A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

‘My uncle said if he didn’t put a stop to my criminal career I’d end up hanging, just like my father. And so he decided the best course was to let the army have me. Only then he faced a bit of a dilemma. As the son of a gentleman, he couldn’t very well have me enlist like a common man. But neither did he want to go to all the expense of buying me a commission. So he sent me off to the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, where they trained me to become both an officer and an engineer,’ he finished with a grimace.

‘There is nothing wrong with that,’ she retorted. ‘Justin himself chose to serve in the artillery, like our grandfather.’

‘Yes, but it isn’t the done thing, is it? Far more acceptable to go into the cavalry, or the Guards.’

‘People don’t just go into the cavalry to be acceptable,’ she said, a little flash of annoyance in her eyes. ‘Gideon wanted to... He would have...’ She stopped and drew in a shuddery sort of breath. ‘He idolised Justin, but he didn’t want to ape him. So Mama bought him a commission in a cavalry regiment. She was the

one who wanted him to be fashionable. Gideon never cared for any of that. He’s like... I mean, he was like me. Never happier than when on horseback. Whenever he was home we used to pack our saddlebags and just take off. We’d stay out all day,’ she said with a faraway look in her eye. ‘It started when we were very little. We’d slip away from the schoolroom and hide somewhere on the estate. We’d dam streams and climb trees, and make dens in the woods. Even when they sent him away to school, he couldn’t wait to come home so we could play together. And tell each other all the things we couldn’t put in any of the letters we wrote. Once or twice he brought friends to stay, but they only spoiled things by asking why on earth he let a girl tag along. And he’d declare I wasn’t a bit like most girls. That I could stay out all day and not get tired, or complain about mud, or brambles. And he never invited them again.’

She wasn’t a bit like most girls. Most women. He could talk to her. As though she was a...a friend.

He wished he’d known her when he’d been a grubby, half-starved boy. He might not have grown up so certain the whole world was against him. He was just wondering whether to tell her so when Madame le Brun came in with a breakfast tray.

‘Good morning. You are looking so much better,’ she said, running her eyes over him assessingly.

‘Down to your amazing cooking,’ Tom replied, casting aside the temptation to confess things better left unsaid. He gave the landlady the benefit of his most flirtatious smile. ‘And having my every whim catered to by two such beautiful women.’ He leaned back and tucked both hands behind his head. ‘You are making me feel like a sultan in a harem.’

To Sarah’s amazement, the landlady, who must have been fifty if she was a day, blushed and laughed in a very girlish way, then shook her finger at him, in mock admonishment. She then spent rather longer than she needed, flitting about the room setting things to rights. When she left, Sarah shook her head at Tom.

‘What?’ He shrugged and widened his eyes in mock innocence. ‘Flirting does no harm. She enjoys it.’

He’d got in the habit of flirting with women, he realised, as he took a spoonful of the eggs Madame had brought. All women, no matter what their age. Making them blush and simper gave him the upper hand. By making them react to what he was doing, rather than letting them get in first, he controlled them. Kept them in their place.

Flirting was the quickest way to discover whether they’d be willing to lift their skirts, too. If a woman was amenable, his next objective was normally to find out how quickly. If she wasn’t, he always moved on to the next likely prospect without hesitation. It was a ruthless method. A foolproof method that got him bedded more frequently than any other officer in the Rogues. Or any other unit in which he’d served.

Maybe that was why he’d toned things down with Lady Sarah. He didn’t want to try and control her, or keep her in her place. It felt more important to get to know her—right down to the very bones of her. And flirting too brazenly would only put her on her guard against him.

Oh, he still wanted to kiss her, make no mistake. More than that. Much, much more. Though he didn’t want it to be like the crude encounters of his past, that satisfied a momentary itch. He wanted...he wanted...

All of a sudden the words of the marriage vows popped into his head. With my body, I thee worship...

A chill curled its fist round the back of his neck. He wasn’t contemplating marriage. It was just that Sarah was the kind of girl who deserved marriage. Yes, that was it. She should have someone who loved and cherished her, and all the rest of it. Hadn’t she already roused all sorts of similar responses from him? Feelings of protectiveness, and friendship, and loyalty. The chill receded. Now he knew where the sudden understanding of the marriage lines had come from, there was no need to panic. He wasn’t in danger of doing anything stupid, like falling in love with her, and proposing marriage himself.

Men like him didn’t fall in love.

Didn’t know how.

Chapter Eight

Sarah took her dish of chocolate to the writing desk and gazed out of the window as she sipped at it. Another funeral procession was snaking along the street. Every day, more young men were dying of wounds inflicted in the battle that had taken Gideon from her. Her nose felt hot. Though she blinked rapidly, she couldn’t prevent a single tear sliding down her cheek. Though why should she even try to hold it back? She’d lost Gideon, and to know so many more young men were dying was utterly tragic.

She wasn’t upset by the fact that, though Tom was now well enough to flirt with the landlady, he’d started treating her more like a...like a sort of sister. Yes, a sister, that was it. They’d just spent the morning talking with each other exactly the way she and Gideon used to. Sharing thoughts openly. Trusting the other with cherished beliefs and the pains of their past.

She delved into the top drawer and pulled out a handkerchief. She blew her nose as quietly as she could, glancing at Tom in case he’d noticed her distress.

But he was lying back on the pillows, his face ashen, his breakfast tray tilting at a dangerous angle.

She got up quickly and saved it before it went crashing to the floor. Didn’t pause to look back, but went with it to the door.

‘I will leave you to sleep,’ she said, keeping her face, and in particular the evidence of her tears, averted. ‘You look exhausted.’

She would be a fool to sit about all day, waiting for this connoisseur of women to look at her that way. It wasn’t going to happen. Men didn’t find her attractive. Oh, plenty of them had shown an interest in marrying her, once they knew who she was, who she was related to and how much wealth she had at her back. But as a woman? No. She had less appeal, apparently, than a fifty-year-old Belgian landlady.

It was all very well Tom saying he was willing to stay sick for as long as she needed him. But he didn’t mean it. As soon as he was strong enough to walk, he would reclaim his freedom. He’d told her he wasn’t the marrying kind. Which meant, really, that he didn’t want to be tied to one woman.

Particularly not a foolish, fey, plain one like her.

‘I need to wash and change, and, well, heavens, but I have been neglecting Castor. Talking about how I used to spend all day riding about with Gideon has made me quite...’ She bit down on her lower lip. It was one thing making excuses, another to embroider them to the point where they became outright lies.