‘That is not my concern. What is he to you?’
She blinked, and was tempted to throw his words back at him, to tell him it was not his concern.
‘A friend.’ She sounded a little too defiant and tried to soften her tone as she continued. ‘Pray sit down, my lord, and I will ring—’
‘No, do not trouble yourself, I cannot stay. I am to dine tonight at the Hôtel de la Paix with the other artillery officers.’
‘Then I thank you for taking the trouble to call.’
‘It was nothing. I should like to call again.’
It sounded very much like an order. Common sense told her to prevaricate. She had plenty of excuses, she was very busy, it would not be seemly—
‘I should like that.’
You are playing with fire, my girl.
She knew it, but it was too late to retract. Or was it? She wondered for a moment if Randall had heard her, for he made no sign. Then he nodded.
‘Thank you.’
He moved towards the door, and as he collected his hat and gloves from the table he reached out and flicked one of the colourful blooms that Bertrand had brought for her.
‘This is not my way, Mary,’ he said. ‘I have no charming manners; you will get no false compliments from me. I will not bring you flowers. It is best you know that, from the start.’
He gave her a curt nod and was gone.
Mary blinked. The start of what?
She shivered and crossed her arms, as if to ward off a sudden chill. She should never have invited him to call again. He would undoubtedly think it signified she was ready to accept a carte blanche. It meant nothing of the sort, of course, as any gentleman should know. But Randall was not a gentleman. He was an earl.
With a sigh Mary dropped her head in her hands. Could she blame him for thinking she would welcome his attentions? He had misjudged her from the start and her innate honesty compelled her to admit that it was not entirely his fault. She had teased him, led him to believe she was far more worldly-wise than was proper for a single lady. She had conversed with him more freely and openly than was proper, too, but for some inscrutable reason she found him so easy to talk to. She sighed. If that was the case then it should be a simple matter to write to him and explain that she had changed her mind, that it would be best if he did not call.
No, it would be easier to hold her hand in the candle’s flame than to tell him they must not meet again. Mary closed her eyes—dear heaven, had she learned nothing from her sister’s experience? Poor, deluded, heartbroken Jane, who had trusted a nobleman and paid the ultimate price.
She hugged herself even tighter, then, taking a long, resolute breath, she straightened and drew herself up. She would give orders that if Lord Randall should call he was not to be admitted. A clean break. Mary turned and walked back to her desk. It would not take long for them both to forget that they had ever met.
* * *
‘Your pardon, milord. Mademoiselle Endacott is not at home.’
The manservant’s English accent was well-nigh impeccable, but that was not surprising, thought Randall bitterly, since the fellow had repeated the phrase to him several times. It was the third call he had made in as many days and each time the response was the same.
‘Do you wish to leave your card, milord?’
‘No, not this time.’ Randall stepped back from the door. ‘I shall not call again.’
He walked away. Mary was avoiding him; he could not blind himself to the truth any longer. Indeed, he was not even sure why he had called so often. What had he hoped to achieve by pursuing the acquaintance of a woman who was too respectable to be his mistress and to whom he could offer nothing else? It was strange, but he was continually drawn back to the Rue Haute, as if Mary was a siren, calling to him.
That was ridiculous, of course. She was a respectable lady, even if he had at first misread the signals. But he had not misread the look in her eyes. There was a connection between them, tangible as a cord. She wanted him quite as much as he desired her, he would stake his life on it, yet he knew how the world would judge her if she succumbed to his advances. She needed to maintain her reputation if her school was to continue. He could neither bed her nor wed her, so why had he called at the schoolhouse?
The question haunted him and he was not sure of the answer. He wanted to see her again, to talk to her, argue with her. To hear her laugh.
‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, man,’ he muttered as he made his way back to the Rue Ducale. ‘She’s a woman you met barely two weeks ago. Surely you can forget her, especially now, when there is so much to be done.’
* * *
But as he went about his business over the next few days, he found himself thinking of her in the quiet moments, wanting to tell her about his troop, to share with her the frustrations of his day as well as the comic moments, such as how the unkempt and decidedly shaggy stray that had attached itself to the company had come to be known as Bennington Dog. One of the men had let slip that the animal was named after the preposterous Colonel Bennington Ffog, laughing stock of Brussels, with his foppish moustache and breeches so tight he couldn’t get them on without greasing his legs.