A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘You know it isn’t.’

She dropped her head to one side and rubbed her cheek against the back of his hand.

‘Then come back to me when you can. I want to see as much as possible of you, until war comes.’

Randall felt his blood stirring again and fought to keep his calm.

‘Don’t, Mary. How can I do what is right when you bewitch me like this? We are playing with fire, my dear, but this world is very unjust, and it is you who will suffer if we are found out.’

‘I know it. We are agreed that marriage is out of the question and I am prepared to take the risk.’

His heart went out to her, his brave, indomitable Mary, who looked tousled and vulnerable and lovely in the cold morning light.

‘You could lose your livelihood.’

‘I shall manage.’

‘I could make over an allowance—’

‘No!’ She pushed him away, her eyes suddenly fierce. ‘I am willing to be your mistress, my lord, not your wife or your whore.’ As always when she was angry, she addressed him formally, as if emphasising the difference she perceived in their stations. ‘You insult me, sir.’

‘That was not my intention.’

‘Then let us talk no more of it.’ The light of battle died from her eyes. She said wistfully, ‘Shall I see you tonight?’

‘I do not think that will be possible. Wellington is holding one of his suppers and I must attend. It will be very late when it is finished. Too late for me to call upon you.’

‘I should not mind that.’

‘But I should.’ He kissed her. ‘You take too many chances for me, Mary.’

She wound her arms about his neck.

‘You are worth the risk,’ she whispered. ‘I believe in you, Randall.’

* * *

It was agony to leave her, but he managed it and made his way back to the Rue Ducale through the near empty streets. Telling Mary about the past had cleansed him and his mind was now full of her image, lying amongst the tumbled sheets, her hair a dark lustrous cloud against the pillows and a glow in her eyes that made him feel like a king. He had never felt so complete, yet he still wanted more, he could not wait to see her again. Mayhap he could send his apologies to the duke and spend the evening with Mary after all. He shook his head, knowing it was impossible and cursing himself for a fool, but a smile was bubbling up inside and his heart was singing as he returned to his lodgings to prepare for the day.

* * *

It was past midnight when Randall returned to the Rue Ducale and he was dog-tired. The news was not good; there were reports of the French moving towards the border. He must see Mary in the morning and persuade her to leave Brussels. The thought depressed him. At first he had tried to tell himself that it need not be the end, that he could send for her later, when the danger had passed, but in his heart he knew it would not work. Despite her protestations that she did not believe in marriage, if they entered into any other union the world would see her as his mistress. What would she do? She was not one for a life of idleness, but she would not be able to continue running her school. She would be shunned by his family and polite society, forced to live in the shadowy world of the demi-monde or the camp followers. The shame of it would kill her.

No, it would be best if they parted now, while it was still possible that he could leave her with her reputation intact.

It should not be difficult. He had known many women in the past and never felt more than a moment’s regret at leaving any of them, but as he ran up the stairs to his apartment, some inner voice told him that leaving Mary would be different.

* * *

Robbins was waiting for him, a look of profound gloom and disapprobation on his rugged features.

‘You have a visitor, my lord,’ he announced in a voice of doom. ‘She’s waiting for you in your sitting room.’

‘She?’

Robbins nodded. ‘I tried to reason with her, my lord, but it was no good. Determined, she was.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘She did come veiled, though.’

Randall barely heard him. In two strides he had crossed the passage and opened the door to his sitting room. Mary was there, composedly reading a book. He should scold her and send her away, but he could not. It was as if he had conjured her by his wishful thinking.