A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

Had his wits gone a-begging? This was no time to be paying her compliments, however backhanded. Yet the memory of her in his arms haunted him and brought the heat pounding to his groin. He could still remember the moment her arms stole around his neck, a gentle touch, as if she was afraid to hold him too tightly. And the smell of her, that fresh, womanly smell. No cheap perfumed water for this lady, just a subtle, lemony scent from her hair as she nestled her head beneath his chin.

‘I beg your pardon.’

She had turned away from him and her words were barely audible, but he heard the tremble in her voice. Something twisted inside of him at her distress. He wanted to go to her, to hold her and make the hurt go away. The thought disturbed him. He had never comforted anyone, even his sisters. As he wondered what to say Mary straightened her shoulders and turned back to face him.

‘Your methods were unconventional, my lord, but I should have had a great deal more reason to blush if I had tried to make the descent in my skirts. I beg your pardon for ripping up at you. I have been struggling so long for independence that I have forgotten how to be gracious.’

He admired her courage in looking him in the eye and apologising.

If you were lovers you would take her to bed now.

Randall cleared his throat.

‘Let us say no more about it.’ He went to the side table and began to pour wine into two glasses. ‘We should take a little refreshment before we continue our journey.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Her tone was light, matter of fact. ‘I have had nothing to eat since last night.’

‘And did you sleep at all on board?’

‘Yes, very well, for the whole of the crossing.’ She came up to take a glass of wine, glancing up at him shyly. ‘I know you will want to be with your men as soon as you can. I shall not delay you.’

The angry glow had left her eyes; they were now a soft green, the colour of an English hedgerow in spring. He realised he would not object if she delayed him, if he could sweep her up and carry her off to bed. He wanted to bury his head in her thick dark hair, or even between the thighs that his arm had been wrapped around when she had been thrown over his shoulder. Desire slammed through him, heating his blood, and he moved away from her, alarmed at his reaction. He had thought himself beyond the age of such imaginings. Women had no place in his life, beyond as a pleasurable distraction. He

went over to the window and gave his attention to the view.

‘You may not delay me, but the lack of transport might well do so. Those fools are trying to offload my carriages now and making a hash of it. I had best go out and see what they are about.’

Draining his glass, he grabbed his hat and went out, relieved to have an excuse to leave Mary Endacott’s disturbing presence.

* * *

Mary watched him go, then sank down on a chair by the table. What she had read in Randall’s eyes when he looked at her had shaken her to the core and her legs felt decidedly weak. It had been like looking into the hot blue flames of a fire. She had seen in them the promise of untold delights; delights she was sure were beyond her experience. It was a look of burning desire. She had seen it before, when they had been alone in Harriett’s garden, but then he had believed her to be a—she swallowed convulsively—a woman of experience. Perhaps men’s eyes always gleamed in that way when they looked at a pretty woman? But she was not a pretty woman; she was sensible, respectable Miss Endacott, proprietress of an academy for young ladies.

She sipped her wine. Lord Randall could not help what he felt, of course. After all, he was a man and she knew very well that men were prone to strong carnal lusts, but what shook her was her own reaction to his look. She had studied Mary Wollstonecraft’s teachings, read Mr Godwin’s thoughts upon the nature of love and it had all sounded so reasonable. A man and woman would become well acquainted and fall in love. They would enter into a union of mutual interests, built on trust and respect without the need for the blessings of any church. The only union she had thought of when she saw that hot look in Randall’s eyes was a physical one. She had wanted to reach out for him, to pull his head down and taste his lips again, feel his body pressed against hers. Even now the thought of it made her grow hot and her muscles contracted deep inside.

Thank heavens he had gone out when he had, otherwise she was very much afraid she might have given in to her instincts and thrown herself at him.

‘You must control yourself, Mary Endacott. Lord Randall has already told you the sort of women he allows into his life and you are not going to become one of those. Think of all you have to lose.’

Yes, think, she told herself sternly. Mr Godwin’s idealistic doctrines might work for some, if they had independent means, but she only had her school to support her, and if she lost her reputation no one would entrust their daughters to her care. Randall might take her as his mistress for a while, but what then? What would she do when he had tired of her? She would have to find another protector, and then another, until she was too old and ugly to attract any man for more than a brief coupling in a dark alley.

She shuddered. That fate was too hideous to contemplate.

Chapter Four

By the time Lord Randall returned Mary was in control once more. She allowed him to hand her into the carriage and resolutely kept her eyes averted from him whenever his horse came alongside the window. She had developed an infatuation for the earl. She had seen it in some of her pupils, but never expected that she would be so foolish. It was based on nothing substantial—after all, what did she know of the man? They came from different worlds; their views were so dissimilar there could be no common ground. What she felt for him was pure lust and she would fight against it with every fibre of her being.

She was relieved that Lord Randall appeared to be working equally hard at fighting the attraction. When they made a brief halt to change horses he was distantly polite and when they stopped for the night nothing could have exceeded his attention to her comfort, even arranging for a maid to wait upon her and sleep in her room. If Mary’s slumber was disturbed by dreams then she could hardly blame the earl for that.

* * *

‘No, we shall go on very well,’ she murmured to herself as she rose from her bed the next morning. ‘By this evening I shall be back in the Rue Haute and I need never be troubled by Lord Randall again.’

On this encouraging thought she made her way downstairs. The inn was a small one, but the earl’s largesse had persuaded the innkeeper to put aside a private parlour for them. When Mary entered she found the earl was already breaking his fast. For a moment she hesitated by the door. He had changed his civilian clothes for a dark blue uniform that hugged his lean, athletic figure. He looked even more severe and imposing than before. It also accentuated the blue of his eyes, she noted as she met his gaze. Her heart jumped to her throat and began to pound so heavily that she quickly looked away, trying to regain her composure.

‘Good morning, Miss Endacott.’

Lord Randall rose and held her chair for her.