‘Brock …’ Samantha said, and felt as if a large hand had squeezed her heart, so that she could not breathe and the pain was almost more than she could bear.

He was saying things that made her long to be in his arms, to taste that sweetness her senses told her she would find there, and yet he had said nothing that made her think he spoke of more than true friendship—the love of comrades in arms.

‘Percy told me once that I could trust you implicitly and I always have.’

‘Samantha, you can have no idea of how I feel …’

Brock gave a little moan of despair and clasped her to him as though he would never let her go. His lips pressed against hers in a kiss of passion and need, and then he suddenly thrust her from him.

‘I want so much to tell you what is in my mind. You are all that any man could desire. But I have no right to speak until … No, this is not fair to you,’ he muttered. ‘You lost the man you loved and now I would ask so much of you—and yet I have no right until this business is settled …’ He smiled oddly. ‘Forgive me, Samantha.’

Praise for Anne Herries

‘Anne Herries has crafted a densely plotted, immensely enthralling and mesmerising historical romantic adventure.’

—CataRomance on Forbidden Lady

‘Pride and Prejudice meets Agatha Christie in this enthralling, captivating and wonderfully passionate Regency romance by award-winning author Anne Herries.’

—CataRomance on Courted by the Captain

‘Another enjoyable romp.’

—RT Book Reviews on An Innocent Debutante in Hanover Square

Reunited with the Major is the final book in Anne Herries’s trilogy Regency Brides of Convenience

Reunited with the Major

Anne Herries

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE HERRIES lives in Cambridgeshire, where she is fond of watching wildlife and spoils the birds and squirrels that are frequent visitors to her garden. Anne loves to write about the beauty of nature, and sometimes puts a little into her books, although they are mostly about love and romance. She writes for her own enjoyment, and to give pleasure to her readers. Anne is a winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association Romance Prize. She invites readers to contact her on her website: www.lindasole.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Praise for Anne Herries

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Samantha had felt the tears sting her eyes as she’d seen the grave faces of the young officers who had carried her wounded husband home to her. Every one of them had seemed devastated, torn with genuine grief by the sight of their colonel lying so badly wounded on the makeshift stretcher.

‘We’re so sorry, Mrs Scatterby,’ each of the young men had said in turn before they’d left. ‘It was just bad luck. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time...caught by the blast.’

She’d raised her head to look at them proudly through her unshed tears. She was a beautiful young woman, her hair like pale silk, and her eyes a shade of blue that defied description. Much younger than her wounded husband, she looked vulnerable and in need of a protective shoulder—and not a man there would have refused it had she asked, but she was too proud.

‘I shall not give up,’ she said. ‘He’s still alive. I’ll take him home to England and I’ll nurse him back to health.’

She saw the pity in their eyes, but refused to give way to her grief until they had all gone. Her dearest Percy was clinging to life despite the wounds he’d received in the heat of battle. The doctor visited, taking his time in examining his patient, before turning to her with a shake of the head.

‘I can patch up his wounds, but he has been damaged internally and that I cannot heal. Even if he survives for a few weeks I doubt he will ever be strong again. The best you can do for him is to take him home to an English country house with a garden and care for him until the end. I fear you will find it a trying task for he will be an invalid and in pain.’

‘He took me in when I had nothing,’ Samantha told him proudly. ‘I will care for him while he has breath in his body.’

‘He loved you very much. We all thought him a lucky man, Mrs Scatterby. I have no doubt that if anyone can pull him through it will be you.’

Samantha thanked him.

For some weeks Percy was too ill to move, but then, as the wounds to his leg and shoulder healed, he seemed to improve, though often he was caught by a racking cough that made it difficult for him to breathe.

His devoted wife hardly left his side. During the sea voyage from Spain she spent most of the crossing in their cabin, tenderly caring for his needs. Kind and considerate young officers designated as their escort took them to a pleasant country house. The house had been provided by one of their number and Samantha was assured that she and the Colonel were welcome to stay for as long as they wished.

Once she and Percy were settled, the young men came to take their leave of her and return to the fighting. Samantha thanked them all for their kindness.

‘If ever you need anything,’ one of the officers said. He was the quiet one amongst them, strong and dark-haired, his face attractive rather than handsome with a firm chin that spoke of determination. ‘Just write to me, Sam. I shall come as soon as I can and, whatever you need, I shall do my best for you.’

‘That is very kind of you, Brock,’ she said, and smiled, feeling pleased that he had used her name. They had all been in the habit of calling her by her name on the Peninsula, but since Percy’s wounding it seemed they were all so polite and distant. ‘I do not know what I should have done had you not all been so very kind.’

‘He was our colonel,’ one of them said. ‘We all thought the world of him, Mrs Scatterby—and if ever you should need anything, you have only to ask. We are at your command.’

Samantha thanked them and one by one they took their leave. All save one, who stayed behind to tell her that the house was hers for as long as she wished.

‘My parents live only twenty miles away. If you need anything...anything at all...’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, emotion almost choking her because he could never know what his kindness meant to her. ‘I do not know what I should have done without your help.’

Suddenly Samantha could bear her grief no longer, perhaps because he was leaving her and she did not know how she could have borne these past weeks without his comforting presence. The tears trickled silently down her cheeks, in her eyes a look of mute appeal that drew a response from the handsome young officer.

‘Sam, my dearest love,’ he said thickly, the words wrenched from him almost reluctantly, because they were both aware of the beloved man lying on his sickbed upstairs, yet both knew that this had been inevitable. Brock reached for her, drawing her close against him, his mouth seeking hers in a tender and yet passionate kiss that made her cling to him desperately. ‘I adore you, want you so much. You know, have known, haven’t you?’

For a moment the naked truth was in her eyes, the longing and need that she had suppressed all these months since she’d first known that she’d fallen in love with one of her husband’s men. She felt that he wanted her, loved her in return, and yet there was a barrier there between them. Samantha wasn’t sure what had kept them from speaking of their love before this; perhaps duty on her part, and a genuine affection for Percy, for she did love her husband, but it was a gentle, grateful love and not this wild passion that was now roaring through her body, setting her aflame with need and desire.

She longed to confess her love, to speak of a future when they could be together, but that would be disloyal to the man who trusted them both. Suddenly, she realised that she had been on the verge of giving herself to the man she loved more than she could ever have dreamed and her darling Percy was lying upstairs in constant pain, needing her, trusting her. A surge of revulsion swept through her at her own behaviour. How could she treat the man who had done so much for her so despicably?

‘I know we must wait, but one day...’ Brock began, but she thrust him away, shaking her head, the horror of what she was doing flooding through her.

‘No, we must not even think such a thing. We must think of Percy. He trusts us, Brock. He trusts us. This is wrong, wicked.’

Brock drew back, looking at her as he saw the horror and revulsion in her eyes, and recoiled from it, a slash of pain in his face so terrible that it made Samantha want to recall her words, but she could only turn away in confusion.

‘I shall not call again before I return to the regiment,’ he said, ‘but if you need anything go to my father. He will help you.’

Her heart was breaking as she struggled with the confusion of her feelings, and she turned, but he was walking away, leaving her, and she did not have the strength to call him back.

Samantha was left alone and she thought her heart would break, but she did not know then that there was worse to come. That the pain she felt now would increase tenfold and stay with her for ever.

Chapter One

Major Harry Brockley, known as Brock to his friends, stood outside the convent and stared at the forbidding grey walls. He had visited this place for the last time and the empty feeling inside him seemed to engulf his whole self.

‘Sister Violet died peacefully in her sleep last night, Major,’ the Abbess had told him gently. ‘Her fever came quickly and gained a hold before we had any idea of how ill she really was. I am truly sorry to give you this news, for I know you were fond of her—my only consolation for you is that she is at peace in the arms of her Maker.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Brock had answered. ‘Peace at last, but at what cost?’

‘You are still so angry and bitter,’ the gentle nun said. ‘Sister Violet was not bitter. She forgave the man who destroyed her life—and I know she would wish you to do the same.’

‘That man is now dead,’ Brock said coldly. ‘Had he lived still, I should have killed him with my bare hands. He took a sweet perfect girl and hurt her so badly that she could not go on living in this world, but came here to die in this place. That is the man you would have me forgive?’

‘I fear that you will have no peace of your own until you can forgive him, and yourself, Major Brockley. Forgive me, but it hurts me to see a soul in such torment when there is really no need. The girl you loved was lost long ago. The woman who lived here with us has been at peace for some years now. Her only desire was that you would learn to forgive her for causing you such pain.’

‘Her name was Mary and she had nothing to be forgiven for,’ Brock cried. ‘I was the one that let her down. I am the one who hoped for forgiveness.’

‘Then let me tell you that she never blamed you, not for one instant.’

Brock cursed aloud, knowing that he’d been rude, and left the good woman without so much as a thank-you for her kindness. He’d been furious with her for mouthing words that meant nothing. Who was Sister Violet? The girl he’d cared for deeply as a beloved sister had been Mary, the friend of his youth. How could the Abbess ever hope to understand that Brock blamed himself for what had happened to the innocent young girl whom the Marquis of Shearne had beaten, raped and left for dead?

‘May you rot in hell, Shearne!’ Brock cried aloud. ‘Death was too good for you.’

The Marquis had almost managed to kill Brock, too. Had it not been for the quick thinking of Phipps’s wife, Amanda, he might have died from loss of blood or a fever, but she and Phipps had brought him through and the thought of his friends relaxed his stern features. It had seemed an unlikely marriage at the outset, because Phipps was a tall lean soldier and Amanda a plump little darling, but rather pretty. Of course, she had lost much of that puppy fat before her marriage, but Brock knew that his friend hadn’t even noticed. Phipps loved Amanda for what she was—an attractive, kind, generous and loving woman—and a wife that Brock envied him.

The shadow of what had happened to the girl he’d loved had lain over Brock for years, haunting him, deciding him against marriage. He wasn’t a fit husband for any woman. He’d let down the girl who had trusted him, but she had never blamed him.

Of course she wouldn’t. She was too fine and sweet and gentle to bear a grudge—even against the man who had ruined her.

If Sister Violet had let go of the grief of that terrible day, perhaps it was time that he did, too, Brock thought as he walked to the waiting curricle. Perhaps it was time to do as his father was continually asking him to do—marry, put the past behind him and start a family.

Brock had many times regretted his hasty decision to offer for Miss Cynthia Langton, the only daughter of Lord Langton, and an heiress. Brock had rescued her after she managed to escape from Shearne, who had kidnapped her in an effort to secure her fortune, but Cynthia had given Shearne the slip and Brock had found her wandering down the road. She’d had no money and was faint and ill, having been drugged by that fiend. They’d put out a story about her having fallen in a ditch and lain there overnight until he’d found her, though it wasn’t true—but it saved her reputation for she would have been ruined had it got out that she’d been in Shearne’s company all that time. Because he’d failed the girl he loved, Brock had out of chivalry offered for Cynthia’s hand in marriage. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, on her part as well as his, and he believed that she had also regretted accepting him. At the time it hadn’t seemed to matter, but since then he’d cursed himself for being a fool.

Climbing into the curricle, Brock told his groom to drive back to London. He saw the surprise in the man’s face for he normally chose to drive himself, but this particular afternoon he was in no mood for it.

Lost in his thoughts, his eyes closed, Brock brooded as the miles melted away and his mind wrestled with his problem, but came up without a solution. If the marriage were to be called off, then the decision must be Cynthia’s. He could not—would not—jilt her. She’d been very subdued since that day, unlike the sparkling girl who had had half of London at her feet in her first Season. Brock could only think that she was unhappy, regretting her decision, as he had his—but he did not know how to broach the subject of breaking their engagement.

Perhaps he should simply ask her to set the date of their wedding. Cynthia had hinted that she wished to wait until the summer, but it was spring now and they ought to start thinking of making the arrangements. If the wedding was to happen, it should not be much longer delayed. Nine months was sufficient even for her mama. Any longer would be ridiculous, yet he knew that something inside him was protesting against a loveless marriage.

Brock frowned, because his bride-to-be was beautiful, and could, when she wished, be extremely charming. He was not in love with her and he was pretty sure that Cynthia felt no more than gratitude and friendship for him, but perhaps that was enough?

Brock knew that many friends of his family had made arranged marriages based on property, rank or necessity, but quite often as successful as any other. He also knew that the marriage of a friend, purported to be a love match, had hit the rocks only two years after it began, simply because the young woman became wrapped up in her child and the husband felt neglected. He’d been unfaithful to her and she’d thrown a tantrum when she discovered it and had taken her child and gone to stay with her father, refusing to come back even when her husband begged her.

Brock felt sure that Cynthia would not require him to sit in her pocket when they were married. She would have her circle of friends, entertain and go out as she pleased, and he would do the same—obliging her with his presence whenever she requested it. Since they both wanted a family it would be a proper marriage, but that should not be difficult; she was a beautiful woman and he did not dislike her.

Indeed, there were times when he felt he could like her very well—if she would let herself go a little, smile more. She was polite, gentle in her speech and grateful—and somehow that irked him. Cynthia never complained if he did not go down to the country to see her for weeks at a time. He sometimes felt she would have preferred to be left quite alone, but her mama and his father were both pressing for the wedding.

Brock’s thoughts were suspended as he was suddenly thrown forward and the curricle came to an abrupt halt.

‘What the devil! What on earth do you think you’re doing, Harris?’

‘In the road, sir,’ the groom said as he manfully grappled with the plunging horses and steadied them. ‘I didn’t see it until we were nearly upon her—I think it’s a woman, sir.’

Brock looked down and saw what had made his groom bring the horses to such a sudden stop. At first glance it was a bundle of old clothes, but on closer inspection he could make out the shape of a woman, her bare feet showing beneath the long skirts.

‘Good grief.’ He jumped down to investigate. Kneeling down, he turned the bundle of clothing and saw the face of a young and rather pretty woman. She was very pale, as if she had been ill for some while, her dark hair greasy and tangled, and her feet had bled, the dried blood crusted between her toes. However, her clothes were not rags as he’d first thought, but the clothes of a lady of quality. He bent over her, feeling for a pulse, and was relieved when he discovered that she was alive. ‘She’s still breathing, Harris. We’d better get her to the nearest decent inn. She needs a bed, warmth, food and a doctor by the look of her.’

He gathered the unknown girl in his arms and lifted her into the curricle. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not open them, though her lips moved as if in protestor fear.

‘No need to be anxious,’ Brock soothed softly. ‘You’re unwell, but we shall look after you. We’ll fetch a doctor to you and put you to bed and you’ll be better in no time.’

Again the eyelids fluttered and a faint protest was on her lips. Brock heard the word no, but the rest of her protest was indistinct and he could not tell what she meant to say. Her unease was clear, even though she was too exhausted to be truly aware of him.

‘What do you think has happened to her, sir?’

‘She has suffered some harm,’ Brock said. ‘The sooner we can get her settled and a doctor to her, the sooner we shall know what caused her to collapse on the road like that. Well done for stopping in time. Had you run over her, she would surely have died.’

‘In this light I only just saw her in time,’ his groom said. ‘You’ll not make London tonight, sir.’

‘No, I think not,’ Brock agreed. ‘I must see to her needs first. It matters little when I get to town. I was engaged to play cards this evening, but my friends will understand. Drive on and stop at the Swan, please. It cannot be more than five miles. We must just hope that they have sufficient rooms to accommodate us.’

* * *

‘The young lady is awake now, Major Brockley.’ The innkeeper’s wife nodded to him and smiled. ‘That sleeping draught the doctor gave her worked a treat, sir. She feels much better this morning and asked me how she got here. Of course, I told her she had you to thank and she asked if you would step up and see her.’

‘Yes, of course. Perhaps you had best accompany me, ma’am?’

‘Oh, no, Major. My daughter Polly is there and will stay with her the whole time. You will forgive me, but I have much to do.’

‘Of course. I was thinking only of the invalid’s good name and her feelings. She might be nervous of a man she does not know.’

‘Bless you, sir. I told her a better man never walked this earth. She need not fear harm from a gentleman like you, Major—and her name is Rosemarie, so she says, though that might not be quite the truth. It strikes me that young lady has something to hide, but she is a lady, sir. I would vouch for that.’

‘I am certain you are right,’ Brock agreed, hiding his smile. ‘Very well, I shall go up to her. If Dr Reed returns, please ask him to come straight up. He said he would call to see her again this morning.’

‘Yes, Major. Certainly.’

Brock nodded his head to her and went up the broad staircase. The Swan was a coaching inn not more than thirty miles from London and one of the best for accommodation. He’d stayed here often in the past and that had stood him in good stead when he’d turned up the previous evening with an unconscious lady in his arms. His explanation was instantly accepted and a doctor called, the best available bedchambers handed over without a murmur of protest.

Walking down the landing to the door of the chamber allotted to the mysterious Rosemarie, he stopped and knocked. Invited to enter, he went in cautiously and saw that the patient was propped up against a pile of feather pillows. Her long dark hair spread over her shoulders and her slight body was wrapped in a thick yellow-and-white cotton nightgown that was three times too big for her. A white bedjacket was over her shoulders, showing only the very ends of her fingers. She was perfectly respectable and he saw for the first time rather pretty. At the moment her pale cheeks were flushed with a becoming pink.

The innkeeper’s daughter Polly curtsied to him and retired to the washstand, fiddling with basins and little pots, clearly under instructions not to leave the room so long as he was in it. Smiling inwardly, Brock approached the bed, his expression serious as he looked at Rosemarie.

‘I am glad to see you looking much better, miss,’ he said in what he hoped was an avuncular tone. ‘I am told your name is Rosemarie. Are you willing to tell me why you were lying in the middle of the road last night?’

He saw her eyelids flutter and knew that she was preparing to lie to him, then, she smiled and he gasped, because her whole face lit up and he saw that she would, in the right circumstances, be beautiful.

‘I am told that your name is Major Brockley and that you brought me here, sir, thus saving my life. The innkeeper’s wife told me that I have nothing to fear from you. She thinks you the most honourable man she has met—and I have to thank you for your kindness.’

‘Mrs Simpson does me too much honour, but I promise you that she is right to say you have nothing to fear. As for kindness, well, it was the least I could do. Only a heartless rogue would have left you lying in the road. If you are in trouble, you have only to tell me and I shall do all in my power to assist you.’

‘How kind of you—but I fear there is little anyone can do now.’

‘Forgive me. I think you give up too easily. There is always something one can do—do you not think so?’

‘Well, I did,’ she replied in a frank way that surprised him. ‘I thought I could run away to London and find work as a seamstress—but I was robbed, set upon and...’ Her eyes slid away from his gaze. ‘Very nearly abused. I fled to avoid being forced into one hateful relationship and very nearly ended in a worse one. Now I do not know what I can do unless I go home and submit to them.’

‘You have been unfortunate, it seems,’ Brock said, a scowl on his face. ‘Give me the name of those who have harmed you and I will seek redress for you.’

‘If you do that, they will take me back and force me to marry him,’ she said, and a tear slid from the corner of her right eye. She dashed it away. ‘Everyone believes them and not me. They think he is a kind good man who will care for me—but I know that he wants Papa’s fortune and they want the Manor. I heard them making their wicked bargain. He said they could keep the house and land and he would take the mills. Papa had five, you see, and they are worth a lot of money—and then there are my mother’s jewels. They are worth a king’s ransom alone, I dare say, but they have them locked away in my aunt’s room. I know she covets them for she wears them when they go out and when I protested she said that I was not allowed to have them until I marry...or my fortune.’

‘I see.’ Brock’s frown deepened. ‘And you think this man will take everything you own and treat you badly?’

‘He says he adores me,’ she said, sighing deeply. ‘I know he wants me, because he will keep touching me, but he makes me shudder and I refused to marry him. My uncle says I have no choice. He is my guardian and this man is his friend, but it is only because he wants my papa’s house and land and my aunt wants the jewels. Sir Montague doesn’t care as long as he gets the mills. They think I am just a pawn to be used as they wish and it is not fair. Papa would never have allowed it.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Brock murmured, looking at her speculatively. ‘Do you not have any friends who would assist you? No one to take you in and fight for your rights?’

‘There is my old nurse,’ Rosemarie told him, a smile on her lips now. ‘She was sent packing after Papa died, because she was loyal to me. She told me she would write to me, but no letters came. I fear my aunt burned them.’

‘You have been the victim of a wicked plot,’ Brock said, not sure if he believed everything she said. ‘Would your old nurse take you in if you could contact her?’

‘Yes, of course. Sarah was my friend always. Papa said she loved me as much as any mother could—you see my mother died when I was still very young. I was Papa’s only child.’

‘Then, if we could find Sarah, you could stay with her until someone sorts out this mess for you.’

‘I would be safe with Sarah, but only if my aunt and uncle did not find me. Sarah has no authority and my uncle is my guardian. He would force me to go back to them—and then I should be made to marry Sir Montague.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Nineteen, though I know I look younger. My uncle is my guardian for another two years. If I do not sign any papers, they cannot touch Papa’s fortune or sell off his mills—but of course, my aunt has the jewels. Not that I care for that, because I have Mama’s pearls and some small pieces of hers that Papa gave me when I was sixteen. I managed to smuggle them out in my gown when I escaped, and it is as well that I did sew the bag inside my gown—for everything else was stolen when I stayed overnight at an inn.’

‘You have been taken advantage of,’ Brock said, deciding that he believed at least a part of her story, though he was sure she was keeping something from him. ‘Will you trust me to help you?’

She looked at him in a considering fashion. ‘That depends on what you suggest, sir.’

‘I have some friends who I am sure will be happy to invite you to stay for a while. You would be quite safe with Amanda and Phipps—and, if you were willing to give me the names of your aunt and uncle, I might be able to discover what they are doing about your disappearance.’

‘You wouldn’t tell them where to find me?’

‘No, you have my word as a gentleman that I shall keep your secret, Miss...’

‘Ross,’ she said. ‘I’m Miss Rose Mary Ross of Ross House in Falmouth, though I have decided that I should like to be called Rosemarie in future—and my aunt and uncle are Lord and Lady Roxbourgh. My uncle is not a wealthy man, because his estate is small. Papa inherited his estate from his father and then increased his fortune. My uncle is related to Papa by marriage through their mother, who married my grandfather first and then, after he died, Lord Roxbourgh’s father. It is a little complicated.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but it explains why this gentleman is willing to stoop to wickedness to gain a fortune he covets, but has no right to.’

‘Papa left everything to me, because his estate was never entailed—but he trusted his half-brother...’

‘And so he made him your guardian. That was unfortunate, but not insurmountable. It is possible to have someone removed as guardian, you know—if we can prove that he is unfit to continue and has abused his position.’

‘Yes, but how can it be done, when everyone thinks it is such a good idea? Sir Montague is not terribly old nor is he ugly, and all our friends think it a splendid match for me, because he isn’t even a gambler or terribly in debt.’

‘Yes, I quite see how they’ve managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes,’ Brock said. ‘However, at nineteen you are quite old enough to make up your own mind and it is very wrong to force you—or to deny you the rest of your mother’s jewels.’

‘I wrote to my lawyer. He said he was sorry I was unhappy, but he could do nothing until I came of age, unless I married—and he likes Sir Montague himself. I know he thought I was just a silly girl.’

‘Well, I believe you,’ Brock said. ‘I’m not sure you’ve told me everything, Miss Ross—but I am perfectly willing to help you on the basis of what you’ve told me.’

Rosemarie avoided his eyes, confirming his suspicion that she had not told him the whole story. ‘Perhaps if you could help me get to London?’

‘To be a seamstress?’ Brock shook his head. ‘I do not think you would enjoy that very much, Miss Ross. Far better to stay with my friends and allow me the privilege of sorting out this mess for you.’

‘Why should you do so much for me? You do not know me at all.’

‘No, but I saved your life—and the ancient civilisations say that once you save a life you are responsible for that life.’

Rosemarie laughed and shook her head. ‘That is silly, Major. I am sure you cannot want the bother of dealing with my aunt and uncle and sorting out my troubles.’

‘No, you wrong me, Miss Ross. I never make a promise I don’t intend to keep—and I promise that I shall do all I can to put this muddle straight.’

‘Well, are you perfectly sure that your friends would not find me a nuisance?’

‘Once you meet Amanda you will know that she could never find you a nuisance. I dare say that she will be reluctant to part with you when the time comes.’

‘But what shall I do?’ Rosemarie asked doubtfully. ‘If I had another aunt I could live with, I might see an end to all this, but I cannot stay with your friends for ever. Even if you were to recover a part of my fortune.’

‘I shall also endeavour to find your old nurse, and if you have money you may pay for a respectable lady to be your chaperon. Besides, if your aunt and uncle were sent packing, you might like to return to your home with your nurse—until it is time for you to come out.’

‘But it is time now,’ Rosemarie pointed out. ‘I asked my aunt to bring me to London, or indeed Bath, but she said Sir Montague wished to marry me and there was no point, because I would not find a more suitable husband...’

‘I do not know why she should say that,’ Brock said. ‘I am certain that you could find any number of suitors given time.’

‘I might not,’ Rosemarie said and lowered her gaze. ‘Perhaps I should tell you everything. Mama was not a respectable person.’

‘What do you mean?’ Brock looked at her in astonishment.

‘Papa had a wife...she lived in an institution. He took Mama to live at the Manor with him until she died giving birth to me, but she was never his wife.’ Rosemarie bit her bottom lip. ‘You see, that is why everyone thinks I’m lucky that Sir Montague is prepared to marry a bastard. I may be rich, but I am still illegitimate.’

Brock was stunned into silence for a moment. Her revelation did alter the circumstances a little. She might be rich, if her fortune could be saved from these grasping relatives, but some people would consider that she could never enter the ranks of society, because her father was not married to her mother.

‘Why did they not marry?’

‘Papa was a Roman Catholic and so was his wife. He said he could not obtain a divorce and remain within his church—and Mama said rather than make him terribly unhappy, she agreed to live with him. He always said she was his wife in everything but name and he promised me that they were happy until she died.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’ Brock shook his head. ‘Are you also a Roman Catholic?’

‘No. Papa said it was a curse and allowed my aunt to bring me up in a more forgiving faith and I was grateful to her. Indeed, we got on very well until Sir Montague offered for me and they saw a way of taking over the Manor. However, I remain grateful that I was brought up as a Protestant for I would never join a church that could condemn a child to be born out of wedlock because her parents were not allowed to marry. Had Papa divorced his wife, who would have known nothing of it, Mama would have been respectable and I might not be in this predicament.’

‘Yes, I see. How very sad for your parents,’ Brock said. ‘I understand a man’s faith is important, but...’ He shook his head. ‘It is not my affair. Thank you for telling me the whole. Having secrets does not help when you are dealing with people such as your aunt and uncle—and this Sir Montague.’

‘No, it was just that...’ She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Do you still think I’m a suitable person for your friends to meet?’

‘I am quite certain they will not hold your birth against you, Miss Ross,’ he said. ‘Now, I believe that is the doctor I can hear on the stairs. I shall leave you to speak to him alone.’

‘You will still help me?’

‘Of course. I gave you my word. I shall not go back on it,’ Brock said, and smiled at her. ‘Try not to brood on your wrongs, child. Everyone concerned has treated you very badly, but I shall find a way out of this mess for you. Just believe that not everyone is as evil as those people you have fled from.’

Leaving her just as the elderly doctor entered, Brock toyed with the problem he’d taken on. He had no doubt that Sir Roxbourgh and his lady had high hopes of keeping hold of both the Manor and the jewels, while Sir Montague was hoping to become the owner of several mills. However, he had a lawyer in London who would move heaven and earth to please his favourite client and Brock did not doubt that the fraud could be exposed. Whether it could be done without scandal reflecting on Miss Ross herself was another matter. As an illegitimate child, she would be ostracised by most society hostesses—and though she might not mind that, Brock found that he did for her sake.

He would certainly discuss the legal details with his lawyer, but as for the rest? That would take some clever planning if they were to come off without a scandal of the first degree.

As yet he had not asked himself the question why he had decided to take up the cudgels on Rose Mary’s—no, Rosemarie’s, he smiled at the change of name—behalf. It might have something to do with the unease and feeling of guilt that had come over him when he was told of Sister Violet’s death, but if that were the case his mind had not understood it. All Brock knew was that a young woman stood in desperate trouble and this time he would do all in his power to see that she did not come to harm.

Brock was still uncertain whether she’d confessed the whole, but her revelations concerning her mother were startling and made her situation even more unfortunate. Indeed, many of the ladies who might have taken her under their wing would not contemplate the idea of harbouring a bastard, however delightful she might be.

Chapter Two

Brock sat at the desk in the parlour he had taken at the inn. He was obliged to remain here for two more days, until Miss Ross was sufficiently recovered to travel. He must write to the friends he had let down and explain that he was delayed—and he must also write to Amanda and Phipps, asking if they would take in the young lady he’d rescued until he found alternative accommodation for her. He did not think that Amanda would be shocked by the circumstances of Rosemarie’s birth, but he would be obliged to tell her.

Rosemarie needed something for a few months, at least until her problems were settled, and there was no telling how long that might take. Brock could not expect his friends to keep her more than a week or two. Had he been married, he could have asked his wife to chaperon her while he... Of course, he must write to Cynthia, too.

He sighed deeply, feeling uneasy and doubtful of the future. Cynthia Langton was a charming young woman and beautiful, but the more Brock saw of her the less certain he was that they would suit once they were married—and yet only a cad would withdraw now.

He had intended to visit her this weekend, but now he might be tied up for weeks with this affair. It was a nuisance and he could not be surprised if Cynthia were to be angry. Brock had shamefully neglected his fiancée and he knew he must make amends. Perhaps he would leave Miss Ross and travel down to see Cynthia this weekend and explain in person rather than write. Letters only conveyed half a story.

Cynthia would be more inclined to sympathise with his desire to help the young woman if the date of their marriage had been set. Yes, he thought, drawing the paper towards him and dipping his pen in the ink, it might be best just to write a line or two saying he was coming down rather than explaining in a long and complicated letter.

Having penned his brief note to Cynthia and addressed it to her home, he wrote to Amanda and Phipps, telling them he would be in London in two days and had a favour to ask. Then he drew another sheet of paper towards him and began to write a list of what he ought to do in order to set Miss Ross’s affairs in order. A visit to his lawyer and then to hers, and depending on what he learned there, perhaps a visit to Miss Ross’s home.

Another deep sigh escaped him, for it looked as though a time of frustration was ahead and he wondered why he had been moved to give a girl he did not know his promise of help. Miss Ross was certainly lovely to look at, but Cynthia was beautiful—quite the most beautiful woman he’d ever met—and she’d agreed to be his wife. He was the world’s worst wretch for having left her alone in the country for weeks on end.

He would definitely go down this weekend, for once his temporary ward was safely in Amanda’s charge, he need not worry about Miss Ross’s affairs immediately. A visit to the lawyers should be sufficient to set things in motion.

He had not fallen for the girl? Examining his motives, Brock decided that it was merely the natural and proper instincts of a gentleman to protect a vulnerable girl. No, his affections were not engaged. Rosemarie was young, vulnerable and pretty, but if he admitted the truth only one woman had touched his heart...only one woman could have made him happy, but that woman was out of his reach. Of course, he’d loved sweet Mary—or Sister Violet, as the nuns called her—but that was as a friend of his childhood or a sister. No, there was but one lady he had wanted for his wife, but that dream was long squashed—almost forgotten.

He had learned that the only way to cope with his pain and grief over Samantha Scatterby was to block it out of his mind. She had loved her late husband and despised him for having tried to make love to her while her beloved husband was lying ill upstairs, and indeed, he despised himself for it. He had been swept away by a look in her eyes and that was weakness and it shamed him. Brock knew that he must live in the world as it was, remember his duty and keep the promise he had made, even if he had regretted it almost at once.

He would speak to Cynthia about setting the date this weekend, after he’d settled Miss Ross, and for that he must first go to London, for Amanda and Phipps were in residence in their town house.

* * *

‘You only just caught us,’ Phipps said when Brock entered their elegant parlour in the London house two days later. ‘We are returning to the country tomorrow. Indeed, had your letter not reached us we should have left today.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose it cannot matter to Rosemarie where she lives,’ Brock said, frowning. ‘You know the favour I would ask, Phipps. I hope it will be only a matter of weeks, because I imagine her lawyers can settle the matter soon enough. However, she does need a sanctuary for a while.’

‘And I wish that we might offer it,’ Phipps said. ‘I’m afraid it is out of the question at the moment, old fellow. Amanda has been ordered complete quiet once we are home. She is to go to bed and stay there for at least the next month. She is expecting our first child and is not doing too well at the moment, I’m afraid. Doctor Renfrew says if she is taken home by easy stages and made to rest she should bear a living child—but if we ignore his advice he has little hope of it. It’s because she’s such a little thing.’

‘Oh, my dear Phipps,’ Brock said. ‘Of course you must do exactly as the doctor says and I perfectly see why you cannot have Miss Ross as a guest.’

‘I haven’t even told Amanda that you asked,’ Phipps said, looking anxious. ‘She would insist that Renfrew is an old fool and tell Miss Ross she was welcome to stay for as long as she wishes, but I simply could not bear anything to happen to my darling or her child.’

‘Certainly not. I wouldn’t ask such a thing of you now that I understand the risk—let me wish you a fortunate outcome to Amanda’s confinement. Do not worry too much, my dear fellow. Amanda is very strong and I’m certain she will pull through.’

‘Renfrew says the same, but he thinks she might lose the child if she doesn’t do exactly as he says. I feel an utter wretch for letting you down, Brock.’

‘You are not to worry about Miss Ross. I shall visit my godmother and ask her to take her in for a while. I am sure she will be only too happy. She likes young company.’

‘I am truly sorry, Brock. You know I would have obliged if I could.’

Brock smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You have enough troubles of your own. I shall come about, never fear.’

‘Where is the young lady now?’

‘I left her at Grillon’s in a private suite,’ Brock said. ‘She should be safe enough there for the moment, at least until I’ve spoken to Lady March. I secured a maid for her, though she is a little rough and ready, being the innkeeper’s daughter, but very willing.’

‘I am so sorry not to have been more accommodating.’

‘Think nothing of it.’

Brock shook his hand and left, frowning as he set out on foot for his godmother’s house two streets away. He wasn’t sure about Lady March’s reaction when he asked her to take in a young woman with only one decent dress to her name—especially if he told her the whole story, which in all honour he must.

* * *

‘You say she ran away from a forced marriage to a man of fortune?’ Lady March frowned at her godson. ‘It sounds rather impulsive and ill thought out to my mind. What family does the girl come from—and who is the man she refuses to marry?’

‘Her father was Lord Ross of Falmouth House and her mother was his mistress, but she is his heir and he adopted her legally, so her lawyer tells me.’

‘A bastard! Harry Brockley, how can you expect me to take in such a gel?’ Lady March asked in outraged tones. ‘This all sounds very fishy to me. Who is the man that is prepared to marry her?’

‘Sir Montague. That’s all I know.’

‘Sir Montague? I only know one man of that name. He is about your age, Harry, and a very decent, wealthy and upright man, too. The girl is a rogue!’

‘No, I assure you, Godmother. She is an innocent. I believe her when she tells me her family are trying to force her into this marriage—after all, many people would think it plenty good enough for a girl in her situation. I’m not sure whether they are truly trying to cheat her of her father’s fortune, or whether it is merely a business arrangement, similar to many marriage contracts. However, if she dislikes the idea, it cannot be right that she should be forced to it, can it?’

Lady March was silent for a moment, then answered reluctantly, ‘No, I do not think it can.’ Her gaze narrowed intently. ‘What is this girl to you? Have you a feeling for her? She isn’t your mistress?’

‘I swear to you that she means nothing to me. I am acting only as any honourable man would, having found her in such terrible circumstances. How can I desert her? I must find her somewhere to live until this unpleasant business is resolved.’

‘Well, I can only offer her a few days’ sanctuary. In ten days from now I am taking my niece Alice to Paris to buy her bride clothes. We are there for three weeks and after that we go down to Bath and shall remain there until the wedding at her fiancé’s house.’

‘Could you not take Miss Ross with you? At least buy her some new clothes—and then I may find somewhere else for her to live—somewhere respectable.’

Rosemarie was already kicking against his plans for her, saying that she could very well find a place to live and work if he would sell some trinkets for her, but he could not tell his godmother that, of course.

‘This is what I will do for her,’ Lady March said. ‘She may come to me for one week. Alice left some clothes here that she will not want again. We might have them remodelled for this friend of yours.’

‘Yes, she may consent to wear them, but you will please take her to the seamstress and have some new ones made, as well. I shall have to find someone she can live with until things are settled. I suppose you do not know of a respectable widow who would take her in charge for a while?’

‘A widow, you say?’ Lady March looked thoughtful, then inclined her head. ‘Yes, why not? I would not recommend her to a relative of mine, but for this girl she is perfectly respectable and invited everywhere, though I consider her a little fast. Mrs Scatterby...’

‘Samantha Scatterby?’

Brock hesitated, the pain twisting inside him as he spoke her name. He had thought he was over all that, had put the past behind him and was ready to make a new life. He’d had to forget, to make himself think of anything but her, because the last time he’d seen Samantha they had parted on a sour note. He’d seen that look of revulsion in her eyes when he’d behaved so badly that she had been disgusted, angry.

His kiss had been impulsive, because he’d felt her grief and he’d misinterpreted the look in her eyes, which had seemed to beg for his love, but he’d been wrong, because when he kissed her she had been revolted by his behaviour and he could not blame her because he’d done a despicable thing—making love to the wife of a dying man.

He recalled his thoughts quickly. When he’d left Sam that day he’d felt that she despised him for what he’d tried to do, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself when he saw the pain in her eyes. His first thought was that he couldn’t ask this favour of her. No, it was impossible! Samantha would not wish to see him after all this time. Yet she was a warm, loving woman and he believed that she might take pity on a young girl in trouble, even if she still despised him. She would surely have forgotten that foolish kiss by now, as he had. It had taken him a long time to forget, but he was certain that he was over that ill-advised infatuation he’d felt for his colonel’s lady as a young officer. He spoke at last, aware that he’d been silent too long. Even though in his heart he knew she was the only woman he would ever love so deeply, he knew that she was beyond him and he had made up his mind to settle for something else: a marriage of convenience.

That being the case, what possible reason could he have for not asking Samantha if she would help Rosemarie? There seemed to be no reason and he made up his mind to do it. Perhaps then he could put her out of his mind once and for all. He looked at Lady March and nodded.

‘Yes, of course. Colonel Scatterby’s widow. Oh, yes, she is ideal. Samantha was such a favourite with us all. We all adored her—every one of Scatterby’s friends were in love with Sam when she campaigned with us on the Peninsula.’ That was how he must think of her, as the kind friend she’d been to all her husband’s men. He had conquered that deep need for her, he’d had to because he knew she did not feel love for him.

‘What did you call her?’ Lady March was faintly disapproving. ‘Sam? Really, Harry! Well, she lives in one of these fashionable squares, but I’ve heard she may be a little strapped for cash. I dare say she might oblige if you made it worth her while.’

‘Oh, Sam will take her in,’ Brock said, sounding more confident than he felt. He swooped on his godmother, kissing her cheek. ‘Thank you for suggesting it—and I shan’t trouble you to buy Miss Ross those new gowns, I am certain Sam will enjoy kiting her out in some posh togs.’

‘Really, if that is your army talk, Harry, I would prefer you kept it for your comrades. However, I am glad to have been of help and I am sorry I was unable to take the gel on myself. I am very fond of you and would oblige you if I could.’

Brock smiled and took his leave. He would be a fool to lose this chance for young Rosemarie just because Samantha had once been angry with him for kissing her. No doubt she’d forgotten his indiscretion long since—and he would like to meet her again, to finally lay to rest the ghost that had hovered in the back of his mind since that day.

There was determination in his step as he set out for Hanover Square. Samantha Scatterby was a big-hearted woman and he believed that his problem was solved. Once Sam took Miss Ross under her wing, he could set out for the country and speak to Cynthia about setting the date for their wedding.

Chapter Three

Samantha had just returned from a shopping trip and was loaded with parcels. She enjoyed buying pretty trifles and had been refurbishing her wardrobe, which was much in need of it. Now, some six months after she’d moved into the modest house in London, it was time she finally came out of her mourning and began to introduce some colours into her wardrobe once more. After all, Percy had been gone for many months now and he would not have wanted her to mourn him for ever. He’d told her she was not to wear black for him and she had done so only a short time before choosing grey or lilac gowns, both of which suited her well enough, but she wanted something new, something to make her feel that she was still young enough to find happiness again.

Tears pricked her eyes but she brushed them away. The time for weeping was over and she must begin to live again, truly live and not just go through the motions, which she had done for the first few weeks after his death.

Samantha was very fortunate in having many good friends who invited her to their houses and to the theatre, on picnics and drives and to splendid balls. She had no excuse to be lonely and her particular friend Lady Sally Seaton, was always telling her that she ought to marry again.

The reason she had never remarried was not because she lacked suitors. More than one gentleman had made his intentions known to her, but she always smiled and shook her head at them, offering a teasing smile and deflecting their advances with a light touch. It was her warmth and kindness that brought her so many friends, for she would never willingly hurt anyone, and had been an excellent military wife.

During those happy days on campaign with Percy, Samantha had been in her element, treating the young men under her husband’s command with gentle respect and consideration. If they’d had a problem they felt unable to communicate to their commanding officer it was to Sam they had come with their tales of woe, often of broken heart when the lady of their choice had let them down. Samantha had lost count of the times she’d seen a young man weep, wounded and frightened. They had spoken of their mothers and clung to her hand, and she’d done her best to comfort them, some as they lay dying.

That time had been a very precious part of her life. Grateful to the husband who was twice her age, she’d loved him deeply in her way, and if that love had been more that of a daughter than a wife, she’d tried never to show it when he was affectionate towards her. Percy had given her a life and although she flirted on occasion with handsome young officers she would never have thought of betraying him.

Even when she fell desperately in love with one particular young officer, Brock, she had done nothing to give him encouragement. She’d smiled, offered advice and comfort when he was in despair, but never had she shown by a word or a look that his smile broke her heart. Until that dreadful last day, when she’d broken down in tears, because Brock was leaving and she would be alone with the husband who was dying so slowly and painfully, and she hadn’t known how to bear it.

And then he’d swept her into his arms and for one moment she’d clung to him, melting into his strong body, her longing and desire stripping her naked so that he must have seen her need. What must he have thought of a woman who would give herself so completely when her husband lay close to death?

Suddenly, revulsion at her own behaviour had shot through her and she’d wrenched away from him, knowing that what she was doing was despicable. Her husband lay upstairs, dying slowly, painfully but inevitably, and she had kissed another man; had almost been swept away to the point of madness. As she’d pushed him away she’d seen the look in his eyes—accusation and pain...

He’d turned and walked away, leaving her weeping inside, longing to call him back, to confess her love, but knowing she dared not. Samantha knew that he must condemn her, might think her of easy virtue. The memory of the look in his eyes had haunted her, and she’d known that he must hate her for she had hated herself for a long time.

The time for grieving was over, Samantha knew. Percy was dead. He had told her that she ought to marry again when he knew that death was near.

‘I can leave you enough to manage on, my dearest,’ he’d told her as he held her hand. ‘But you deserve so much more, Samantha. Marry a younger man this time—and one who can give you the finer things of life.’

She’d shaken her head and smiled at him, telling him that she wanted him to live and recover, but they’d both known he could not.

Percy was right, she ought to marry, but this time she wanted to be sure that she could feel more than just affection for the man she married.

Pushing away her troubled thoughts, Samantha took the pretty hat she’d purchased from its box and tried it on. It suited her English complexion. Cream straw with pink roses and ribbons, it became her well and would go with the white-muslin gown with the tiny pink motif she had recently had made, but not yet worn.

She had just taken off the hat and was tidying her hair when her maid knocked and then entered.

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but there is a gentleman downstairs wishing to see you.’

Samantha took the card and read it, and her heart jerked in surprise. How strange that Brock was here after all these months when they had not met. It was as if her memories had conjured him up. She trembled a little and almost refused to see him, but then she knew she could not do other than greet him as a friend. She could never thank him enough for all he’d done to help her when Percy was wounded. She must be friendly, but keep the joy she felt inside from showing in her face. Brock was a man and she knew that he had long forgotten her, because it was widely known he was engaged to be married to a beautiful young woman.

‘Yes, I see, Allie. Please tell him I shall be down in a few minutes. I shall receive him in the back parlour.’

* * *

‘Brock, how lovely to see you,’ Samantha cried as he was shown into the elegant parlour. He looked anxious and she went towards him impulsively, hands outstretched, caution lost as she felt his unease. ‘What brings you to me? What can I do for you?’

‘How are you, Mrs Scatterby? You look blooming, as lovely as ever.’

‘I am, as you see. My dearest Percy always told me I wasn’t to wear the willow if he died and he hated black so I have chosen grey and lilac, which suit me very well, and I live a perfectly satisfactory life. But I shall never forget those times when we were all together in Spain, before my darling...’ She shook her head and brushed away a tear. ‘None of that, it’s just seeing you again because Percy thought the world of you, and Phipps and Jack. You were his favourites of all his boys.’

‘And we worshipped him,’ Brock said. ‘Nothing will ever be like those times, Mrs Scatterby.’

‘I’m still Sam to you,’ she said gracefully, keeping her distance, but smiling. He must never guess how seeing him again after so long made her heart race and her body ache with the longing to be in his arms. He might have cared for her once, but it could only have been a young man’s infatuation. Had he still loved her, he would not be engaged to Miss Langton. ‘Now tell me, what can I do for you?’

Brock explained Rosemarie Ross’s predicament in as few words as possible. ‘I went to Phipps first, but he has other things on his mind just now. My godmother is otherwise engaged for months, but she suggested you, Sam. I am at my wits’ end to know what to do with young Miss Ross. Will you take pity on me?’

‘Oh, how perfectly romantic and wonderful,’ she said, and laughed in the enchanting way that had made her husband’s comrades fall head over heels in love with her when they were young men. ‘Yes, of course. You must bring her here at once. It is exactly what I need—an adventure to brighten up my days and give me a reason to go shopping. I fear I am terribly extravagant and it is my favourite pastime.’

‘I shall pay for anything Miss Ross needs and any extra expenses you may incur on her behalf.’ Brock laughed and shook his head as her brows went up. ‘No, there is no attachment, Sam. She has nothing until her affairs are settled and it cannot mean anything to me—I am too rich for my own good, so my godmother tells me.’

‘Then I shall not bother what I spend on her,’ Samantha said, smiling at him in approval. ‘You must bring her to me at once. I shall engage to give her some town bronze and rely on you to do the rest.’

‘She may have to stay with you for some months. If I cannot settle her affairs to her liking, perhaps until she forms an attachment and marries?’

‘I dare say if she is as charming as you say, I shall never wish to part with her,’ Samantha declared. ‘I have no relatives, no family of my own, and she will be no trouble to me, I assure you. Now, my dearest Brock, you must go and fetch her and I shall have her room prepared. Oh, what fun. I declare I’ve never been so pleased with a visitor before.’

‘You are an angel,’ Brock said, throwing her a kiss with his fingertips as he turned to leave. ‘Once Miss Ross is settled I can go down to visit Cynthia.’

‘Your fiancée?’ Sam’s look was suddenly serious, the smile leaving her eyes. ‘Are you sure she is at home, Brock? I am almost certain I saw her the other evening at a dance I attended. She was with Lord Armstrong and her mother.’

‘Cynthia Langton in town and with Lord Armstrong?’

‘Yes, I believe she has been staying with him and the countess for the past week or more,’ Samantha said. ‘You were not aware of it?’

‘No. I dare say her letter informing me is waiting for me at home. There is a pile of post, but I did not bother to go through it for I wanted to settle Miss Ross’s affairs first.’

‘I am sure their mothers are good friends. It will save you a journey to the country, after all,’ Samantha said with a smile. ‘Now, please, go and fetch Miss Ross. I dare say she is imagining that you have deserted her.’

‘Good grief, yes. I said I should be an hour and I’ve been at least three. Sam, I can never thank you enough,’ he said and left her with another kiss blown from his fingertips.

* * *

Samantha rang the bell for her housekeeper as soon as Brock had gone. She would have been a fool to dwell on the feelings seeing him had stirred in her breast. She’d been so nervous of seeing him, but his manner was that of a casual acquaintance, which was all they were now, she supposed. Oh, but it might have been so different had she not been such a fool.

Shaking her head over her own foolishness, Samantha concentrated on preparing for her visitor. She wanted to have her guest’s room ready for her when she arrived and gave instructions for the best spare chamber to be prepared. Flowers were to be picked from her small but very pretty garden at the rear of the house and arranged in one of the nicest vases; clean towels, linen, soaps and magazines must be placed in the room for Miss Ross’s use. Depending on what size she was, Samantha might be able to lend her one or two dresses until they could purchase some new ones from the seamstress she favoured.

It was always exciting to have visitors, and a young woman in trouble was surely someone she could make a new friend. She would so enjoy taking the girl about with her to discreet parties and private dances, though she was not sure whether Miss Ross was actually out or not. She thought, given her story, it was unlikely that she had been presented to their Majesties, but if it was required Sam might be able to prevail on Mrs Burrell or Lady South to undertake the business.

She would need to consult Brock and Miss Ross herself about her wishes in the matter, but nothing could be wrong in taking the young lady to small card parties and dinners or dances. Samantha had been feeling rather low for the past few months and having her young visitor would cheer her up. Not that she was past the age of wanting to enjoy life herself, for she was but five and twenty.

Her marriage to Percy Scatterby when she was nineteen had been a matter of necessity, for her own father, also a colonel in the army, had died, leaving her alone with barely the wherewithal to pay her rent. She’d struggled on alone for a year and then someone had come to her rescue. Her darling Percy had been a great friend of Papa’s and nearer his age than her own, but he had offered her the protection of his name and she had accepted him. She’d thrown herself into a life of following the army, accepting the often terrible accommodation and learning to live off the land, as other soldiers’ wives did.

Sam had taken to the life as a duck to water. At home in the saddle, capable of cooking a decent meal with the barest ingredients and possessed of a sunny nature that was seldom overset, she had soon had the young subalterns eating out of her hands. They vied with each other for invitations to her dinner parties, when there was food enough to go round, helped her when the conditions were hard and invariably lost their hearts to the Colonel’s lady, while treating her with the same respect that they gave their beloved officer.

It was Brock who had supplied the country house where Percy had spent his last months.

Samantha knew that she would have done anything she could to help Brock. He had been so very kind to her, so thoughtful and generous. Of course she would repay him in any way she could, because he had helped her at a time when her situation had been at its worst. But then, he was a true gentleman, a man whom any woman could admire and trust. Percy had thought the world of him.

Tears stung her eyes as she recalled the day Percy had died as she’d sat holding his hand. He’d looked at her sadly, regret in the grey eyes that had always been filled with wicked laughter.

‘I have not been fair to you, my darling,’ he’d said. ‘You know I always loved you, but I was too old. You were young. You should have had a young husband and children. I have given you nothing.’

‘You gave me four years of happiness,’ she’d told him and bent to kiss his hand. ‘I love you, Percy. I had nothing. You have made me secure for I shall have enough to live quietly in London and that is all I require of life now.’

‘You loved me,’ he’d said in a voice that was no more than a whisper. ‘But not as you would have loved a younger man. No, do not deny it, Samantha. I know I was never quite the lover you needed. You are a passionate woman and you should have had a man twenty years younger who could have matched you.’

‘No, my dearest,’ she’d denied, knowing in her heart it was the truth, yet wanting to ease the regret in his eyes. ‘No man was ever a better husband than you, Percy.’

‘No man could have loved you more,’ he’d said and his fingers pressed hard on hers. ‘Promise me, Sam. Promise me that you won’t grieve for me. You must find someone else, a man who can give you all I could not. I know there is someone you care for, my dear.’

‘Percy, I have been perfectly happy...’ she’d said, but even as she’d spoken the words she knew he’d left her and she’d wept.

Her tears were the more bitter because she believed that she must have hurt him in some way. Surely he had not guessed at those feelings she’d hidden deep in her heart—feelings for Brock, one of his men, that she had never once allowed to show. The realisation that Percy had guessed was painful and made her grieving harder. She had kept up her mourning for more than several months and then only began to go into society gradually. It was Lady Jersey and her great friend Lady Patricia South who had finally dragged her back to the land of the living and made her face up to the future.

These days, she gave discreet, but very popular, dinner parties to which she invited both married and single friends, often including young officers who had served with her husband, and was never alone for very long. At a ball she would gather a crowd of younger men and women about her, though only the very strict would have thought her fast. She was a great rider and was usually to be seen in Rotten Row of a morning, riding a great red horse that looked as if it were far too strong for her and yet responded to her lightest touch. If she began her ride alone, she did not finish it so for there was always an officer or a fashionable gentleman to ride with her.

Samantha cast an approving eye over the chamber prepared for her guest. She could only be glad that Brock had no idea of her continuing feelings for him, because she was sure that his heart was given to another. Indeed, it must be for why else had he asked Cynthia Langton to be his wife? And yet the wedding had not yet been announced...

Chapter Four

‘Stay with a widow?’ The look in Rosemarie’s eyes told Brock that she was not happy with the idea. ‘I do not wish to live quietly and hardly dare to raise my voice. Why will you not advance me a little money on my trinkets and let me go where I please?’

‘Because it would be quite improper for you to live alone, Miss Ross,’ he said patiently for perhaps the twentieth time. ‘Besides, Sam is not a long-suffering widow wearing black. Her husband has been dead for almost two years. She goes into society and will take you to small parties and dances, once you have suitable clothes.’

‘She will?’ Rosemarie tipped her head to one side, reminding him with her bright eyes of a hungry robin, ready to pounce on a worm. ‘Where shall I get the money to buy my clothes?’

‘Your lawyer will advance you some money,’ Brock lied, for Mr Stevens had refused to do anything of the kind until he had spoken to the girl’s aunt and uncle. Brock had not yet brought his own lawyer to bear on the subject of her inheritance, though he intended to speak with him as soon as he had her settled with Samantha Scatterby. ‘You need not concern yourself, Rosemarie. You will be safe and pleasantly engaged while I attempt to sort out your affairs. And do not think that your uncle will try to drag you back, because I have already informed your father’s lawyer that we are considering having your affairs taken out of his hands, unless he protects you in this matter. He was much shaken and promised that he would enquire into your affairs without loss of time.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosemarie said and looked thoughtful. ‘You are truly considerate and a great gentleman, sir. Had you not come when you did I might have fallen into the hands of rogues—or died. I know Papa would have liked you. Had he known you, I am sure he would have appointed you as one of my guardians.’

‘Well, your guardian I am not, more’s the pity,’ Brock said and smiled. ‘However, I am hopeful of a satisfactory outcome to your problems—but I must ask you to comply with my request. Mrs Scatterby is a respectable widow and will take care of you while helping you acquire some town bronze. Only if I know you to be safely established in her care can I leave town...’

‘You’re going to see your fiancée, are you not?’

‘Yes, I must,’ Brock said, ‘but fortunately for me Cynthia is in town. I may call on her and settle my affairs before I take a trip down to Falmouth to speak to your uncle.’

‘He will be very angry. I dare say he will demand that I return to his protection.’

‘He may well do so,’ Brock agreed, but seeing the fear in her eyes softened his tone. ‘However, I believe the threat of my applying to make you and your fortune a ward of court will stop him in his tracks. It is a last resort, of course, but if it were the only way to protect you from their scheming I would take whatever measures necessary.’

‘If I were married, my uncle could not make me wed Sir Montague and neither he nor Papa’s lawyer could withhold my fortune.’

Brock was struck by the look in her eyes, his senses alerted. ‘Is there something you have not told me, Rosemarie? Have you a particular young man in mind?’

‘What if I have? He is serving abroad, but once he comes home he will marry me and then...’

‘You do realise that although your uncle may not force you to marry a man of his choice, he can forbid you to wed another—until you are of age you would need his consent to marry.’

‘I knew you would say that.’ Rosemarie pouted at him, a truculent note in her voice. ‘It is the reason I did not tell you everything—but he cannot stop me if we run away.’

‘No, but he might apply to have the marriage set aside and make you a ward of court but under his own jurisdiction.’ Brock frowned at her. ‘For your own sake, I must warn you to be careful, Rosemarie. You are very young to be married and might easily make a mistake. Why not give yourself a little time to live in town and get to know more people...to be sure of your own heart?’

‘I love Robert. He is the only man I shall ever love and I am determined to be his wife.’ Rosemarie set her mouth stubbornly. ‘Papa would not have forbidden me. He believed that marriage should always be for love. His own was arranged and look what happened, though I know he cared for his wife deeply. Yet he also loved Mama and I know he would tell me to marry Robert and be happy.’

Brock smothered a sigh. ‘Unfortunately, your father is no longer here to tell us his wishes, Rosemarie. If you are sensible and give yourself a little time, your aunt and uncle may be brought to agree—and that would be best for everyone. Would you not wish to be on good terms with your family?’

‘Why should I care for them?’ Rosemarie’s eyes sparkled with defiance. ‘You say that because you do not know Lord Roxbourgh. You think I exaggerate when I say he covets Papa’s estate and his wife wants my mother’s jewels, but I assure you I do not, sir.’

‘Forgive me, Rosemarie. I believe that you have been unjustly treated, but I must reserve judgement until I have spoken to your uncle and aunt—after that we shall see what needs to be done to protect both you and your fortune.’

There was the hint of a tear in her eyes as she inclined her head, but her pride would not let her give way to a show of weeping.

‘I know you are right, sir,’ she said. ‘I am grateful to you—but I love Robert and he loves me. Even if we have to wait two years, I shall marry him.’

‘Do not think me your enemy,’ Brock said. ‘I speak only out of a desire to protect you. I think you would not like to be cut off from society for your whole life?’

‘As Mama was?’ Rosemarie tilted her chin at him. ‘No, indeed, it was sad for her that she and Papa had only a few friends they could visit who would also visit them. Most of the county people looked down their noses at her, even though Papa treated her as if she were his wife. He would not associate with anyone who ignored Mama—but only a few ladies were kind enough to visit, and they were not out of the top drawer. I think they were all perfectly horrid to behave so.’

‘Well, think seriously about the rest of your life, Rosemarie. Now, I must take you to Mrs Scatterby and leave you with her, for I really do have business of my own that I must attend.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Rosemarie gave him a sunny smile, her petulance forgotten. ‘You have been truly kind, sir. I know you have had much trouble on my behalf.’

‘Nothing was too much trouble,’ Brock assured her. ‘Please, may we leave now? I should like to continue with my plans before the evening is too advanced.’

Rosemarie consented and they went out to the waiting curricle.

* * *

It was a short drive to Samantha’s house. Brock escorted her into the pleasant parlour once more with its pretty satinwood furniture and dainty chairs with satin-covered seats in a pale straw colour. It felt as if he were walking into sunshine and he had a feeling that he would like to stay in its warmth for ever, but dismissed his fancies with a laugh. Samantha had always had a knack for making a house into a welcoming home, even when on campaign with her husband. He introduced the ladies, saw that Sam immediately set her guest at ease and left them to get to know one another.

After he’d made his farewells, Brock set out once more, but this time bound for the countess’s London house. His knock was answered by a serious-looking butler in black, who asked him to step into the downstairs parlour while he enquired whether the countess, Lady Langton or her daughter were at home.

Left to admire some rather lovely paintings on the wall, Brock did his best not to lose patience as the minutes ticked by. Then, at last, the butler returned.

‘Countess Snowdon will see you now, sir. If you will follow me to her parlour.’

Brock inclined his head and followed the stately servant up the main staircase and along the passage to a pair of double doors. He knocked and then threw them open with a flourish, announcing Brock and standing aside to allow him to enter.

Brock’s gaze went immediately to the rather lovely but fragile-looking lady ensconced in an early Georgian wingchair covered in green-striped brocade. He approached and bowed to her, offering his hand.

‘You will forgive me if I do not get up, sir? I am unable to do so without assistance.’

‘You must not think of it, Countess.’ Brock smiled at her. ‘Please forgive me for calling on you out of the blue like this, but I have just returned to town this very day and I learned that my fiancée was staying here as your guest.’

‘Yes, indeed, Cynthia and her mama have so kindly taken pity on me,’ the countess said with her sad sweet smile. ‘She is such a charming girl that I have quite lost my heart to her. I have prevailed on the dear gel to continue her stay for another few weeks and go down to the country with me when we leave next week.’

‘Indeed?’ Brock frowned slightly. ‘I was hoping—but no matter. May I speak with Cynthia, perhaps?’

‘At the moment she, her mama and my son have all gone to the races, I’m afraid. I believe they are to dine informally somewhere and I do not expect them home until quite late this evening.’

‘Oh, that is unfortunate. I was hoping to speak to her—but, of course she did not know I was coming.’ Brock hesitated, sensing something of a reserve in the lady of the house. ‘May I ask you to give Cynthia a message?’

‘Yes, of course. I am sure had she known you intended to call she would have arranged to be in.’

‘I did not know until late this day that Cynthia and her mama were your guests, Countess. I had several calls to make for various reasons and hoped to catch her before she left for any evening engagements.’

‘I believe Cynthia has not made any appointments for the morning. Why do you not call again tomorrow—shall we say at ten o’clock?’

‘Yes, very well. Perhaps Cynthia might like to go driving with me in the park?’ Brock suggested. ‘I shall be here without fail tomorrow morning.’

‘I will see that she gets the message,’ Countess Snowdon said graciously.

‘Then I shall leave you, ma’am. I apologise for disturbing you at this hour.’

‘Not at all, Major Brockley. You are very welcome to visit while Cynthia is staying here.’

Brock thanked her and took his leave. The countess had been polite, but he thought cool, a little reserved—almost as if she wished he had not come to call on her guest. Yet why she should feel that way when she knew that Cynthia was engaged to Brock was something he could not fathom.

He wondered if he might find a letter from Cynthia at his house, something that might explain the countess’s coolness. A pile of letters and notes awaited him in his parlour, but he had not yet done more than glance through the top few. He would remedy that as soon as he reached his house.

* * *

Flicking aside the sealed letters, most of which he knew were invitations to dinner or a card evening, with one or two bills from his tailor and wine merchant, Brock came at last to the letter he sought. It was inscribed to him here in Cynthia’s neat hand and smelled faintly of her perfume.

Slitting the seal with a silver paperknife, he read the few lines swiftly. Cynthia had written only to inform him that she would be staying with Countess Snowdon and Lord Armstrong for a few weeks and would be in London from the ninth of the month. Since it was now the sixteenth she had been in London for a week and must wonder why he had not responded, for she must have expected that he was in town. Perhaps the countess believed that he had deliberately ignored her letter and that was the reason for her coolness.

The urgent message that had taken Brock from town had not been something he wished to communicate to Cynthia by letter, and he knew he was guilty of neglect towards the lady he had asked to marry him. It was remiss of him and he had fully intended to beg her pardon this evening, and to arrange a meeting so that they could set the date of the wedding, yet now he discovered that his reluctance was as strong as ever.

He could smell the strong perfume from the letter on his hands and it irritated him. It had not particularly bothered him before this, but now he realised that he did not like such heavy scent. Brock preferred a light flowery fragrance with hints of rose or lavender...similar to one he had smelled earlier that day. He must ask Samantha what kind of perfume she used and purchase some for Cynthia.

Catching himself up, he frowned. No, that would not do, but he would make his preference for light perfumes known to Cynthia one of these days. Leaving his study, he went upstairs and into his dressing room, washing his hands with the soap he preferred. It had stirred his senses when he’d met Samantha Scatterby again that morning, remembering her perfume which she’d never changed and bringing back such good memories. She’d been an inspiration to Colonel Scatterby’s men, his friends and fellow officers. Brock had always thought her the most attractive woman in so many ways, not just her looks which were not exactly beauty, but somehow striking. He’d admired her friendly behaviour towards the junior officers, helping them over their shyness when they came out fresh from England—and her cheerful courage when faced with terrible accommodation and harsh conditions. A soldier’s wife had to cope with all kinds of setbacks, but she’d never complained, never caused her husband the least anxiety.

It would not do to let his thoughts wander. Brock knew that his future was set. He must speak to Cynthia the next day and arrange the date for their wedding...and now he was going to change and visit his club. He must apologise to the friends he’d let down the night he stopped to assist Rosemarie Ross.

He would not think any further about that young lady’s affairs. There would be time enough to visit her uncle and aunt once he’d made his peace with Cynthia.

Chapter Five

‘Have you everything you need, my dear?’ Samantha paused to look about the pretty bedchamber before leaving her guest to retire for the evening. ‘If there should be anything you need, Rosemarie, please ring and my housekeeper will come—or my maid. I do not employ many servants here, just enough to manage the house. My cook, housekeeper, a butler and one footman, my maid and the downstairs maids. I am comfortable enough, but not rich, so I do not live in the style you have perhaps been accustomed to.’

‘This is a lovely room and you have been so kind to me,’ Rosemarie said, and gave her a grateful smile. ‘Lending me your things... This nightgown is exquisite...’

‘You will have your own things soon,’ Samantha promised her. ‘My maid is altering a gown for you to wear tomorrow, but we shall visit my seamstress and order you a wardrobe of your own. It is my intention to introduce you to my friends and for that you must have clothes—and I shall love advising you, Rosemarie. You are so pretty and you have a lovely figure. My nightgown is far too long for you, but it will do for one night.’

‘It is very generous of you to take me in like this, Samantha.’

‘Oh, I shall enjoy it. Brock asked it of me and I would never refuse him anything within my power—but you are such a charming girl that it will be a pleasure for me to take you about, my dear. You are like the younger sister I never had.’

‘I was an only child, too,’ Rosemarie said, a wistful look in her eyes. ‘I miss Papa so much—and I wish he had not died.’

‘Yes, of course you do. I was alone and almost penniless after my father died, but his colonel married me and gave me a wonderful life following the drum. He left me this house and the money to live here, and I manage very well. It is unfortunate for you that those who should love and care for you choose to take advantage and try to take what does not belong to them.’

‘My aunt wears Mama’s jewels and does not wish to give them up, and my uncle covets the Manor—but it belongs to me, as do the mills, and I do not see why I should let them take my inheritance and force me to marry a man I dislike.’

‘I do so agree with you. I married a man I cared for, even though he was much older.’ Samantha sighed. ‘We were happy, I believe, but your papa was right. Love is the only true reason to marry. Even then it may not guarantee happiness, but then, life is never perfect, I think.’

‘I am so sorry you lost your husband,’ Rosemarie said. ‘Yet you are so young, you could surely marry again?’

‘Perhaps—if the right man were to ask,’ Samantha said and laughed softly. ‘I do not imagine he will for he loves another, so I must make the most of what I have—and that is a great deal. I am comfortable and want for nothing, and I have many friends, and that is surely enough for anyone.’

‘I want to marry the man I love,’ Rosemarie said, her face shining with earnest feeling. ‘I may be young, but I do know what I want of life and I shall never give him up whatever anyone says. Robert loves me and I love him, why should we part?’

‘Why should you?’ Samantha asked. ‘If you love this man enough and he loves you, then time is on your side. Once you are twenty-one you may do as you please, for your father’s fortune then becomes yours and you will no longer suffer at a guardian’s hands.’

‘But two years is such a long time.’

‘If you will but be patient and enjoy your life, I dare say it will go by in a trice, as it did for me. My years on the Peninsula went too swiftly for my liking.’

‘You had such an exciting life, even if it did end unhappily.’ Rosemarie pulled a face. ‘You do not know how unkind they were to me, ma’am. When I declared that I would marry only a man I loved and refused the Marquis, I was locked in my room and given no supper.’

‘That was unkind of your aunt and uncle.’

‘I do not think it was my aunt’s doing,’ Rosemarie admitted. ‘I am sure that it was my uncle who insisted that I be punished. He was determined that I should do as he ordered. I love Robert and I would hate to marry anyone other than the man I love. Can you understand me?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Samantha said. ‘Now, go to bed, my dear, and sleep well. I find that things often work out so much better than one fears.’

Closing the door on her pretty young guest, Samantha went to her own room and found her maid patiently waiting.

‘You may unhook my gown and then go to bed, Allie,’ she said, smiling at her. ‘I shall not retire immediately, but sit and read in my dressing robe.’

‘Very well, ma’am,’ Allie said and unfastened the tiny buttons at the back of her gown, assisting her to step out of it. She picked it up and walked towards the dressing room. ‘Goodnight, madam.’

‘Goodnight. Now do not spend ages in there brushing my gown, go to bed.’

Samantha sighed as the door of the dressing room closed behind her maid. Allie tended to chat as she prepared one for bed, talking about the clothes for the next day and whatever entertainment her mistress was planning. This evening, Samantha wanted to be quiet, to sit and think peacefully about what had happened that day.

First Brock’s surprising visit that afternoon, just as she’d been thinking of going for a walk in the park, and then his return with the young girl he’d rescued. She wondered if Brock knew just what he’d taken on. Rosemarie was rebellious and had a mind of her own. If she decided that she was going to run off with her soldier, nothing would prevent her—and if Brock tried to stop her, she would lead him a merry dance.

At first Samantha had thought he must have fallen for the girl, but his manner towards her, which was almost avuncular, had convinced her that it was nothing of the kind. Brock had always been chivalrous and generous to a fault. Samantha herself had been on the receiving end of many kindnesses from him when they were campaigning in Spain. He’d rescued that poor girl when she was lying close to exhaustion and now considered that he must do all in his power to help her. She could only hope that he would not lay up a lot of trouble for himself. Yet something told her that Rosemarie had a will of her own. Her uncle was wrong to try and force her into a marriage she could not tolerate, yet he had probably believed it was a good one. Samantha was not at all sure that Rosemarie had told them the whole truth—or perhaps she had merely exaggerated her wrongs a little?

Samantha wondered what Brock’s fiancée would think of the business. Would she accept it as just something that her very generous husband-to-be would do for a girl he considered vulnerable—or would she think Rosemarie a threat to her own happiness as Brock’s wife?

Brock’s wife... Samantha quelled the slight spurt of jealous indignation that flared inside her as she remembered the last time she’d seen that lady. From the way that Miss Langton had shamelessly flirted with and encouraged Lord Armstrong’s attentions that particular evening, she did not deserve her good fortune. How could she behave so if she intended to marry Brock? Samantha had wished that she might warn him of the way his intended had looked up into the eyes of her charming escort, but to say things that would come as a shock and might cause him pain would be unforgivable, and so she had held her tongue. It was not, after all, Samantha’s business to report on another lady’s behaviour, which might merely be high spirits at a ball.

Miss Langton might just have been flirting a little and meant nothing by her smiles and teasing. Having seen her only the once in Lord Armstrong’s company, Samantha knew it would be unfair to judge. It must be for Brock to discover his fiancée’s thoughts and nothing she could say or do would lessen the pain if he loved her and discovered she had played him false.

Samantha thought her a vain cold girl, but perhaps that was because she hardly knew her. She was probably very pleasant once you got past formal terms. Yet if she cared for Brock how could she come to London and he know nothing of it?

Was he in love with Cynthia Langton? They seemed to have been engaged a long time and yet no notice of the wedding had appeared in the papers. Surely, a man in love would not wait so many months. Yet perhaps that was only wishful thinking on Samantha’s part?

Did Cynthia care for him or merely the fact that he was wealthy and heir to an even larger estate? What did she know of the real man who lay beneath the surface? Did she even know of the dangers he’d faced during the war—did she care what made him the man he was?

Samantha knew a little about the secret in Brock’s past. Phipps had hinted at something and Percy had told her that Brock blamed himself for a young lady of his acquaintance being brutally attacked.

‘He was at home on leave, you see, and had his mind on other matters when the girl called on him. He told me that he welcomed her, because she was like a sister to him, gave her refreshments and talked to her about his life in the army—and then she left him to walk home through their woods. Brock never gave a thought to it, because she had walked and played in those same woods all her life in perfect safety—but this time she came to grievous harm and he never forgave himself.’

‘Oh, poor girl,’ Samantha had exclaimed. ‘Yet it was hardly Brock’s fault. How could he have known that she would be attacked?’

‘He couldn’t, but he believes that he ought to have seen her safely home—as perhaps he ought, Sam. I do not think I should have allowed a young, very pretty and innocent girl to walk more than a mile to her home alone.’

‘No, perhaps—but how could he have known it would happen?’

‘No one could have known and she ought to have been safe, but these things do happen at times and Brock feels that he is to blame.’

‘Yes, I do see.’ Samantha had known then that the young and idealistic officer would castigate himself terribly for what had happened to his friend. And now she thought she understood why he’d taken on Rosemarie’s troubles, though he did not know the girl and could not be certain that she’d been quite honest with him. It was his sense of honour, his need to exonerate himself for what had happened that day so long ago.

Samantha liked Rosemarie very much. She was a charming, friendly girl with an eagerness for life that was appealing. Rosemarie was also very determined and Samantha had no doubt that she would lie brazenly if it served her purpose to get what she wanted. Her aunt and uncle were certainly not blameless, for they surely had no right to try and force her into a marriage she did not want—but were they truly as black as Rosemarie painted them? Samantha was not sure, and she thought Brock was in much the same mind.

And if his fiancée was playing him false, or even trying to arouse his jealousy by flirting with Lord Armstrong, he would be hard put to placate her and keep his promise to Rosemarie.

A smile of sympathy touched Samantha’s lips. Poor dear Brock! It looked as if he was in for a rough ride whichever way you looked at it. At least Samantha had been able to help him by taking Rosemarie to live with her, and that was no hardship for she would enjoy having the girl in her home and introducing her to society. Rosemarie was a well brought-up young lady and would not cause her any trouble that way...but she was wilful and if she formed a plan for her marriage to her beloved Robert she might risk anything to carry it out. Samantha would just have to keep a careful eye on her to make sure that she did not cause Brock more trouble than necessary.

Yet did she have the right to interfere? The answer was that she did not. She was nothing more than an acquaintance to Brock and he was merely a man she liked and admired. He would never be anything more, because he was committed to another...and because their shared memories would place a barrier between them. A barrier that was formed of loyalty and grief and could not be lightly put aside.

* * *

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.

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