‘I had rather thought it would be like the coaching inn that Mama and I stayed at when we went to Yorkshire once.’ Lottie attempted a brave smile as she groped for a clean handkerchief, but could only find the crumpled one from earlier. ‘Large clean rooms and an apple-cheeked proprietor. This inn has probably not been cleaned since the Jacobite rebellion. The ceiling is positively black with smoke.’
‘I regret that it is not up to your standards but it is where we are staying.’
‘It is not what was I was expecting.’ Lottie tried to keep her skirts out of the unidentified puddle on the floor, but failed. A small cry of distress escaped her lips. ‘It was my best afternoon dress.’
‘The room is better than this.’ His fingers tightened on her elbow.
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Dyvelston!’ A voice hailed Tristan from a corner table. ‘Here you are. Just the man for a game of cards.’
‘A friend of yours?’ Lottie asked, and her forehead puckered. Her husband was a gambler. He had to be if he was being hailed with such familiarity in an inn such as this one. She should have expected it, but she knew how much her father had hated cards. How he blamed them for his brother’s downfall. For some men, cards was more than a pleasant pastime, they were a way of life, a religion.
‘He is someone I knew once.’
‘From your dissolute days.’ Lottie strove to keep her voice light. ‘Are you going to have a game of cards?’
Tristan paused, frowning.
‘I will see you to the room. You need not worry about that.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘We are newly married, Lottie.’
‘That is no answer.’
‘It is all you will get.’ He started towards the stairs. ‘Are you coming with me or do you wish to be accosted by another buyer of hair? Or an owner of a nanny house?’
‘I will come.’ Lottie skirted around a second unidentified puddle on the sawdust-strewn floor and hurried after Tristan, reaching him just as he opened a door to the upstairs.
She followed Tristan up the stairs, along a narrow passageway, and then up another narrow flight of stairs. She tried to push away her fears. Tristan was taking her to their room. He had not abandoned her for a game of cards. Henry would have done that. Lucy was often left on her own. Ignored. Lottie wanted more from her marriage than Lucy had. She was determined to show Henry and Lucy that she could make a success of things.
Tristan opened the door and turned to her with a grim smile. ‘How do you like the accommodation?’
Lottie started. She had expected a large poster bed with a roaring fire and a wash basin. This room was mean with bare floors and furniture that looked as if it had come from the early part of the last century. The sagging bed with its stained, greying coverlet took up a large part of the room and appeared to grow bigger with each beat of her heart. She would be expected to share it with Tristan.
For the first time in her life, she was alone in a bedroom with a man, a stranger. Lottie struggled to breathe. No, not a stranger, her husband, the man who had held her in his arms last evening. What would he expect of her?
Suddenly the public room was not as frightening as here.
Lottie wished she had had Lucy to ask about it, and Mama had been no help. All she had said was that all men were beasts and want to have their own way; women had to preserve their dignity. Beasts. Rolling around on that bed? Lottie winced, not liking to think of fleas or other insects lurking. She had enough to worry about without wondering if she would be bitten alive. She swallowed hard and risked a glance up at Tristan. His eyes were hooded, but watching her, his entire body stilled, waiting.
‘You say nothing, wife. Does it measure up to your exacting standards?’
Lottie held back the arched remark she was about to make. This room was not his fault. It was quite probably the best he could afford. If he had known about Lord Thorngrafton’s money, then perhaps he would have procured a better room, but he hadn’t. And she had no wish to mock him. ‘The room will be lovely for the night, I am sure.’
‘It is a place to stay.’
‘Yes,’ Lottie said around the increasing lump in her throat. With every breath she took, it became harder and harder to pretend that this room was fine. Harder and harder to ignore the bed looming in the centre. ‘No doubt your house will be better than this.’
‘It may be. It may not be.’ Tristan gave a little shrug. ‘It has been vacant for years.’
Lottie did not dare reply. She wanted Tristan to take her in his arms again. She wanted it to be how it was last evening. She knew if his lips were against hers, she would not have to think or to worry.
‘Is there some problem, Lottie?’ Tristan put a hand on her shoulder, drew her to him. He pressed his lips to her temple. His breath against her cheek sent a pulse of warmth throughout. ‘Confide in me. What troubles you? Why don’t you like being here with me? Alone. You appeared to like being on the terrace with me last evening.’
‘Nothing troubles me.’
She turned her face upwards and met his mouth. Their lips touched, parted and she tasted him. A jolt ran through her, igniting her insides. She moaned slightly in the back of her throat, felt her body begin to arch, and stiffened, stunned by her reaction. His hands dropped away. The kiss ended as air rushed between them. He regarded her with a question in his eyes, but made no move to touch her.
‘Lottie, sweet Lottie.’
Lottie pressed her hand against her stomach, willed that the melting sensation would go away and tried not to think about what was to come. She knew her face flamed. What could happen if Tristan did not respect her?
The thoughts circled and circled in her head, making her dizzy. She had to find a way to breathe, to regain control of her thoughts and desires.
A distinct smell of wood smoke and cooking pervaded the room, gave her an excuse. ‘Is there a possibility of food? I barely had anything for supper last night. I feel a bit faint.’
It was better than the truth. She knew she had done something wrong, but she had no idea what she had done. Why he had put her away from him.
‘I will go and check.’ Tristan’s hand grasped the door. ‘It will give you time to change, and to get comfortable.’
‘Can you send someone to help me?’
‘To help you?’
‘I 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