A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

‘It was bad luck that we came out of the house just when the only English lady obsessed with gardening took it into her head to inspect the Jardin Botanique,’ Rose said flatly. ‘And worse luck that she is a spiteful gossip.’

‘We will announce our betrothal immediately. That will silence the worst of the talk,’ Flint said flatly. Enough of this play-acting. Rose was his and he was weary of discussing it.

‘And return to London for the wedding,’ Lady Thetford declared, with a flutter of her fan.

‘Retreat, ma’am?’ It felt like running away to Flint. ‘What is wrong with the Chapel Royal? We can find an English cleric or one of the army chaplains. What do you want to do, Rose?’

She was so silent that for a moment he thought she would not answer, then she said, ‘I do not mind. I do not want to drag you away from your duty. We know there is no hurry.’

Surely women liked nothing more than plotting every detail of weddings? Rose spoke as though it was a visit to a rather dull house party that they were discussing.

‘I will tell Lady Anderson in strictest confidence when we attend her garden tea party tomorrow,’ her mother continued, looking more cheerful now she was planning. ‘That way it will be all over the city in no time at all. Major Flint can finish his duties here and then make arrangements to resign and then you can be married.’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Rose was looking out of the carriage window, her face expressionless.

‘And we will have ample time for your trousseau. How fortunate that lace is so very affordable here.’

She chattered on, making plans, organising guest lists. Flint let the words flow over him as he watched Rose, his sense of unease growing. She was too passive, too uninvolved. He had expected anger, resistance—or acceptance and some sense of relief that a decision had been made. She was thinking, turned in on herself as though the decision had not been made at all. He hated seeing her like this with the spark and the laughter drained out of her. This was not his Rose, this was Miss Tatton, a woman he did not know, chilled into propriety by the cold winds of social disapproval. He was going to have to act, take control of this courtship, get his Rose back.

My Rose. The concept startled him. Possessiveness, protectiveness, desire…and something else. ‘A word with you, my lord, if you please,’ he said as the carriage pulled up outside the Tattons’ house.

‘Of course.’ The viscount ushered his womenfolk into the house, kissed Rose’s proffered cheek, muttered something to his wife about not waiting up for him and waved a hand towards the study door. ‘The decanters will be out.’

Flint took the proffered brandy, sat and let the fumes tease his nostrils while Lord Thetford fussed about and finally sank down in the chair opposite him. ‘I am concerned about Ro…about Catherine,’ he said abruptly.

‘So am I,’ Lord Thetford agreed. ‘I’m afraid she’ll baulk at this now there’s no…’

‘No child on the way? Quite. She isn’t happy.’

‘Tricky.’ Lord Thetford stared gloomily into the depths of his glass.

‘I’ll speak with her alone, tomorrow.’

‘Very well.’ The older man got to his feet. ‘I’ll wish you goodnight then. You can let yourself out.’

Left alone, Flint stared into his glass. I’ll tell her the truth, because I believe I do love her. I do not think I can live without her, not and ever be happy again. I would die for her and I will give up the army gladly for her. That, surely, is love?

He raised the glass to his lips and found his hand was shaking. His hand never shook, not since that first day’s baptism of fire when he had walked out of the screaming cauldron of battle and found he was still alive.

Unless she had changed her mind, she loved him, too. He was not given to prayer, he had heard too many fervent petitions on the battlefield cut off in a scream, but now he sent an incoherent plea to whatever deity looked after poor bloody soldiers. Just give me this and I’ll never trouble you again.

Chapter Twenty

Rose woke to the confirmation that she was definitely not with child and with a perfect excuse for pale cheeks and a lack of energy. Dosed with willow-bark tea for her aches she settled to a morning of list-making with Mama who was throwing herself into the wedding planning with enthusiasm, undeterred by Rose’s lacklustre responses.

‘You’ll be yourself again tomorrow,’ Lady Thetford said, cutting into her thoughts. ‘A pity we have that garden tea party this afternoon, but it won’t do to vanish from sight, not after last night. Still, you can sit in the shade and rest. Yes, Annette?’

‘Major Flint has called to speak to Miss Tatton, my lady.’

‘He is very attentive, is he not, my dear? Annette, take your mending down and sit in the small salon with the door open to the drawing room.’

Rose found Adam in the drawing room looking exceedingly formal and serious and Annette tucked herself away discreetly in sight, but out of earshot.

‘Miss Tatto

n.’ He bowed.

‘Major Flint.’ She dropped the hint of a curtsy. ‘Won’t you sit down?’