Reunited with the Major

by Anne Herries

  ‘I see,’ Brock said, and frowned. ‘You have set me in a dilemma, Cynthia, and I am at a loss to know how to answer.’ He wrinkled his brow, wondering what to do now for the best.

  ‘Yes, I perfectly see that politics is not your first choice,’ she replied with a slight twist of her mouth. ‘May I suggest that if you loved me—if you truly wished me to be your wife—it would seem a very complete and satisfactory way to live? After all, most of your friends content themselves with their estates, their clubs and their social life—and of course their family. Children make life fulfilling, do you not agree?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Brock stared at her. Before he’d spoken out to Lady Langton he’d been prepared to compromise, but at some time between entering the house and leaving it again, he’d come to understand that only a diplomatic career would satisfy his needs as a man of spirit and ambition. Yet in his heart he knew that if he had truly loved Cynthia he would have been content to do whatever she asked. ‘It seems that we have come to an impasse and must regroup, my dear. I had hoped it might all be settled and the date of the wedding announced before I leave town.’

  ‘You are leaving town, too?’

  ‘Yes. I have an errand to do for someone.’

  ‘A diplomatic mission?’

  ‘Yes, of a kind,’ Brock replied, smiling inwardly. It would take all his diplomatic skills to sort out Rosemarie’s problems, he was sure, but it wasn’t quite what Cynthia meant. Perhaps it was best not to go into long explanations for he was certain she would misunderstand and think that he was interested in Rosemarie for herself.

  ‘Well, I imagine we are both civilised adults,’ Cynthia said. ‘I, too, am unsure of my own mind, though if you had decided on entering Parliament I think I should have set the date for July. However, since it would not suit me if you decided to enter the diplomatic service, I must ask you to think again and I will also engage to consider the matter while I am staying with the countess. At the end of that time I shall give you my answer—if you agree with my suggestion. If you still wish to go ahead with your plans and I do not, I suggest a polite notice be sent to the papers to say that we have parted by mutual consent—and I hope we shall always remain friends. I do not wish to part in anger, Brock. I shall never forget your kindness to me.’

  What else could an honourable man do but accept her ultimatum? He knew that no matter how charming and lovely she was, he had never loved her. Brock had recently remembered how different it felt to be close to a woman he loved and he knew that Cynthia was not that woman—yet he had no right to desert her. In all honour he must allow her the privilege to be the one who decided their fate. How could it be otherwise after all this time? Yet he had every hope that she might reach the right decision.

  He reached out and touched her gloved hand. Something had changed Cynthia; it was as if she had passed through a shadow and emerged stronger and...yes, the word was nicer. Brock had never liked her more than he did at this moment.

  ‘You are a lovely and understanding young woman,’ he said. ‘Forgive me if I have caused you some grief, Cynthia. I never meant to—and I hope that we can reach some agreement.’

  ‘We must both have time to think. I shall return to my home at the beginning of May and I hope you will come to me then. We shall speak in private and decide what will suit us both best then.’

  ‘Yes...’ Brock hesitated, then, ‘Cynthia, is your heart engaged either way?’ he asked, looking at her intently for his future depended upon her answer.

  ‘I think I am not the kind of woman who knows passionate love,’ she said. ‘I believe a polite marriage of convenience would suit me very well. I want children and a husband who has my interests at heart—but I do not demand passionate love. If I did, I should end our engagement now for I know very well that you do not love me.’

  ‘I shall not lie to you,’ he replied with as much frankness as her own. ‘I think you beautiful, charming—and rather intelligent and special. It would, of course, be an honour to wed you, but, no, I am not passionately in love with you, Cynthia.’ It felt as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders and he laughed softly, relieved that it was out in the open at last.

  ‘I am very glad to hear it,’ she said and smiled up at him, making him wonder if perhaps he did feel more than he’d believed—or perhaps any man would feel something for a woman as lovely as she? No, it was merely that he thought her charming and was grateful for her forbearance. ‘So it is a matter of business between us, Brock. We shall both give the proposition some thought, and come to an agreement next time we meet—and now I should enjoy a nice drive around this beautiful park behind your wonderful horses before you take me home.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he responded, and picked up the reins.

  * * *

  Brock drove back to his home and around the back to the mews where his stables were housed. He had taken Cynthia to the countess’s house and she’d jumped down without his assistance, after thanking him for a pleasant drive. It might have been the first time they’d met, for they had parted as mere acquaintances and he wondered at himself for allowing her to dictate her terms. Perhaps he should have finished it at once, but only a weak man gave in to what happened to suit him; a man whose will was as strong as his sense of honour must do what was right—even if it broke his heart?

  Was he mad to even contemplate marriage with a woman who made it clear that she saw their union as a business proposition? What of love and desire, sheer need to be with the other person? It served him right for proposing to her out of a quixotic chivalry. A part of him wanted to go back and end it now, but his sense of what was right would not allow him to sacrifice another’s happiness for his own. Brock had asked her to be his wife and in all conscience he must honour that promise—unless, perhaps, Cynthia reached the conclusion that he had, which was that they would not suit.

  He would have done much better to merely rescue her from the Marquis and leave it at that—now he was still in limbo, unsure whether they were engaged or not.

  Why hadn’t he simply told her that he wanted an answer at once? Yet that would have been harsh and rather uncivilised. He ought to have ended it—yet how could he when she’d behaved so beautifully? Cynthia had forgiven him for neglecting her and for having decided to take up a career she could not sanction. She was willing to part on friendly terms and had given him her hand in good faith.

  He must simply accept that if she decided to take him knowing that he might be sent abroad to an unfriendly country at any time, he could not jilt her. Instead of clearing the decks, he had become even more tightly embroiled in her net.

  No, that was to make Cynthia a schemer and she wasn’t. She was a perfectly reasonable woman who was prepared to marry for a comfortable life without the complications of love. Many men would be quite satisfied with that kind of arrangement. Indeed, he knew of several who were already living in similar circumstances, men who lived a perfectly happy family life and kept a mistress for their other needs discreetly—and yet there was a picture in his mind that would not be denied. The picture of an attractive woman waiting for him with a smile on her lips and a look of passionate love in her eyes. A woman who would go to the ends of the earth to be with him if it were asked of her...but where would he find such a woman?

  Scatterby had been a lucky devil. Brock wondered if he knew how fortunate he truly was to have had a woman like Samantha as his wife. Passionate, young, devoted to him, she had yet showered her warmth on everyone that came near her and was adored for it by young officers, men in the line and old soldiers who patted her hand and ogled her, wishing they were twenty years younger.

  She would be the ideal wife for a man set to rise in the diplomatic service, but he knew that she had adored her husband and remained faithful to his memory. He was quite certain she had no interest in him, other than as a friend of her beloved husband, had proof of it: her look
of horror when he’d moved to embrace her nearly two years ago. She must despise him...and yet he had mistakenly believed she might care for him—but he had misled himself once before and his punishment had been severe.

  Damn it! Enough of this. He must call to take his leave of Miss Ross and Samantha and then make that trip to Falmouth and seek an interview with her uncle.

  * * *

  ‘So, Miss Ross, do you think you shall be happy with Samantha?’ Brock asked as she came into the parlour later that day. ‘In the morning I shall leave for Falmouth and seek an interview with your uncle. I shall let you know the outcome when I return. Meanwhile, may I ask you to call on my lawyer and give him your authority to act on your behalf? He has outlined to me steps that may be taken to protect your fortune and yourself from predators, but you will need to speak to him and sign whatever he thinks necessary. Of course you must do this only if you agree with his suggestions. Neither he nor I would wish to coerce you into anything.’

  Rosemarie trilled with laughter, her pretty face alight with mischief. She was looking particularly pretty in a new gown of pale-lemon silk scattered with tiny white dots woven into shapes like daisies. With a white stole over her shoulders and little leather shoes she looked more like the heiress she was.

  ‘Dear Major Brockley, how funny you are,’ she said. ‘If I cannot trust the man who saved my life—a man that simply everyone tells me is the most honourable man in England—then I shall simply have to run away and disappear. Indeed, I do trust and admire you, sir.’

  Brock smiled and gave a little shake of his head. ‘I believe you are teasing me, Miss Ross, and I am glad to see you so merry. I can set out on my journey with a lighter heart knowing that you are content with a lady I trust to care for you. I know that you will be safe and happy with her and I need not worry for your comfort.’

  ‘Rosemarie will be comfortable with me,’ Samantha assured. ‘When you return she will have acquired many friends and acquaintances and, I dare say, be the rage of the Season. Once she is seen in society I quite expect to be showered with invitations.’

  ‘Oh, Samantha, how could you?’ Rosemarie trilled and shook her head, but Brock could see that she was pleased by the idea. She was an engaging little puss and he could quite see that, given a chance, she would have half the young men in London in love with her. ‘I am very sure I shall not be so very much admired.’

  Brock thought that once her fortune was known she would indeed become very popular, but he must trust Samantha to steer her away from the fortune hunters. She was pretty and charming and there would be plenty of young men to court her who had no need of a fortune.

  ‘We shall see,’ was all Samantha would answer before she turned to Brock with a smile in her eyes. ‘I wish you a safe journey and hope all goes well with your mission, Major.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied, his hand holding hers a moment longer than necessary before she withdrew it, a slightly puzzled look in her eyes. He was aware of a deep reluctance to leave her, yet he had no choice. ‘I shall return as soon as possible and hope to have good news for you both.’

  With that, he left the house and went in search of some friends with whom he’d promised to dine that evening. It would be a few days before he was in town again and then he must speak to Wellington. He’d been asked to an important meeting and Brock knew that he was very likely to be offered the post of ambassador somewhere in the world.

  Cynthia’s ultimatum could set him free, because Brock knew he was going to take the post of ambassador, wherever in the world he was sent. He knew that in a sense he was jilting her, because, had he loved her, he would surely have put her happiness first. Yet this way, she would not feel humiliated and Brock owed her that at least, to let her be the one to break their engagement. It was the honourable way even if he longed to break the ties that bound him, to be free, but for what?

  Did he hope that once he was free he could lay his heart at Samantha’s feet and she would turn to him in love? It was a fool’s hope. A man of sense would marry Cynthia and be done with it—but Brock knew that such a marriage would lead only to unhappiness. Why had he ever thought it might work?

  To remain in England idling his life away between town and the country would in Brock’s opinion be a waste of time when he could be serving his country. If Wellington thought he was needed, then it was his duty to offer his services. If he could take Samantha with him as his wife he would be the happiest of men, but it was never going to happen—even if Cynthia released him, the woman he loved did not return his affections. She smiled at him as she would at any friend, but he knew from bitter experience that any attempt to make love to her would lead to rejection.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘You look exceptionally pretty this evening,’ Samantha said, looking at the young girl she had taken under her wing. Her gown of pale-peach silk was overlaid with a coat of silver gauze that allowed the soft glow of peach to show through. Her slippers of silver satin were sewn with tiny sparkling beads and her long gloves of white came up to her elbows. She carried a little silver purse and a delicate fan of ivory and silk, and around her throat she wore her mama’s pearls, which had been sewn into a bag inside her gown and thus avoided being stolen from her. ‘Yes, I think you will be much admired and I shall be envied for having such a lovely guest.’

  ‘Oh, Samantha,’ Rosemarie said. ‘I’m pretty, but you look beautiful—that dark green suits you so well with your lovely hair. I think half the young men in London are already in love with you. When you took me driving in your phaeton in the park they all waved to you and came up to us and we spent half our time stopping to talk to gentlemen.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Samantha said, her eyes dancing with amusement. ‘But did you not notice that they soon turned their attention to you? How many offers of a drive in the park were made you, I wonder?’

  Rosemarie smiled and her cheeks coloured. ‘Well, yes, I know several of them asked me to ride in Rotten Row with them or to take me for a turn in the park, but they were only the young, silly ones—all the others saved their compliments for you.’

  Samantha made no reply, for she knew that it was perfectly true. She did have rather a large court of admirers and several of them were in earnest. Had she wished to marry again, she might have done so at any time these past six months since she came out of mourning for her dearest Percy. She was not yet sure whether she would ever wish to marry again, though she might consider it if the right person were to ask her.

  Samantha had a full and interesting life in London, for she had many, many friends who invited her to their dinners and card parties. She entertained in a modest way herself, for although she was comfortably off she could not afford to give a large ball, but it was enough for her modest way of life to entertain a few friends when she chose.

  As she led the way downstairs to the carriage waiting to take them to Lady Sefton’s ball, Samantha considered whom she might marry if she gave various suitors some encouragement to make her an offer. There was Lord Gerald Seaton, a gentleman of perhaps forty summers, who was most attentive. He had never married, having been a military man and only recently come into his estate and given up his commission in the army. Samantha knew he was looking to set up his nursery and hoped for a brood of children as soon as possible. He had a large country house and estate, a London house, where he spent at least three months of the year, and a hunting box in the shires.

  Her other most persistent suitors were Lieutenant George Carter—a man of perhaps thirty, dashing and charming, whose prospects of becoming Lord Halliday were somewhat distant, being a second son—and the Marquis of Barchester. The Marquis was said to be extremely wealthy, a widower, charming, good looking, no more than two and forty—and apparently very much in love with her. He had already asked her twice if she would marry him, and though she had excused herself, saying that she was not yet ready to marry, he s
eemed determined to continue his pursuit.

  Samantha knew that some of her friends thought her a fool not to encourage the Marquis’s attentions, but there was something about him at times...something that made her shiver inside. She could not quite trust him, not quite like him, even though he was always charming towards her. Yet in her heart she knew that she could never seriously think of marrying him.

  Besides these gentlemen there were more than a dozen others who regularly declared themselves in love with her. Samantha smiled and paid their claims little attention, bestowing a dance now and then or permission to fetch for her a glass of wine, but treating them all exactly the same. She was happy to give friendship, but nothing more—and she could not be certain that she would ever be ready to give her heart again.

  ‘Do you really think people will like me?’ Rosemarie asked in a nervous little voice as the carriage slowed down. They saw the carpet laid out for the ladies to walk on, the link boys lighting the pavements so that no one tripped or soiled their gown, and the doors of the great house open to admit a stream of guests. ‘Not just the gentlemen—the ladies, too?’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Samantha reassured her and pressed her hand. ‘You have perfect manners, my dear, and nothing to blush for—no one shall know from me the circumstances that brought you to town. You are just a welcome guest, the daughter of an old friend. No one needs to know the truth of your birth or your mother’s circumstances. When you choose to marry your husband will have to be told, of course, but if you choose wisely it will not matter.’

  ‘No, for Robert already knows the truth and does not care.’

  ‘Nor would any gentleman if he loved you—and I am certain more than one will fall in love with you, dearest.’