the duke’s orders had been carried out.
“I would ask that my guests raise a glass tonight as we toast my betrothal to Lady Dalinda Bretton, daughter of the Earl of Torrington.”
She felt the intense gaze of every eye in the room on her at the duke’s announcement. A multitude of emotions swirled within her. Astonishment. Relief. Excitement.
The Duke of Gilford raised his glass and everyone in the room followed suit.
“To my fiancée, Lady Dalinda.”
“Lady Dalinda,” the guests echoed and drank.
Her betrothed looked down upon her. “Are you happy, my lady?”
“This may be the happiest moment of my life,” she exclaimed.
“It gets better,” he promised. “When you hold our first child in your arms. You’ll see.”
Chapter Four
Portugal—December 1810
“Good morning, Colonel Armistead,” the soldier said. “You may go in.” He held open the flap of the tent for Rhys to enter.
Rhys was still getting used to being addressed as a colonel. The unexpected promotion had caught him by surprise but he was proud of the reputation he had built and grateful for the recognition. Selfishly, he knew it would mean writing fewer letters home to the families of his dead soldiers. That task mostly fell to officers of a lower rank. It had proven harder to do that than anything else the war demanded of him.
He glanced around as he joined the other officers gathered around a large rectangular table where a map was spread out. Every man present was capable, loyal, and had England’s best interests at heart. The fact that he, a once-lowly groom in a viscount’s stables, now stood among their midst was not lost on him. Each officer here had noble bloodlines and had been educated at the best schools. He was humbled to be among them and yet proud of the heights he had risen to in the last dozen years of military service.
As usual when colder weather occurred, a lull occurred in the fighting on the Peninsula. This assembled group would be talking of plans for the spring. The commander in charge called them to order.
“We are reaping the benefits of Wellington’s far-reaching preparations,” General Shepherd began. “Thanks to the Lines of Torres Vedras, the forts and other military defenses built to protect Lisbon have proven valuable beyond measure, stopping Marshal Masséna’s recent offensive campaign.”
Rhys had a grudging admiration for the French military commander. André Masséna, while one of the original eighteen Marshals of the Empire created by Bonaparte, had not been trained at the finest military academies as his fellow marshals had. Instead, he had soared to greatness without any formal education, rising from humble origins to become the man Bonaparte deemed the greatest name in the Little General’s military empire. Though French, Rhys thought he and Masséna had more in common than Rhys did with the men gathered inside this tent.
“Marshal Masséna’s last attempt to re-take Portugal three months ago failed, as you gentlemen know,” Shepherd continued. “We are safe behind the Lines of Torres Vedras at this point. The French will be unable to break through them. We will remain deadlocked for the next few months. Masséna’s troops will eventually find they are lacking in critical supplies. Coupled with the reinforcements we are guaranteed by the War Office in London come spring, our enemy will be forced to fall back.”
Talk turned to future campaigns to be conducted once those reinforcements arrived, with discussion of fighting at Barrosa in early March, as well as plans for attacks and counterattacks at Fuentes de Oñoro by early May. Arguments were made for and against both locations and how troops could be moved and utilized to the best advantage. After two hours, General Shepherd said he would take all their suggestions under advisement and dismissed those in attendance.
Rhys returned to his tent. Today’s strategy session was one of several he had partaken in during the last year but of those he had attended, none had worked on efforts so far into the future. He supposed the British had no choice but to hunker down behind the lines Wellington had the foresight to build and wait for fresh troops to arrive in warmer weather. Hopefully by then, the French supplies predicted to run low would cause their enemy to turn tail before new Redcoats even appeared in Portugal.
“Colonel Armistead?” a voice called and Rhys bid the soldier to enter.
“Mail for you, Colonel,” the young private said, handing over a letter.
Rhys thanked him and then settled on his cot, breaking the seal of the Earl of Torrington and opening