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‘No, damn it!’ There went his temper.
The older man’s expression hardened as he studied Flint’s struggle to get his annoyance under control. ‘If it turns out that you treat her badly despite what you say, then I’ll make you sorry you were ever born, believe me. I will be quite frank with you—you are not what I had hoped for as a son-in-law, far from it, but a live major of dubious pedigree is better than a dead, feckless youth, under the circumstances. All you need to do is to convince Catherine, because I haven’t been able to turn her will on anything important to her since she was eleven.’
Nature might be taking care of that without any further help from him, Flint mused, maintaining his composure in the face of Lord Thetford’s stony gaze. He had been careless just the once, but once could be enough. He thought of the bone-deep pleasure of spending inside Rose, of feeling her body joining his in ecstasy. If ever a coupling deserved to produce a child, that one did. But if she was forced into marriage she would never forget it or forgive it. He needed her to agree because she wanted him as a husband, not because she was forced. He was becoming as romantic as she was, it seemed. Or perhaps it was simply that he could not bear the thought of her unhappiness.
He looked across into the face of the man who would be his father-in-law, the grandfather of his children. The man who looked down on him, barely trusting his word. ‘I will do my best, my lord.’
‘And treat her right, Flint, or I’ll have you gelded.’
‘Just what I told my Spanish stallion yesterday, my lord.’
The older man threw back his head and laughed, a sharp bark of reluctant humour, and Flint laughed with him. His was a diplomatic laugh, the acknowledgement of mutual amusement that he might offer a senior officer who had cracked a joke during a briefing. He was not fooled for one moment by the viscount’s laughter. Beneath that moment of mirth was a proud man who was hating this accommodation he was having to make for his daughter’s sake. That makes two of us.
*
Lady Thetford’s boudoir was above the drawing room. With the windows open in the June heat the sound of male voices from below reached the two women sitting silent amidst the feminine comfort of pale blue upholstery, vases of roses and soft carpets. The deep voices had not risen in anger yet, no doors had slammed. Adam was presumably gritting his teeth and accepting the blame, just as he had said he would. He must be hating this, his pride would be shredded.
The disloyal, nagging suspicion about her dowry surfaced and was firmly pushed aside. He could not have known. She felt guilty about having those thoughts about Adam.
‘If you twist that ribbon any harder it will be in shreds,’ her mother said, her own sodden handkerchief a knot between her fingers. ‘And look at the state of your hands. Your maid must find a pair of chicken-skin gloves for you to wear at night.’
Rose looked down at her tense fingers. The thin red marks where the briar had scratched her were fading, but she had broken several nails and the skin had caught the sun on that long ride back from the battlefield. ‘Yes, Mama,’ she said. She had been proud of her soft white hands. How foolish that seemed now, set against all the other things to worry about.
‘What is taking so long?’ her mother demanded. ‘Oh, that it should come to this, to you having to marry a man like that.’
‘You mean a courageous officer who has risen on merit? A man who saved my life? A gentleman who was a guest at the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?’
‘A baseborn man. A hardened soldier.’
‘That hardened soldier saved me from rape and probably death, Mama. He killed four men for me.’ Her mother went white and closed her eyes as though in pain.
Laughter floated up from the room below. Adam’s rarely heard laugh sounded genuine. What was amusing him? What could possibly be amusing about this situation? Rose stood and went to lean over the windowsill.
‘Catherine! Stop that this moment—what if someone sees you?’
After a second Rose recalled who Catherine was and moved away from the casement.
‘The major seems pleased enough with the prospect of marrying you,’ Lady Thetford said, her lips pursed. ‘He must think his ship has come in and no mistake.’
Adam was no fool. No saint either. He was a practical, pragmatic man who could not be expected to ignore the benefits of marrying a well-dowered viscount’s daughter. After all, none of the gentlemen who had courted her disregarded her dowry or her breeding. Why should he? But he would no more let that weigh in his decision to marry her than he would betray his country to the enemy and she was ashamed that she had doubted him for a second.
‘I have to accept him first.’ She tugged at the sash cord and watched the window slide down with a soft thud. She did not want to hear any more evidence of Adam’s good humour.
A tap on the door broke into the awkward silence. ‘Yes, Heale?’ Her mother was the picture of composure, her back ramrod straight, the twisted handkerchief out of sight.
‘Major Flint would be obliged if Miss Tatton would join him in the drawing room, my lady.’
‘Very well.’ Her mother waited until the butler had withdrawn before she let her shoulders slump again. ‘I imagine any attempt at chaperonage is pointless, you had better go and see what he has to say for himself.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Best to be obedient in everything that she could. But how was she ever to satisfy her conscience, her desires and her duty when they were all pulling in different directions?
*
Adam was alone in the drawing room when she went in. He stood in front of the empty hearth, hands clasped behind his back, head lowered as if in thought. It was exactly the position the other men who had offered for her hand had taken, she realised with an unsettling return of unwanted memories. Perhaps there was a rule book for a gentleman about to make an offer.
‘Miss Tatton.’ He lifted his head as she closed the door and there was no light in the blue eyes, no smile on the firm lips.
‘Major Flint.’ She dropped a nicely calculated curtsy. Two could play at this game of masks.
