Reunited with the Major

Brock sat before the fire in his study staring into the brandy glass in his hand. It was sometimes chilly of an evening and he liked a fire in here every evening, except in the heat of summer, when he was seldom in London. As most of his friends did, he left town in July and went down to the country, either to stay with friends or at his family home. It was still March and he would be in London for a few months now—unless he married and took his bride abroad for some weeks. Paris, perhaps, or Italy? The lakes were beautiful in the summer and cooler than the heat of a city.

His thoughts turned to Cynthia. It was annoying that she’d been out when he’d called for he would have liked to settle things between them. It would be better when the announcement of their wedding had been made and then perhaps this restless feeling would leave him. He ought not even to consider the alternatives, for his promise had been given to Cynthia too many months ago to think of breaking it. He could never do such a thing. He’d asked her to save her reputation and because she’d looked so unhappy...so vulnerable. If he went back on his promise now, what kind of a cad would he be? The only honourable thing to do was to marry the girl, even if he’d never loved her—could never love her as he might have loved another.

Cynthia had not answered immediately when he’d asked and he’d sensed that she’d agreed with some reluctance, possibly because she feared her mama’s anger if she’d been returned to her home with her reputation in tatters. At first she’d been grateful, willing to fall in with his suggestions, though not ready to announce the date of the wedding.

It was only after she’d returned to her home and he’d taken up his own life again, spending most of his time in London with fleeting visits to his own estate and that of his father that he’d found her less pleased to see him, inclined to long silences, often seeming to force herself to greet him with a smile, and perhaps that was his own fault. Brock admitted that he’d not been to visit her as often as he ought, but his life in London suited him and he was always engaged to friends or with his business affairs.

Brock was still working for his old commander, the Duke of Wellington. There were many functions to be arranged for the benefit of soldiers and officers wounded in the duke’s service, and Brock was happy to give his time to such a worthy cause. He also attended diplomatic conferences and travelled to France either with the duke or on behalf of the duke. Every so often he was invited to join the duke at his country home and sometimes to join the Prince Regent’s house party at Brighton. He was well thought of in high circles and Wellington had urged him to go into the diplomatic service, saying that he had skills that were much needed and would do tribute to the post of ambassador in one of the more sensitive areas in which the British had a strong influence.

Brock had consulted his father, who had given him his blessing, but still he’d waited—because somehow he did not think that Cynthia would be happy as the wife of a diplomat who might be sent off to the other side of the world at the drop of a hat. Only a certain sort of woman was happy to follow her husband wherever he went...and that was a line of thought best capped and tucked away where it could do no harm.

Sipping his brandy slowly to savour its warming effect, Brock considered his future if he did not enter the diplomatic service. He might stand for a safe Tory seat at the next election, he supposed, but there was little else open to a man who would one day inherit his father’s title and lands.

As yet Lord Brockley was a hale and hearty man who needed little help to run the family estate and would have resented any changes that Brock might have wished to implement. They got on well as father and son, but not as partners in running the family affairs, and Brock had been dedicated to his army career. However, he’d retired from active service after a severe wound to his right leg at the last show in France. Most of the time his limp was barely noticeable, but the wound had at one time become infected and might have ended his life—and his father had only one son. He might not wish him to help with the estate now, but in a few years he would be expected to take over.

It was time, his father had told him, to marry and set up his nursery. If he did not wish to waste his time lounging at the clubs all day or attending the races, Brock needed a career. A man with an active mind and fit body, he had been brooding on his options for a while. He could set up a racing stable, go into a business trading in wine as one or two of his friends had, enter politics or take a post in the diplomatic service.

Not much choice if the truth be told. In time he would settle to the land and the care of a great estate, but he was young enough to want something more challenging. The diplomatic service was his first choice. Wellington had been pressing for an answer and Brock was almost ready to say yes, but he must first speak to Cynthia.