A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘If you wish to work, as you call it, then you should do so.’

‘I do not think I understand you, Lord Randall.’

She stopped and turned to look up at him, still smiling, but with a faint crease between her brows. Unable to resist he put his fingers beneath her chin, tilting it up as he lowered his head and kissed her.

* * *

Mary was so surprised she could not move. Then, as his mouth worked its magic, she did not wish to do so. When he put his arms around her she leaned into him, kissing him back as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.

This reaction shocked Mary almost as much as his kiss, and when he raised his head she made no attempt to free herself, but laid her head against his chest, listening to the thud, thud of his heart. She was dazed, unable to understand what had occurred. Lord Randall, the taciturn, unromantic, unsociable earl, had kissed her. Her: plain, sensible Mary Endacott!

‘We have a couple of days before we must part,’ he said, his mouth against her hair. ‘We should make use of them. We must be discreet, of course. However free-thinking the Bentincks might be, I cannot allow my sister to know what is going on.’

Mary’s thoughts were still in chaos, her body trembling with the shock of his kiss, but even so she was aware that his words did not make sense. She put her hands against his chest and pushed herself away until she could look up at him.

‘What has this to do with my work?’

He was gazing down at her and there was no mistaking the look in his eyes, fierce desire that sent the hot blood racing through her limbs and made her aware of the ache pooling deep in her body, at the hinge of her thighs. If she had not been clutching at his coat she thought her legs might well have given way as that beautiful deep voice caressed her.

‘Everything. Let us understand this from the outset; it has always been my objective never to raise false hopes in any woman’s breast. I take my pleasures and I pay for them—and give pleasure in return, I hope.’

Those smooth, measured tones stroked her skin like velvet. She was in his arms, her lips were still burning with the memory of his mouth upon hers and at first she did not comprehend his words. But as their meaning filtered through the haze of well-being that his kiss had engendered, her euphoria began to ebb away.

‘You, you wish us to be...’ She swallowed. ‘To be lovers?’

Could she do it? Suddenly elation was replaced by uncertainty. She had discussed the possibility with her radical friends, but only as a concept, a brave and radical step that would fly in the face of convention. And in all her thoughts and discussions, her ideal man was one she had known for a long time, a trusted friend and companion, not a soldier whom she had met only days ago.

‘If that is the word you wish to put to it, yes,’ said Randall. ‘It will be business for you, but very lucrative, for I intend to be generous.’

Mary blinked. No endearments, no promises. The earl talked of business and suddenly his meaning became all too clear. She freed herself from his arms.

‘You...you think I am a—that I—’ Her hands went to her cheeks. ‘You think I would sell myself for money?’

There was no mistaking the bewilderment in his eyes. It was clear that was exactly what he thought. Disappointment, bitter as gall, swept through her.

‘Is that not the case?’ he said. ‘You told me you were in trade, spoke of your ladies, but perhaps since you are so successful you yourself no longer partake—’

‘P-partake?’ she stuttered. ‘Oh, good heavens, this is dreadful!’

She turned away, taking a few agitated steps along the path before wheeling around again. ‘I am an educationalist, Lord Randall. I run a school for young ladies!’

‘What?’

If she had not been so overwrought, Lord Randall’s surprise and consternation would have amused her, but she had never felt less like laughing in her life. In fact, she felt very much like weeping. Her hands crept to her cheeks again.

‘I see how it came about,’ she went on, almost to herself. ‘The radical talk, the company Mr and Mrs Bentinck had invited to their house—’

‘Not to mention your own teasing ways, madam,’ he added in a tight voice. ‘You said yourself you were trying to be outrageous.’

‘Yes, I know I set out to tease you, but when I spoke of earning my living I never thought that you would assume—’ She gasped. ‘Good heavens, that is disgraceful! Did you suppose that the Bentincks, that your own sister, would continue to acknowledge me if that were the case?’

A dull colour had crept into his lean cheek, but whether it was anger or embarrassment she did not know.

He said, his tone harsh, his words clipped, ‘Harriett warned me I would be shocked by the company. You yourself told me you did not believe in marriage.’

‘And in an effort to prove yourself unshockable you thought the very worst of me. You are correct, I do not believe in marriage. I was brought up to believe in a free union of minds, of hearts. A union of love, my lord, not prostitution!’

He said stiffly. ‘It was an error, but a reasonable one, given the circumstances.’