A Lady for Lord Randall

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘My lord, if I may—’

  ‘No, you may not!’ He clenched his teeth together, holding back the anger and frustration that boiled within him. ‘I beg your pardon, Robbins, I should not snap at you. Leave me now, if you please. I will call you when I have broken my fast.’

  Robbins went out, closing the door behind him quietly, as if trying not to exacerbate his master’s already frayed temper. Randall stared at the tray before him. His appetite was quite gone.

  * * *

  For three days Randall held off from writing to Mary. He was too weak to get up, but he found he could deal with most of his military business from his bed, having made up his mind to quit the artillery and return to England. There was much to do to put his affairs in order. The army had moved on to Paris, chasing Bonaparte, but he was kept busy writing reports and composing letters of condolence to the families of his men who had died in battle—those Rogues who had a family. Officers came and went, to report or carry away his orders. It was tiring, but nothing like as difficult as his first visitor, his sister Sarah.

  The girl seemed to have grown up a great deal during the past few days, she was much more self-assured. Randall wanted to rip up at her about her liaison with Major Bartlett, but his first words brought a flash of fire into her eyes and he held his tongue. Mary’s words came back to him. Sarah was a woman now with a mind of her own. And besides, who was he to reprimand her? However, when she asked how Gideon had died he made no attempt to fob her off. She deserved to know the truth. In the retelling of it he was obliged to relive the terrible moment of cradling his younger brother in his arms as the life went out of him. Not only that, but Sarah berated him for his treatment of Mary. He deserved it, he knew that only too well, but when Sarah told him how Mary had led the search for him, how she had entered into the barn to look for him amongst the dead, the agony of what he had lost, how he had wronged her, was more painful than any sabre cut.

  The injustice of it worried away at him and eventually he wrote a note for Mary. It was returned, unopened, together with the information that Miss Endacott had left Brussels and would not be coming back. Randall crushed his carefully worded letter into a ball and hurled it across the room.

  ‘Fine lady, Miss Endacott,’ remarked Robbins, in response to the stream of quiet invective flowing from his master’s lips. He bent to pick up the mangled paper. ‘Quiet, like, but very determined, in her own way. It was quite an eye-opener, I can tell you, the night they brought you back here, to see how the Rogues deferred to her, as if she could make everything right. And then she wouldn’t take the brigade surgeon’s word for it that there was nothing to be done for you, but insisted on bringing in her own doctor—’

  ‘Yes, yes, all right!’ Randall sighed and cast a rueful eye at his batman. ‘I handled it very badly, didn’t I?’

  ‘I’m afraid you did, sir.’

  ‘And now she’s left town and gone heaven knows where.’ His clenched fist struck the bedcovers. ‘If only I wasn’t tied to the bed, weak as a cat, I’d go and find her, wherever she may be.’

  Robbins grinned, saying cheerfully, ‘One step at a time, my lord. We’ll get you out of bed today and it won’t be long before you’re on your feet again, I’m sure.’

  Randall knew his man was right. A few hours in the chair was all he could manage that afternoon.

  * * *

  When Dr Lebbeke came to see him the following day he demanded irritably how long he could expect to be incarcerated indoors.

  ‘You are making an excellent recovery,’ replied the doctor when he had finished his examination. ‘I see no reason why you should not go out of doors tomorrow, if you feel up to it, although I expect going down the stairs to the door will be enough for you.’

  ‘Damn, I must get further than that!’

  ‘All in good time, my lord. If you try to do too much too soon, then all my efforts might be in vain.’ The doctor shrugged himself into his coat. ‘I must leave. I go to the Rue Haute. There is a patient at the schoolhouse who concerns me.’

  ‘So she left you in charge, did she?’

  ‘Mais non. Mademoiselle Endacott is still in command.’

  ‘I thought she had left Brussels.’

  ‘She is in Antwerp for a few days, but she returns at the end of the week. I still have several patients at the schoolhouse, men too ill to be moved, and Mademoiselle Endacott will remain to supervise their nursing. I consider her presence is necessary to their recovery.’

  Randall frowned, a demon of jealousy rising inside him. ‘You asked her to stay?’

  ‘I suggested she should do so and she has agreed.’ Lebbeke picked up his bag, saying carefully, ‘I think she was glad to have an excuse to remain in Brussels.’

  There was something in the doctor’s tone and in the look he cast at Randall that made the demon subside again.

  ‘And...er...how much longer do you expect your patients to be at the schoolhouse?’

  ‘Oh, I have no intention of moving them for some weeks yet. If that is all, my lord, I shall be on my way.’

  Lebbeke gave a little bow and went to the door.

  ‘Doctor?’

  Lebbeke turned, brows raised. Randall met his eyes.

  ‘Thank you.’

  * * *

  Mary sat at her desk, but her eyes did not see the columns of figures in the open ledger. It was more than three weeks since she had left Randall at the Rue Ducale, but he still occupied all her waking moments. She wanted to forget him, to have nothing further to do with any of the Latymor family. She had returned to the Rue Haute and had immediately written a brief note to Lady Sarah, telling her that Randall was recovering. That should have been the end of it, but Lady Sarah had turned up on her doorstep the very next day, begging to be allowed to help with nursing the wounded soldiers.

  Mary knew she should have turned her away, even though there was plenty of work to be done. Having a Latymor in the house was a constant reminder of the past, a perpetual knife in her heart, but looking into Sarah’s eyes, so like her brother’s, she could not refuse. The lady was obviously suffering, in her own way.

  Randall, too, had written to her, once, but Mary had returned the letter unopened and sent Jacques to deliver it, together with the message that she had quit Brussels. It was not a complete lie; she had gone to Antwerp to finalise the closure of what was left of her school. The last of the pupils had gone home and the teaching staff had been paid off, then she had returned to the Rue Haute.

  She had intended to pack up her belongings and move out, prior to the sale of the schoolhouse, but Bertrand had persuaded her to stay, convincing her that her presence was very necessary to those wounded soldiers still remaining in the house. Dear Bertrand, he had been a rock during the past weeks, treating her as a comrade, a friend, and never censuring her for her recklessness in throwing herself at the earl. Bertrand had involved her in the nursing of the sick, tried to distract her thoughts, but always, at the back of her mind was Randall. She missed him so much it was a physical ache, not just at night, when she would recall his kisses, the way they had made love together, but his companionship.

  She had teased him for being so serious, but more and more she had begun to see that glint of humour in his eyes. That last week, when she had shared his bed, she had felt so comfortable with him. She had never had to explain herself, he had understood her, or at least she had thought so, until that last disastrous confrontation. Perhaps Randall was right; they were merely a man and a woman in love, for despite all her good intentions she could not shrug him off. He was like her shadow, constantly with her. Sometimes she felt that if she could turn her head just a little quicker she would find him there, at her shoulder.

  Mary put down her pen and rubbed her eyes. It had been a mistake to stay in Brussels. She should not have allowed Bertrand to persuade her. There we
re too many painful memories. However, Bertrand had promised her that the last of the patients would be gone by Monday and she was determined that she, too, would leave then. Jacques and Therese would oversee the sale of the schoolhouse while she made a new life for herself away from here. Away from Randall.

  No matter how often she told herself it was for the best, and that their worlds were too far apart, it made no difference to the ache within her and today the pain was so great she felt the hot tears welling up just thinking about it.

  ‘Oh, do not be so foolish,’ she told herself. ‘It is something you are going to have to live with. Think about the dreadful suffering you have seen over the past few weeks. If men can survive such terrible injuries, you can live with a little heartbreak!’

  She took up her pen again. When she left on Monday she must give her business ledgers to her lawyer and the accounts would need to be in order. She tried once more to add up the column of figures, but tears filled her eyes. She heard her maid in the hall and the door opening, but she dared not look up. She said, with as much brightness as she could infuse into her voice,

  ‘Is that my morning coffee, Therese? Thank you. Put it on the desk, if you please.’

  She kept her head bent, her pen hovering over the ledger as if she was concentrating on the figures while all the time she was blinking rapidly to clear her vision. Dear heaven, it seemed to take the maid an age to approach. Why did she not put down the cup and leave her in peace? A shadow fell over the desk and a hand—a large, long-fingered male hand—placed something on the open ledger.

  Blinking rapidly, she saw it was a single red rose.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mary kept her head bent and her gaze fixed on the rose while she found her pocket handkerchief and wiped her eyes. When at last she did look up she saw Randall standing before her, regarding her solemnly. A rush of emotions battered her: joy, pain, fierce desire, misery. She knew she would have to make him leave, quickly, before her resolve disappeared. She pushed herself to her feet, keeping her fingertips on the desk to support her trembling body. She must remember how he had treated her at the night of the ball. The injustice of it. As she had hoped, anger lent an edge to her voice when she addressed him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I have come to see you.’

  ‘That much is evident,’ she retorted. ‘I, however, do not want to see you. You may have forgotten what you said to me at the ball, sir, but I have not.’

  ‘No, I have not forgotten anything.’

  ‘You should go, now.’

  When he did not move she went to the door and turned the handle. It did not open.

  ‘It is locked.’ She turned to glare at him. ‘Where is the key?’

  ‘It is in my pocket.’

  His cool tone infuriated her.

  ‘How dare you. Jacques!’

  ‘It is useless to shout. I told your manservant we were not to be disturbed. He has gone off to attend to something at the other end of the house.’

  ‘You have been giving orders to my servants?’ She gasped with indignation at his effrontery. ‘That is outrageous!’

  ‘It is an advantage of the rank and privilege you so despise.’

  She almost stamped her foot at that.

  ‘How dare you tease me? Unlock this door immediately and leave my house.’

  ‘Not until I have said what I came to say.’

  She crossed her arms and glared at him.

  ‘I do not want to hear it.’

  ‘But I am afraid you must.’ He waved towards a chair. ‘Will you not sit down? No? Very well.’

  Mary watched him as he stripped off his gloves and laid them with his hat on the table. He had done that before, she remembered how he had stared at the bouquet Bertrand had given her and said then that he would never bring her flowers. Her eyes strayed to the rose lying on the desk. It was a potent sign of how he had changed.

  ‘Pray say what you must, then be gone,’ she told him, shrugging off the thought and concentrating upon her anger.

  ‘Did you know that it was my brother Gideon who took the sword?’

  ‘Yes. Robbins told me. He also told me how the story has been corrupted. It is said you gave him the Latymor sword to carry in his first engagement.’

  Randall nodded. ‘It has already passed into the Rogues’ folklore. They say because he was carrying the sword he was able to prevent the French capturing the guns and thus save the company’s honour. An action that cost him his life.’

  ‘I heard that, too.’

  She looked at the carpet, keeping her lips firmly closed. She would not sympathise with him over the loss of his brother, she dare not allow him any hope that she was weakening. She heard the little cough; the one Randall gave when he was nervous.

  ‘I wanted you to know how very sorry I am for the way I treated you. I humbly beg your pardon.’

  An apology? Randall never apologised.

  ‘And you think this will do the trick?’ she asked him, when she could command her voice.

  ‘No, but it is a start.’

  She risked looking up and for the first time she noted that he was wearing his morning coat of blue superfine.

  ‘You are not in uniform.’

  ‘I am no longer a soldier.’ He came towards her. ‘I am going home, Mary, to Chalfont. And I would like you to come with me. You need not fear that the family will not receive you. Word has already reached my mother of the part you played in my rescue. I should not be at all surprised if she were to fall on your neck and call you the saviour of the Latymors.’

  When she did not speak he hurried on.

  ‘You cannot know the agony I have suffered since you left me. I was a fool not to trust you, I know that now and I do not expect you to forgive me for it, but if you will give me time, I will try to make it up to you.’

  He dropped to one knee before her. Her hand went out when she saw him wince and before she could snatch it back he grasped it. She could no longer avoid looking at him and he held her gaze.

  He said urgently, ‘Marry me, Mary. Let me spend the rest of my life showing you just how much I love you. You were right when you said I was afraid of life, but you have changed that. You taught me to laugh, Mary, and to love. Now I need you to teach me how to live my life without the Rogues. Recovering from the bullet wound has given me time to think. I never knew love, real love, until I met you, Mary. I told you of my boyish infatuation and you know that I have not lived the life of a saint, but all that is in the past now. I am begging you to marry me, my dearest love, because I know that without you there is no future happiness for me.’

  The naked anguish in his eyes tore at her heart. She could not hold back a sob.

  ‘Oh, Randall!’

  With an agility that surprised her he sprang up and dragged her into his arms. She surrendered to his kiss, her lips parting, senses swimming as the familiar longing rushed through her from her hair to the tips of her toes. The blood was singing in her veins, but even as her body thrilled to his touch she remembered her resolve and she struggled to free herself, taking care not to push against his chest.

  ‘Randall, I cannot marry you. Please do not ask it of me.’ She hung her head. ‘I explained it all to you in my letter.’

  He gathered her hands in his own, holding them tightly.

  ‘Would you mind if we sit down?’ He added apologetically, ‘I am not yet fully recovered.’

  Immediately she was all concern.

  ‘Oh, yes—yes, of course.’ Mary guided Randall to a sofa, but as he pulled her down beside him she recovered her wits sufficiently to say hotly, ‘And what in heaven’s name was Jacques thinking of to let you in? You may be an earl, but I gave specific instructions that if you called he was to say I was not at home!’
/>   ‘Do not blame your man; Lebbeke insisted I should be admitted.’

  ‘Bertrand?’

  ‘Yes, he was crossing the hall when I arrived.’ He grinned. ‘He is my doctor and realised my situation was most grave.’

  She forced herself not to smile and gently disengaged her hands.

  ‘I am very sorry, Randall, but your coming here can make no difference. I cannot marry you. I have thought about it constantly since the night of the ball and I know it would never work between us. I must refuse you, my lord.’ She hunted for her pocket handkerchief. ‘Please do not try to change my mind.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Mary wiped her eyes and tried hard not to feel disappointed. He sighed and leaned back against the sofa.

  ‘War is a simple thing, compared to love,’ he said. ‘In war we know the enemy and pound away until they, or we, are defeated. To love someone is a very much more subtle and difficult thing. The object of our affection becomes the most important person in one’s life, their happiness is paramount, even if it means you have to sacrifice your own. You say our worlds are very different and that is true. I was born a peer of the realm and I am a soldier. I am trained to fight against revolution, you were raised to fight for it. What was it you wrote in your letter? To marry me would be a betrayal of all your parents believed in. But is it a betrayal of what you believe in, too?’

  ‘Yes—no.’ She bit her lip. ‘I thought it was, but I have changed, since knowing you.’ She waved her hand. ‘But that is beside the point now. Even though I love you we are too different. We should be in eternal conflict.’

  ‘Would we? Your parents taught you that only love can bind two people together, did they not? Love and a commonality of intellectual interests, is that not what you told me when we first met? Have we not discovered these past few weeks that we have many things in common? Our dislike of pretension, for example, and abhorrence of injustice. Think back on the time we have spent together. There has been no lack of conversation, has there?’