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      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.