A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

She rubbed her temples. She could cut her costs, move to smaller premises, but for now she must wait and see what happened. She was not the only person whose livelihood depended upon the outcome of a battle.

The sounds of an arrival caught her attention and drove all other considerations from her mind. Randall. Her heart began hammering so hard she could hear the drumming in her ears. He had come. Mary rose and took a few hasty steps into the centre of the room. She would not see him. Yes she would, but only to tell him that he must not call again. No, safer to have Jacques say she was not at home.

That decision was taken out of her hands. She heard a hasty step crossing the hall, there was a peremptory knock and the earl came in. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment, stripping off his gloves. He was frowning, his eyes hard, mouth straight and firm. Was it only yesterday that she had spoken to him? It seemed a lifetime ago. But much as she wanted to keep him here, to talk to him, he must go. He was dangerous, he threatened to destroy her peace of mind and her livelihood. As the earl threw his hat and gloves on to her desk Mary took a deep breath.

‘Lord Randall, I—’

She got no further. He crossed the room in two strides and took her in his arms.

All Mary’s good intentions disappeared. She raised her face to his and accepted his kiss, clinging to him and returning it passionately. His mouth was hard on hers and her lips parted to allow his tongue to enter, exploring and teasing, drawing a primitive response from her. Instinctively she leaned closer, excited by the hard, aroused body pressed against hers. She was on fire, from her head to the very tips of her toes she burned with desire for him. She drove her hands through his hair, tangling her fingers in its silky softness, wanting to cling on to him, to hold him close forever.

He began to cover her face with kisses and she breathed in the familiar scent of him, the combination of soap and spices and something very masculine that was all his own and deeply exciting. She sighed as his lips left hers and trailed down the length of her neck in a series of butterfly-soft kisses that sent a shiver tingling through her whole body. Her breasts felt swollen, they pushed against the bodice of her gown, straining to be free, to feel his caresses. She shuddered, shocked, frightened, exhilarated by what was happening to her.

‘I could not stay away,’ he murmured between kisses. ‘You haunt my thoughts. I had to see you.’

‘Oh, Randall, I have missed you so.’

Hearing her own words, whispered against his cheek, brought Mary back to reality. With a sob of regret she pushed her hands against his chest and held him away, just a little. It was torture to keep the distance between them when all she wanted to do was to cling tightly to him.

‘Please let me go.’ His arms dropped and she stepped back, out of reach, praying her legs would not give way beneath her. ‘It will not do, my lord. I had decided I would tell you so today.’

His laugh was short and unsteady.

‘And I had come to say goodbye, until I walked in and you were standing there.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Then all my resolutions flew out of the window.’

Mary turned away. It would be easier if she was not looking at him. She took out her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Tears were a sign of weakness. She despised them. One good, deep breath and she was sufficiently in control to speak.

‘This is merely a, a carnal attraction, my lord. I have considered very carefully and I know there can be nothing more to it. Our social spheres are too far apart.’

‘I cannot agree with you there. Your birth is as good as mine.’

‘You are a nobleman, although there is nothing noble about the class you represent. I despise it wholeheartedly.’ The silence that met her words pressed upon her, insisting on an explanation. ‘I mentioned that I had a sister, Jane. She fell in love with a younger son of a marquess, a so-called noble family. He courted her assiduously, but he convinced Jane to keep their attachment secret. Jane understood his arguments, that our parents’ radical views would set them against him. It was true, my father would not have looked favourably upon the match, but he was not a tyrant and would not have stood out against an honest suitor. Instead this, this noble man persuaded Jane to run away with him to Tonbridge. He promised to marry her, but after a month his passion cooled. He abandoned Jane, leaving her penniless. Thankfully, my father was not one to disown his daughter, whatever she had done. When she wrote to tell him of her plight he fetched her home immediately.

‘She was in a sorry state, and very unhappy. My father went looking for the scoundrel but he was abroad. On his honeymoon. His promises had all been lies, he had been betrothed even when he was courting my sister.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She never recovered. Once she knew there was no hope she threw herself in the Thames.’ She turned to face him, seeing not Randall but the ignoble class he represented. ‘I was just thirteen years old when I lost my beloved sister. The shock of it almost destroyed my family. Is it any wonder that I hold you and your kind in such contempt? But that need not matter to you. After all I am the daughter of a man who openly proposed the abolition of all such forms of privilege. So you see we have nothing in common.’

She waited in silence for his reply, wondering if he would express outrage at the events she had described, perhaps even apologise for the faults of his class. She studied his lean face, remembered the moments of companionship they had shared and a faint hope, fragile as a snowflake, suggested he might see a way through the barriers between them, although she had spent fruitless hours trying to do so. His harsh, unsmiling countenance was not encouraging.

‘You are right, our worlds are too far apart,’ he said at last. ‘I have told myself as much a dozen times these last few days.’

The leaden weight inside her grew even heavier. This was the end. They would not meet again. She was surprised how much the thought hurt her.

She said bleakly, ‘We are agreed then. There is no hope for us.’ Treacherous tears were welling up and she did not want him to see them. She said, while she could still command her voice, ‘You had best go now, my lord. I have nothing to offer you.’

She closed her eyes, willing him to go before she collapsed, a sobbing, distraught wreck, on to the sofa.

‘We could be friends.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Her eyes flew open.

Had she misheard him? His eyes were still burning with deep blue fire, but he spoke quite steadily.

‘Let us be friends, if we cannot be anything else to each other. Merely soldier and schoolteacher, enjoying a brief companionship.’

Her hand crept to her cheek. ‘My lord, I do not think I—’