shared. ‘I know they must be at a premium, but somehow I don’t fancy sharing a bed with a stranger.’

‘And what would you call me?’ He gave a short laugh, but his eyes were sombre. ‘We are very much strangers to each other, Lottie.’

Lottie tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of his arm.

‘My husband.’ The words sounded new and exciting, but more than a little dangerous. ‘I see no point in being old-fashioned and calling you Mr Dyvelston like Mama did with my father. It sounds so cold and formal. I…I want something more from our marriage.’

‘Somehow I can’t imagine you calling me Mr Dyvelston… ever.’ A tiny smile on his lips. ‘Tristan will suffice.’

Lottie tightened her grip on her reticule. Exactly who was her new husband? She had seen his controlled fury at the men earlier. She knew very little about him, about his prospects. And he appeared content to ignore Lord Thorngrafton’s generosity to them. No, not content, but determined. But that was a problem to be solved later.

‘And at least you call me Lottie. I loathe and detest Carlotta.’

‘I will try to remember that, Carlotta.’

Lottie started and then she saw the devilment in his eyes. She aimed a kick at him, which he neatly sidestepped.

‘But the rooms—will I be expected to go into a public room? It wouldn’t be seemly.’

‘My finances can stretch to a private room at that inn. I thought it would be better as we did marry this afternoon.’

‘You never said about money.’ Lottie stopped in the street, her slippers skidding into each other. Marriage meant sharing a bed. She forced her mind from that. ‘You never agreed to a settlement with my brother. Will we need to ask for Lord Thorngrafton’s assistance? You did borrow his carriage.’

‘I have enough. I have no need for Thorngrafton’s charity,’ he said and his eyes slid away from her.

A pain gathered behind Lottie’s eyebrows. He was trying to hide something from her. Had she fallen into a trap? She had not even thought about money; she had only thought about the shape of his lips and how they fit against hers. Mama had always told her to be sensible about men and she had failed, failed utterly and miserably. And now she was going to a mean inn for her wedding night. Her only comfort was that she remained respectable—barely.