A Rose for Major Flint (Brides of Waterloo)

by Louise Allen

  She had not taken one of the glasses of champagne that footmen were bringing around, which was a good thing. Rose itched to tip one over Lady Grantly’s carefully tinted coiffure. As it was she could only fix an insincere smile on her lips and turn back to the two men. The General was apparently ten minutes into Quatre Bras.

  ‘Dinner is served, madam,’ the butler announced as Mr and Mrs Grace swept through the room, organising gentlemen and their partners. Adam, with no rank at all, was left with Mrs Grace’s companion, a depressed spinster cousin, while Rose found herself on the arm of the General’s grandson, Lord Philpott.

  When they were seated she was diagonally across from Adam who was several places further down the table. He flashed her a wicked look and bent to listen to the companion’s nervous chatter.

  ‘I am certain I saw you this afternoon, Miss Tatton,’ Lady Glenwilling remarked across the board with a lofty disregard for convention. ‘We were on our way to see what damage had been done to the Jardin Botanique and you seemed to have just come out of a house.’

  ‘Yes, I believe I saw you, too,’ Rose rejoined brightly. Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. That carriage…and it had passed as she was standing on the doorstep adjusting Adam’s neckcloth or something equally possessive. There was nothing for it but to attack. ‘I have to confess that I have quite fallen in love with two of the gentlemen in that household. Shocking, is it not?’

  The whole company stared at her, then, when it became obvious from her smile and the very outrageousness of the remark that this must be a joke, relaxed.

  ‘They are both black haired and both very handsome foreigners,’ Rose continued in a confiding tone. ‘One is Spanish and one Belgian.’

  ‘My horse and my dog,’ Adam explained, his voice rueful. ‘Miss Tatton has developed a passion for the pair of them and I fear I am quite cut out and reduced to the office of mere escort.’

  There was general laughter around the table, but Rose was not deceived. Her name was now firmly linked with Adam’s but not, as Mama had hoped, as a couple at the beginning of a courtship. Adam had been escorting her unchaperoned, she had been to his lodgings, she was familiar with his animals. If she had acquired those pieces of gossip about another unmarried lady she would have put them together and reached a perfectly accurate, and perfectly scandalous, conclusion by now.

  *

  ‘That did not go well,’ Flint said as they got into the carriage. He felt faintly queasy and it was not as a result of eating too much confit duck.

  Lady Thetford was visibly upset now she was away from prying eyes and the viscount’s face was stony.

  ‘They know you left the ball early, at the same time as the officers,’ Lady Thetford said with a sigh. ‘There was some gossip about you and Lieutenant Haslam, but now they obviously believe you left with Major Flint and that you were with him from then until your reappearance. They will come up with a version of what was the truth, that an elopement was planned and foiled by the sudden order to march to Quatre Bras.’

  ‘It was bad luck that we came out of the house just when the only English lady obsessed with gardening took it into her head to inspect the Jardin Botanique,’ Rose said flatly. ‘And worse luck that she is a spiteful gossip.’

  ‘We will announce our betrothal immediately. That will silence the worst of the talk,’ Flint said flatly. Enough of this play-acting. Rose was his and he was weary of discussing it.

  ‘And return to London for the wedding,’ Lady Thetford declared, with a flutter of her fan.

  ‘Retreat, ma’am?’ It felt like running away to Flint. ‘What is wrong with the Chapel Royal? We can find an English cleric or one of the army chaplains. What do you want to do, Rose?’

  She was so silent that for a moment he thought she would not answer, then she said, ‘I do not mind. I do not want to drag you away from your duty. We know there is no hurry.’

  Surely women liked nothing more than plotting every detail of weddings? Rose spoke as though it was a visit to a rather dull house party that they were discussing.

  ‘I will tell Lady Anderson in strictest confidence when we attend her garden tea party tomorrow,’ her mother continued, looking more cheerful now she was planning. ‘That way it will be all over the city in no time at all. Major Flint can finish his duties here and then make arrangements to resign and then you can be married.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ Rose was looking out of the carriage window, her face expressionless.

  ‘And we will have ample time for your trousseau. How fortunate that lace is so very affordable here.’

  She chattered on, making plans, organising guest lists. Flint let the words flow over him as he watched Rose, his sense of unease growing. She was too passive, too uninvolved. He had expected anger, resistance—or acceptance and some sense of relief that a decision had been made. She was thinking, turned in on herself as though the decision had not been made at all. He hated seeing her like this with the spark and the laughter drained out of her. This was not his Rose, this was Miss Tatton, a woman he did not know, chilled into propriety by the cold winds of social disapproval. He was going to have to act, take control of this courtship, get his Rose back.

  My Rose. The concept startled him. Possessiveness, protectiveness, desire…and something else. ‘A word with you, my lord, if you please,’ he said as the carriage pulled up outside the Tattons’ house.

  ‘Of course.’ The viscount ushered his womenfolk into the house, kissed Rose’s proffered cheek, muttered something to his wife about not waiting up for him and waved a hand towards the study door. ‘The decanters will be out.’

  Flint took the proffered brandy, sat and let the fumes tease his nostrils while Lord Thetford fussed about and finally sank down in the chair opposite him. ‘I am concerned about Ro…about Catherine,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘So am I,’ Lord Thetford agreed. ‘I’m afraid she’ll baulk at this now there’s no…’

  ‘No child on the way? Quite. She isn’t happy.’

  ‘Tricky.’ Lord Thetford stared gloomily into the depths of his glass.

  ‘I’ll speak with her alone, tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well.’ The older man got to his feet. ‘I’ll wish you goodnight then. You can let yourself out.’

  Left alone, Flint stared into his glass. I’ll tell her the truth, because I believe I do love her. I do not think I can live without her, not and ever be happy again. I would die for her and I will give up the army gladly for her. That, surely, is love?

  He raised the glass to his lips and found his hand was shaking. His hand never shook, not since that first day’s baptism of fire when he had walked out of the screaming cauldron of battle and found he was still alive.

  Unless she had changed her mind, she loved him, too. He was not given to prayer, he had heard too many fervent petitions on the battlefield cut off in a scream, but now he sent an incoherent plea to whatever deity looked after poor bloody soldiers. Just give me this and I’ll never trouble you again.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rose woke to the confirmation that she was definitely not with child and with a perfect excuse for pale cheeks and a lack of energy. Dosed with willow-bark tea for her aches she settled to a morning of list-making with Mama who was throwing herself into the wedding planning with enthusiasm, undeterred by Rose’s lacklustre responses.

  ‘You’ll be yourself again tomorrow,’ Lady Thetford said, cutting into her thoughts. ‘A pity we have that garden tea party this afternoon, but it won’t do to vanish from sight, not after last night. Still, you can sit in the shade and rest. Yes, Annette?’

  ‘Major Flint has called to speak to Miss Tatton, my lady.’

  ‘He is very attentive, is he not, my dear? Annette, take your mending down and sit in the small salon with the door open to the drawing room.’

  Rose found Adam in the drawing room looking exceedingly formal and serious and Annette tucked herself away discreetly in sight, but out of earshot.

  ‘Miss Tatto
n.’ He bowed.

  ‘Major Flint.’ She dropped the hint of a curtsy. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  ‘In a moment. There was something missing from my earlier proposal.’ Adam opened his hand to reveal a small blue Morocco-leather jeweller’s box, then went down on one knee beside her chair and opened it. ‘I hope you will do me the honour of wearing my ring.’

  It was a yellow diamond, an oval set around with small brilliant diamonds. Adam took her left hand and slid it on to her ring finger. The fit was perfect. The sight of her fierce, tough warrior forcing himself through this charade of gentility was heartbreaking.

  ‘It is very lovely.’ Rose tried to inject warmth into her voice. ‘But why now, Adam?’

  ‘Because we are about to make this official.’ He hesitated, his head bent over her hand. Adam never hesitated. After three heartbeats he looked up and met her questioning gaze, his blue eyes shadowed. ‘And because I have come to realise that I love you and it would mean much to me for you to wear my ring.’

  It sounded stilted, rehearsed. Untrue. Adam had always told her the truth before, always been clear, never hesitant. He had dropped her gaze and was looking at their linked hands again. This is a lie.

  This was worse than she had feared. Now Adam Flint, the man who said he did not understand love, the man who had resisted using the words to her because he was so honest, had produced them as the ultimate argument.

  ‘I had hoped you would not say it, that you would not feel you had to, that we could do this with honesty between us,’ she said before she could lose her nerve.

  His face hardened. Anger that she doubted his word, she supposed. ‘It is the truth.’ He really is not a very good liar, Rose thought drearily. But there was nothing to be said or this would simply descend into a circular argument about lost virtue, honour, duty… But at least he felt strongly enough to compromise that honour by telling her the falsehood he thought she wanted to hear.

  ‘Of course, I am sorry. And I love you,’ she murmured, truthfully, and leaned forward into Adam’s kiss before he could see the tears that blurred her sight.

  It was the truth from her, at least. She loved him, she knew that as a certainty now. She would give him all that love, in bed and out of it. She would bring him land and connections and support in whatever path he wanted to take in the future. She would, she prayed, give him children to love. But now she could no longer give him her trust, just as she had feared. He would lie to her when he thought it was for her own good, he would probably lie to her when he thought it would protect her feelings when he tired of their lovemaking and sought other women.

  On the battlefield, when Adam had found her tangled in those briars, she had believed he was the Devil come to take her down to hell for her sins. It was her own fault that she was in this situation, but the hell she faced was one of unrequited love and the knowledge that she had forced the man she loved to change his life utterly for her sake.

  All she could hope was that she could at least make him happy, give him children to be proud of. Adam would have wealth beyond his own prudent savings and with that came choice, Rose told herself in an effort at reassurance. And he would be safe from death or hideous maiming. Surely no man really wanted to fight wars, not once his country’s enemy had been defeated. Adam had had no choices before, she told herself as her eyelids drifted closed, now he had.

  *

  Lady Anderson’s tea party was blessed with sunny weather and her extensive garden was set about with rugs and cushions, little tables and chairs. Footmen lurked behind every bush ready to proffer platters of sandwiches and dainty savouries whenever a plate became empty.

  Rose shook hands with her hostess, nodded to numerous acquaintances, all of whom were staring at Adam, settled into a nest of cushions, accepted a cup of tea and waited for her ring to be noticed.

  It did not take long. She was soon surrounded on her rug by half a dozen young ladies, lavish with good wishes and greedy for secrets.

  ‘How lovely,’ Miss Watts cooed after the ring had been admired and meaningful glances exchanged. ‘Such a rapid romance, was it not? Are you quite well, Miss Tatton? You look so pale.’

  ‘Yes, I am not quite myself today,’ Rose admitted and leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. ‘I wouldn’t mention it to anyone but you, dear friends, but…’ She lowered her voice still further as they crowded closer, agog for a scandalous revelation. ‘It is that time of the month.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lady Althea Tate gaped at her. ‘Then you are not… I mean, what a nuisance not to feel well at such a lovely party when you must want to celebrate your happy news.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Rose sipped her tea. ‘But there is plenty of time to enjoy being betrothed. After all, we are in no hurry to set a date.’

  ‘You aren’t?’ Miss Watts said, then bit her lip.

  Attack, Rose thought. ‘Oh! You surely did not think that the major and I…that I have to get married? Oh, my goodness, what a suggestion!’ She glared at the young woman, who turned an unbecoming shade of blotchy pink.

  ‘No, no, you quite misunderstand me,’ Miss Watts gabbled. ‘I mean, so many people are getting married quickly because of the end of the war, officers selling out, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Rose smiled as innocently as she could manage. ‘Well, Major Flint and I have still to decide where we are getting married, let alone when. And I have my trousseau to plan.’

  As she hoped, that sent the young women into a frenzy of clothes talk. Rose sank back against her pile of cushions and let it all wash over her. They would tell their mothers, their mothers would talk amongst themselves and the news that Miss Tatton might have made a somewhat unconventional choice of husband, but that there was no scandal attached to the marriage, would percolate along the gossip channels of Brussels society. Everyone’s reputations would be saved, Adam would become a wealthy man with choices about how he lived his life and she…she would learn to live with heartache.

  Where was Adam? She had told him to stay away so she could deal with the unmarried ladies, now she wanted to look at him and draw some strength from the set of his shoulders, the blue of his eyes, the exchange of a smile.

  Rose saw him at last standing alone in the shade of a cherry tree. He looked relaxed, successfully hiding any boredom he was feeling. Perhaps the knowledge that he had done the honourable thing, even if it had meant lying to her to achieve it, gave him some satisfaction. His head came up as a latecomer caused a flurry by the entrance. A tall, slender man in the same blue uniform jacket as Adam, his head swathed in a bandage, appeared to be flirting with Lady Anderson whose laughter could be heard clear across the lawn as she rapped him playfully on the sleeve with her fan.

  The artillery officer caught up her hand, pressed an outrageous lingering kiss on the back of it and sauntered over to where Adam stood. Neither man was so relaxed now. Rose caught a subtle alertness in Adam’s stance and a wariness in the other man. Surely they were not going to fight? Then Adam smiled, shook his head and the other man gave him a friendly buffet on the shoulder before they moved off, deeper into the shade to where a pair of chairs had been set apart.

  Curious now, Rose got to her feet and wandered around the edge of the lawn towards the shrubbery. It wasn’t that she wanted to eavesdrop, exactly, but she did wonder who the stranger with the head wound was. Could it be Major Bartlett, the rake that Lady Sarah had taken up with? If so, Adam was being exceedingly friendly, given the threats he had uttered.

  As she loitered, wondering if she could get closer, the man strode out from behind a large rosebush right in front of her and caught at her hand to steady her when she stopped dead and almost tripped over her feet.

  ‘Ma’am! I do apologise, inexcusably clumsy of me.’ He did not release her hand, simply drew her a little closer.

  Rose blinked back at green eyes, a charming smile and a look that would make any woman’s toes curl in their satin slippers. If this man was not Major ‘Tom Cat’ Bart
lett, the Rogues’ notorious rakehell, then the army had more wicked artillery men on the strength than seemed probable.

  ‘Are you Major Bartlett?’

  ‘I am. I do not believe I have had the pleasure of an introduction.’ He did not appear surprised to be recognised, but then he was probably used to women discussing him.

  ‘How is Lady Sarah? I do hope she is…well.’ Her voice trailed away as the smile chilled on his lips, leaving a grim-faced man of undoubted intelligence regarding her as though she had just crawled out from under a small boulder.

  ‘You are Miss Tatton, aren’t you?’ Bartlett said.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Congratulations.’ The soft voice was a drawl. ‘I never thought I’d meet the woman who could ruin a man like Flint. It seems I was wrong.’

  ‘Ruin? What can you mean?’

  He stepped back amongst the bushes, pulling her inexorably after him, his grip on her hand no longer caressingly flirtatious. ‘I came to talk to him because Randall is leaving the army, which means there is a vacancy for the command of the Rogues. There are only two possible candidates—me or Flint. But he tells me he’s resigning, marrying you, becoming a damn farmer.’ He said the two words as though they were an insult.

  ‘He is not! He will be a landowner, a wealthy man. He—’

  ‘Adam Flint is the best hands-on artillery officer I know. The men will follow him into hell and out of it. He can sight a gun by eye while I’m doing sums in the back of a notebook. I’m the better diplomat, the better at the big strategic picture, but that man is artillery to the soles of his boots. I expected to have to fight him for the Rogues, now I’ve been handed it on a plate.’

  ‘But you must be pleased about that,’ Rose began.

  ‘Pleased to know I got it by default? Pleased to see a friend emasculated and turned into a lapdog for some empty-headed chit?’