A Lady for Lord Randall (Brides of Waterloo)

‘Always so sensible, Mary.’

‘Would you rather I clung to you, weeping?’ She slipped off the bed and began to collect up her clothes.

They dressed quickly and in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Mary used the small mirror on the wall to brush out her curls and re-pin them. Her eyes strayed to Randall’s reflection and their eyes met.

He cleared his throat. She had learned it was a sign that he was ill at ease.

‘Mary, when this is over, do you think you could put aside your radical principles and live with me?’ She froze and he continued, a note of apology in his voice. ‘As my wife, I mean. It would have to be marriage, I’m afraid. I have responsibilities that I cannot shuffle off and I want you with me at Chalfont. Could you take that risk with me? And it is a risk, you know I have never proved faithful to a woman yet, but with you I think I could do it. So what do you say, do you think you could bear to be my countess despite your principles, could you bring yourself to marry me?’

Her hairbrush fell from her nerveless fingers and she turned towards him, staring.

She said slowly, ‘I would not ask that of you, my lord.’

‘I know, but it is the only solution I can think of since I cannot live without you. It would mean compromise, I know, but I would not expect you to give up everything that you believe in. You would be taking the fight to the enemy, so to speak.’ For a moment his eyes glinted with laughter before they grew serious again. ‘I do not want to lose you, Mary. I am very much afraid that I love you.’

Her vision blurred and she blinked rapidly.

‘Oh, Randall!’

‘You are crying,’ he said, frowning. ‘I did not mean to make you unhappy.’

She gave a shaky laugh.

‘I am not unhappy. Knowing you love me has made me the happiest woman in the world.’

‘And do you think, perhaps, that you might be able to love me?’

‘I do.’ She went into his arms, turning her face up for his kiss. ‘Oh, Randall, I love you so much.’

‘Can you love me?’ he asked at last. His hand cradled her cheek as he wiped away her tears with his thumb. ‘I am not adept at soft phrases or kindly gestures.’

‘You told me as much from the beginning,’ she said, smiling mistily up at him. ‘I love you even more because of it.’

‘Then you will marry me?’

With terrifying clarity she knew there was nothing she wanted to do more, but something held her back, some inexplicable feeling that if she agreed, if she went against all the teachings of her childhood, she would be punished.

‘Ask me again, when the battle is over.’

‘Say yes now and I will write to my mother, then if anything should happen to me—’

Quickly she put her fingers against his lips.

‘Do not say such things. I am very much afraid that if I accept your proposal now some vengeful deity will take you away from me.’

Randall laughed and shook his head. ‘My men will tell you I have a charmed life, or a charmed sword.’ He nodded to where his uniform was hanging from a peg on the wall. ‘You see the sword hanging up there? It is my dress sword, worn for occasions such as the ball tonight. In here is another sword.’ He walked over to the large trunk pushed against the wall and lifted the lid. ‘This one is a much older weapon. You can see how the decoration has lost its glitter and the scabbard is worn and faded with use. It belonged to my grandfather. He wore it at every engagement and I have done the same, it has always seen us through safely. It is the Latymor Luck.’ He closed the lid and turned to her. ‘Does that reassure you?’

She shook her head. ‘I cannot believe you would put so much store in a superstition, my love, it is not like you.’

* * *

Randall wondered for a moment if he should answer truthfully, but he wanted to drive the anxious look from her eyes, so he said confidently, ‘The Latymor sword is different: I would not think of going into battle without it.’ One glossy ringlet was lying on her shoulder and he picked it up. It curled around his finger, reminding him of the way she had wound herself around his heart. A foolish analogy. By heaven, he was becoming quite sentimental, but for once he did not care. He lifted the curl to his lips. ‘Go and finish putting up your hair, my love, you look as if you have been ravished.’

His words dispelled the shadow from her eyes and the twinkle returned. They sparkled at him, emerald green.

‘That is just what has happened to me.’

She looked so adorable he could not resist another kiss, then reluctantly he let her go. A clock somewhere chimed the hour. Nine o’clock. Robbins would be pacing up and down, waiting to shave him. Let him wait. He would not rush Mary out of his rooms. He might never see her again.