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* * *
Bertrand Lebbeke also called upon her, suggesting they might see a play, take a carriage ride, or even that she should join him for dinner with friends. Mary gently declined every one of his invitations. She was relieved when he accepted her refusals with a Gallic shrug but once, when he took his leave, he stopped at the door.
‘Did you enjoy the concert last night?’ When her eyes flew to his face he gave a rueful little smile. ‘I saw you coming out of the Grand Concert Rooms, but you did not see me, you had eyes only for your companion.’
‘L-Lord Randall managed to get tickets. It was a concert of Mr Haydn’s music and extremely popular.’
‘And you were extremely grateful to him, non?’
‘Lord Randall is a friend, Bertrand, as you are.’
There was a hint of sadness in the look he gave her.
‘You are trying to be kind, ma chère, but I think I know the truth, even if you are not yet ready to admit it.’
His words stayed with her, nagging at her conscience, and when a message came from Lord Randall to say he would take her to the play that evening she sent a note back to say she would meet him at the theatre.
* * *
He was waiting for her at the entrance, his height and bearing making him easy to spot. His shrewd gaze bored into her when she came up to him.
‘Why this sudden independence, Mary, has something upset you?’
‘Why, no, I thought I would save you the trouble of coming to collect me.’
‘It would have been no trouble, my dear.’
She took his arm and accompanied him to their seats. Bertrand’s comment made her more aware of her situation. She put up her chin. They were doing nothing wrong, Randall’s attentions to her were perfectly proper, as an escort he could not be faulted, and if the warm look in his eyes set her heart thudding, and the merest touch of their hands made her spine tingle, no one could see that.
Besides it was all about to end.
‘I received a letter this morning,’ she said brightly. ‘The house in Antwerp is ready for us. We leave on Monday. I have spent the day packing and very nearly did not accept your invitation this evening.’
‘I should be sad to think you would leave Brussels without seeing me.’
Her mask slipped a little.
‘I could never do that.’
‘So this is to be our last outing together.’
‘We have one more day,’ she said, trying not to sound too eager. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. We take the girls to church in the morning, but after that I shall be at home. Perhaps you would come and take tea with me, or perhaps we might walk in the park, if the weather is fine.’
He shook his head. ‘I shall be at Roosbos all day.’ She tried to hide her disappointment, but he sensed it and took her hand. ‘There are rumours that we shall see action soon. I have to make sure our preparations are complete. Otherwise—’
She squeezed his arm. It was reassuringly solid, muscular. She could feel its power even through the thin silk of her gloves and his woollen sleeve. ‘You have your duty, my lord. I would not keep you from that.’
‘Thank you.’
The hot blue flame that lit his eyes was her reward, even as the misery of knowing they must part grew within her, like an inexorably rising tide. She pinned on her brightest smile.
‘So after this we must say goodbye. I hope it is a good play.’
And with that she settled back in her chair to try and enjoy her last few hours in his company.
They sat side by side, watching the play, but Mary was all too conscious of him beside her, his thigh so close to hers, only a few thin layers of cloth between them and when, in the shadowy gloom of the auditorium, his hand sought hers she felt faint with longing to throw herself into his arms, to be so much more than a friend.
* * *
