need a maid. I cannot undress myself.’ She gave a small shrug.
He looked puzzled, then his face cleared. His voice became velvet soft. ‘Unable to undress? Shall I play a lady’s maid?’ He came back over to her and trailed a hand along her shoulder. ‘I have had a bit of experience in how ribbons and laces become undone.’
Him? He thought her a strumpet. Her mouth went dry at the thought of his undoing her clothes. She remembered her mother’s other words. A lady did not show passion. A lady submitted. Surrendered.
She had no wish to repel him. She knew she was not ready to give away her soul. Last night at Shaw’s, his kisses had awakened something deep within her, a sort of hunger. But she wanted him to respect her. She was his wife, not his courtesan. She doubted if it would be possible to be both as much as she might like to be.
‘My corset ties at the back. It can be very tricky. A serving maid would be best. More dignified.’
‘If you wish, I only made the offer.’ His voice lost its warmth and became correct. ‘I have dealt with ladies’ laces before…in my misspent youth.’
‘Your misspent youth? It is different for a man. No one expects…no one makes comments…’ Lottie watched him. Would he help her? What would it be like to have his long fingers stroke her skin? To feel his mouth move on hers like it had last night? She daren’t ask in case he refused. She knew she was babbling, but anything to stop this growing dread inside her. What would he think of her without any clothes on? She hated her toes. Would he like her toes? Blind panic filled her. She knew nothing about lovemaking and he was an accomplished rake. He was used to women who knew how to please a man.
‘Lottie, sweetheart, tell me what you want. It is our wedding night.’ His voice played like silken velvet over her skin.
‘It would be useful to have someone.’ Lottie began to pace the room, unable to stand still, unable to think. ‘Is there anyone at Gortner Hall? I shared a maid with Mama and then Cousin Frances and we helped each other. It was not ideal, of course, but I made do. It does not have to be a French maid. Any girl would do. I could teach her to do my hair. I am sure I could.’
She knew she was babbling and watched his eyes grow cold and his hands fall to his sides.
‘I will send one of the serving maids with some bread and cheese. She should be able to help.’ He bowed and closed the door. ‘I will return shortly. That should give you enough time to make yourself decent.’
‘Decent. Yes, I will be decent.’
‘And, Lottie, there is no need to panic. I will send the maid. Remember to breathe while you wait.’ He touched his fingers to his temple. ‘It always helps.’
‘I am not panicking.’ She paused and smiled. ‘I have no desire to faint.’
‘That is a start.’ He closed the door softly behind him.
Lottie breathed again. She would have time to get her nerves together. She would make sure that she did not give in to her passion. She would be dignified. Tristan would respect her for that. Men wanted wives that they could respect, who could help them. She had to remember that. She listened to the sound of his boots going down the stairs. The despair inside her increased with each step.
Had her passion doomed the marriage before it had started?
Tristan sat nursing his second pint of bitter. The innkeeper had doctored the beer to a black sludge that gave no pleasure. He would give Lottie a bit of time before he returned to the room.
All around him, the dice rattled and the smoke swirled. Several ladies plied their trade. It was hard to imagine a more disreputable place, but it served its purpose. However, he wondered if he had made a slight error.
He had seen her face drain of colour when he suggested his playing the lady’s maid. Silently he cursed her mother or whoever had told her about the facts of life. He had never lain with a virgin before, and most in particular had never lain with one who was his wife.
He had a responsibility to awaken her properly, to teach her about passion, and that meant going slow, and not forcing her here where the memory might be distasteful. Tristan regarded the bottom of his pint glass. He had to decide where it would be. He had to balance his desire against the need to make sure her first experience went smoothly. A great deal of responsibility rested on his shoulders. He was determined that his marriage would be a passionate one. He’d felt the passion in her earlier when they’d kissed.
Tristan gave the remaining dark liquid a final swirl. He was not ready for this. He tried to think about his other piece of unfinished business—his cousin, and how he could ensure Peter remained true to his word.
‘Thorngrafton, it is you.’ A large hand pinned him to his stool. ‘I told Saidy that you weren’t answering to Dyvelston any more, not since your uncle kicked up his heels. That was why you ignored him. It is amazing what some forget.’
‘McGowan.’ Tristan nodded as he finished his drink. The only thing he could be grateful for was that McGowan had failed to accost him while Lottie was there. He needed her to remain in ignorance for a few days longer. His experiment had to succeed. ‘Is there some particular reason you are in Gretna Green?’
‘Passing through, but I am most surprised to find you in a hellhole like this one. I would have thought you were more accustomed to staying at the finer coaching inns.’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘And it doesn’t have anything to do with the beautiful blonde you were with—a real looker, that one. Golden curls, blue eyes and curves. You can pass her along to me when you’ve finished with her.’ McGowan gave a coarse laugh.
‘She’s my wife.’
‘Please give Lady Thorngrafton my compliments.’ McGowan’s leer told Tristan that he did not believe a word. ‘Do she have a sister or three?’
‘I will see that she gets your compliments.’ Tristan gritted his teeth. He had no intention of explaining his actions to McGowan, an acquaintance from those long-ago days when he had taken great pleasure in making sure his name was as scandalous as possible. The difference between them was now marked. Once McGowan had been considered handsome, but now he showed the signs of overindulgence and too much high living.
‘How came you to be let in the pockets?’ McGowan fingered his chin. ‘The last I heard you had done very nicely out of railways. One of the railway kings.’
‘People talk too much, but I have no money worries.’
‘Then why are you here? In this inn?’
‘I have my reasons.’ Tristan turned back to the barman, motioning for another pint. ‘Allow me to pay for the next round.’
‘Do you have time for a game of cards?’ McGowan persisted. ‘For old times’ sake. I can remember how you and I would play until the dawn broke. You always knew when to stop, though. You had the coolest head I have ever seen.’
‘You still play cards?’
‘Avidly—you should have seen the money Saidy won off some high-flaunting lord lately returned from India. The nabob thought he were a king at cards, but we got his vowels in the end.’
‘I will watch you play.’ Tristan smiled as an idea on how to teach Peter a lesson came to him. Simple. Neat. It simply took a cool head and a steady nerve. The same approach he had to use with Lottie. ‘There is a proposition I wish to put to you and Saidy. A little job that will put your…skills to good use, but you will be amply rewarded.’
‘You interest me greatly.’
Dearest Henry and Lucy,
I cannot tell you what