A Mistress for Major Bartlett (Brides of Waterloo)

rt.’

Yes. They had. Though now she was the only one who thought marriage might not be so bad, if entered into for the right reasons.

Unless—could he have changed his mind, too? Might there be more to his proposal? Was that why he’d seemed so hurt and angry when she’d turned him down flat?

Perhaps she should give him a chance to explain, if that was so.

‘It was sweet of you to propose, then, when you really don’t want to marry me. All for the sake of a baby that might not even have been made.’

‘It wasn’t just that.’

Her heart bumped into her throat.

‘I shouldn’t have gone so far. I know you maintain you wanted to gift me with your virginity, but I needn’t have taken it. I could have given you pleasure, and taken it, without leaving you in no state to marry anyone else.’

Guilt. It was only guilt, after all, that had prompted him.

‘I don’t want to marry anyone else!’ Her eyes were burning so hot she had to blink rapidly. ‘I was ruined and facing scandal, just for staying with you here unchaperoned. We talked about it—how I was going to live on a small estate somewhere and withdraw from society. I’m happy to do that. With or without a baby.’

All of a sudden she couldn’t bear being so close to him while they were fighting. She rolled out of bed, grabbed her crumpled chemise and dragged it over her head. Then went to pour herself a drink.

* * *

So. She thought he was good enough for a quick romp, but not for ever. And any child that might spring from this coupling would be better off living on an estate, somewhere, hidden away in shame, than having him for a legitimate father.

How could she maintain she loved him? She didn’t know the meaning of the word.

He watched her pour a drink and tip it down her throat in one go, with a kind of reckless desperation.

He’d done that to her. Not one hour ago, she’d been sweetly purring, anticipating the pleasure he’d promised her, and now she was all stiff and wary again.

Just because he’d suggested they marry.

She was staring into the empty glass now, as though searching for an answer that eluded her.

If only he could be her answer. But she’d been completely honest with him, right from the start. He could understand, really, why she’d refused his proposal. And it wasn’t only because of who he was. It was because of who she was. Who she wanted to be.

She wanted to be free. She’d told him she hadn’t spent four Seasons avoiding marriage, only to surrender now, when freedom, total freedom, was finally within her grasp. If he persisted in speaking of it, or took some step to force her to comply with his will, for the sake of a child that might not even have been conceived, he’d feel as if he was slamming the prison door shut on her.

It was probably only because he’d said he wasn’t the marrying kind that she’d trusted him to become her lover. Maybe giving him her virginity was one more step she’d needed to take, to make sure no other man could shackle her with legal ties.

Maybe he should look on all this as a tremendous honour.

Maybe— Oh, to hell with it. He didn’t know what to think. He just hurt so much he wanted to howl with pain.

For Sarah had become his lodestar. His anchor. His every single blessed thing in life that was worth hanging on to. If she didn’t want him the way he wanted her, then...

He groaned. God really must want to punish him. He’d spared him eternal damnation only to cast him into a living hell. The hell of falling in love with a woman so elusive she might just as well have been an angel.

* * *

Sarah stared down into her wine glass, unable to so much as look at Tom, or the way he was lying there with his eyes screwed shut, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her.

How had it all gone so wrong? He did still love her, didn’t he? A chill snaked down her spine, even though the room was as hot as an oven.

She went back to the bed. And found she couldn’t just climb in next to him and snuggle into his side. Not while there was all this anger, and hurt, and confusion swirling between them.

‘Tom?’ She perched on the bedside chair, twirling the glass between her fingers. ‘You aren’t angry with me, are you?’