A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

He huffed out an irritated breath. She might not know, but he would. He’d feel as if he’d betrayed her. She hadn’t climbed into his bed for that.

He was a bit disgusted with himself for being tempted to steal from her what should be freely given. What kind of man even thought about repaying all her care of him by treating her with such disrespect? She deserved better.

Whereas he deserved the physical agony which clawed at just about every part of his body. The pain he suffered was just sentence.

Everything hurt. His head, particularly, pounded...

No, actually, the pounding was coming from the region of the door.

One of the household servants?

No. They wouldn’t enter until given permission to do so. Whoever this was had flung open the door and come striding across the room.

‘Bartlett? They tell me you’re...’

Bartlett’s instinct was to bury his nose deeper between Lady Sarah’s breasts and close his eyes, to blot out the furious face that belonged to that voice. The face of Major Flint.

He stifled a groan. He couldn’t have been discovered by anyone worse. Because Major Flint just happened to be this girl’s half-brother. An illegitimate half-brother, but nevertheless he would still count her as family. Particularly since Flint owed his career to her legitimate brother. Colonel Randall, so rumour had it, had recognised the Latymor nose—the nose which was the bane of Sarah’s life—and given Flint a field commission on the strength of it.

He was finished.

Flint’s shocked cry roused Lady Sarah, who leapt guiltily from the bed, pausing only to fling a sheet over the lower half of his body. As if Flint hadn’t seen a naked man before.

‘What the hell,’ said the clearly shocked Major Flint, ‘are you doing here?’

Ah, well, it had been good while it lasted. Perhaps Flint would save him the bother of facing Colonel Randall by simply running him through where he lay. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go. At least his last day on earth had been spent with her. Lady Sarah. In a kind of...what had she called it? A golden haze. Unreal. Too perfect for such as him. A day never to be repeated.

‘You!’ Lady Sarah sounded appalled. Had she really thought she could get away with this? Had she really thought that telling the landlady he was her brother would prevent the truth coming out, in the end?

‘You’re Adam Flint! Justin wouldn’t introduce you to me at the review.’

Bartlett forced his eyes open, to take his last look at her. She sounded really distressed now. Apologetic.

Naturally. Something twisted inside him. It had been all very well caring for him when she’d thought she could keep it secret. But now her behaviour was about to be exposed. She’d crumble in the face of Flint’s fury. Flint was a hard man. He’d grown up in the gutter, gone into the army like so many of his kind, but then risen through t

he ranks by his own merit—until the day his half-brother had started taking an interest in him. He was one of the few officers tough enough to be able to control such men who ended up in Randall’s Rogues, probably because he was, really, one of them. He’d make mincemeat of a fine lady like Sarah.

‘He wouldn’t introduce any of the Rogues,’ Flint snapped. ‘And for good reason. None of us should be associating with you. Let alone him.’ Flint stabbed an accusing finger in his direction.

Couldn’t argue with that. Ramrod Randall knew his men were scum and the officers leading them fit only to lead scum. Naturally he wanted his precious little sister guarded from them all. He’d even tried to get her to leave Brussels altogether when she’d shown too much interest in the Rogues. It had only been because her twin, the one who was in a fashionable cavalry regiment, kept her busy with a far more acceptable set of people that he’d relented.

‘I know the reason he wouldn’t introduce me to you,’ she said, self-consciously tidying her unbound hair into a hasty plait. ‘You’re my natural brother. I’m not supposed to know any of you exist, let alone associate with you.’

That’s right, she’d told him there were dozens of them. She’d told him her mother was obliged to ignore them all.

And she hated it. She’d spoken of what her mother had suffered. Why hadn’t he seen that she suffered, too? That she hated the hypocrisy of having to behave as though she was ignorant of her father’s behaviour.

‘And stop shouting. Poor Tom’s head hurts.’

Poor Tom? That sounded as though she cared for him. And wasn’t afraid to let Flint know it.

A great hollow opened up inside of him. Somewhere in the region of his heart. A hunger. Yearning.

‘Poor Tom’s head,’ Flint growled, ‘is going to be ripped from his shoulders. Now get your cloak and bonnet. I’m taking you home this minute. For you can’t stay here.’

Farewell, Lady Sarah. It was a privilege to know you. Albeit briefly...

But far from meekly going to the peg on which her cloak hung, Lady Sarah stood her ground.