A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘Go to bed, Therese, I will see to everything.’

‘But the door, m’amselle...?’

‘I am quite capable of seeing the colonel out, Therese. Go to bed.’

‘She is concerned for your reputation,’ he remarked as the door closed behind the servant.

‘After this evening I do not think I have any reputation left.’

‘Bennington Ffog will not mention tonight’s fracas, I will make sure of that.’

‘Thank you, but it hardly matters now. I shall be leaving Brussels on Monday.’ She glanced at the clock. It was gone midnight. ‘Tomorrow.’

Randall was silent. He had said he would explain, but he had not thought how hard it would be. He took a turn about the room, coming to a stand by the table, where he stared down at the cheerful arrangement of fresh flowers.

‘Are these from your doctor?’

‘They are from Bertrand Lebbeke, yes.’

‘You should marry him.’

He heard her sudden intake of breath. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Because I cannot marry you.’ He closed his eyes, but the orange-and-yellow blooms had burned themselves on to his eyelids, taunting him with their sunshine colours.

‘I have never asked that of you, Randall.’

‘But I want you to know why. You already know that my father was a libertine, a womanizer. He fathered bastards wherever he went and made my mother’s life a misery.’ He paused, reliving the painful memory when, as a young boy, he had found his mother weeping over his father’s peccadilloes. A tremor of repugnance ran though him; such a frivolous word to describe the old earl’s philandering, his disregard for anyone or anything save his own pleasures. Had he been faithful to his wife in the early days of their marriage, or had she only ever been a brood mare, necessary for the continuation of the family name? It was the only time he had seen his mother cry. She had always been careful to hide her distress from her family but it was constantly there, in her eyes. He said now, ‘I decided a long time ago that I could never marry, that I would never inflict such a future on any woman.’

‘What makes you think you are like your father?’

‘Suffice to say I know it,’ he replied shortly. ‘I have kept clear of the marriage mart. Oh, I know many women would marry me for my fortune and the title, but I do not want a loveless marriage. And yet the idea that a woman might care for me, love me, and I should treat her as my father used my mother—I could never do that. So I have done my best to avoid raising hopes where they cannot be fulfilled. I have consorted only with women who know it is mere dalliance. Married women or those who make their living by selling their favours.’

She was looking at him, hands clasped tightly before her. Her eyes were glowing, a deep sea green in the candlelight, shadowed with unhappiness.

‘That does not mean you are a libertine, Randall.’

Did she want him to spell it out for her, that early episode that had shown him all too clearly that he was like his father? Even now he could not do it. He waved aside her arguments.

‘Mine is not a constant nature. It is true, I have not looked at another woman since the day I met you, but we have only known each other a matter of weeks. What if I were to marry you—who is to say that in a few more months, a year, even, I won’t tire of you?’

‘That is a risk everyo

ne takes when they marry.’

He shook his head.

‘I am my father’s son, Mary. His philandering broke my mother’s heart, I watched it happen. I will not risk doing the same thing to you.’

* * *

The silence hung between them. Mary’s hands were clasped so tightly they hurt, but she was glad of the pain, it helped her to concentrate.

‘I am fortunate, then, that I do not ask you to do so,’ she said. ‘You know my views on marriage and we do not share that commonality of intellectual interests which would make a union acceptable to me.’

Was that true? Mary thought of the time they had spent together. There had been no lack of conversation, but what it was they had found to discuss she had no idea.

‘So we must say goodbye,’ she continued, her voice unnaturally calm. ‘There is no future for us once the war is over. I shall go to Antwerp, and by the time it is safe to return...’