Isabelle Goddard - The Major's Guarded Heart

He was acutely aware of her warm body sitting snug beside him and of the slightest trace of jasmine filling the air.

There was no space in his life for a woman—for any woman. From a young age he had steered clear of entanglement despite others’ best efforts, and he was not about to let a girl he had met by chance destroy his peace of mind.

She had given him no clear answer as to why she was wandering in the grounds of Chelwood and he had the uncomfortable suspicion that she had come looking for him. If so, alarm bells should be ringing very loudly. Her physical attractions were manifold, and they were dangerous. He was quite aware of that. If that was all… But he knew it was more than that—there was an ardent soul behind those deep brown eyes, and even in the small time he had been with her he’d found himself tumbling towards its bright sun.

The Major’s Guarded Heart

Isabelle Goddard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISABELLE GODDARDwas born into an army family and spent her childhood moving around the UK and abroad. Unsurprisingly it gave her itchy feet, and in her twenties she escaped from an unloved secretarial career to work as cabin crew and see the world.

The arrival of marriage, children and cats meant a more settled life in the south of England, where she’s lived ever since. It also gave her the opportunity to go back to ‘school’ and eventually teach at university. Isabelle loves the nineteenth century, and grew up reading Georgette Heyer, so when she plucked up the courage to begin writing herself the novels had to be Regency romances.

Previous novels by this author:

REPROBATE LORD, RUNAWAY LADY

THE EARL PLAYS WITH FIRE

SOCIETY’S MOST SCANDALOUS RAKE

UNMASKING MISS LACEY

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Rye and many a happy hour spent there

Contents

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 One

Sussex—Autumn 1813

‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live even though he dies.’

Lizzie tried to arrange herself more comfortably on the hard pew. She had never attended a funeral before and it was proving a sombre affair. She’d hoped for a large congregation and her wish had certainly been granted—the church was packed to overflowing. But the gathering of the fashionable that she’d envisaged had not materialised. Her eyes travelled over the crowded rows as the vicar continued to intone the burial service. Not one bonnet worth a second glance, she thought, then chided herself for her flippancy. She had never met Sir Lucien Delacourt but it seemed the whole of Rye had turned out to mourn his sudden passing. It was a measure of her dawdling existence that she had looked forward to this event. Mrs Croft was kind enough but in the three weeks Lizzie had been at Brede House there had been few visitors under the age of sixty, and her days had been filled with a wearisome round of fetching and carrying.

A flutter of white handkerchiefs amid the unrelieved black of the congregation reinforced the sadness of the occasion. Adding to the gloom was the church itself for it was vast and beneath its dark and lofty beams, even such a large gathering as this appeared puny. Stained glass paraded along two entire walls of the building, but on a day of gathering cloud the images seemed flat and opaque. Only the flowers, vase after vase of them filling the altar steps, breathed light. But they were lilies with a perfume so intense that Lizzie began to feel nauseous. And though she tried hard to stop herself fidgeting, the bonnet ribbons tickling her chin were becoming more unbearable with the passing of each minute. She was as anxious now to be gone from the church as she had been earlier to trip across its threshhold. Her restlessness drew a sharp glance from Mrs Croft: the dead man had been a great friend, Lizzie knew, and the old lady was finding this day difficult.

‘My father, Lucien Delacourt, was once a soldier—brave, honest and true—and these were the qualities he made his own throughout his life.’

Lizzie was startled. A new voice had succeeded the vicar’s and it was electrifying. Tender but strong, as though honey had coated steel with a sweet warmth. It cut through Lizzie’s irritation and compelled her bolt upright. Her eyes were drawn to the lectern and remained fixed there. A man she had never before seen had begun to read the eulogy. Her heart gave a strange little jump as she drank him in. He stood tall and straight, his dark clothing fitting him with a military precision, his face lean and tanned, as though he had spent most of his life out of doors. He was surely a soldier. She watched his hands as he read—strong and steady even at a moment of great emotion. Only his hair flew in the face of such determined restraint, abundant and gleaming, challenging the dreariness of the place and the day. Even the dim lighting could not suppress its bright glory, catching at highlights and dancing them in the air, until it seemed the man’s head was circled by a veritable halo. Lizzie sat mesmerised as he spoke lovingly of the father he had known. The words themselves hardly registered, it was the music of his voice that caught at her, the power of his presence that kept her still and breathless.

* * *

The service was over and she forced herself to muster all the patience at her command while Mrs Croft slowly checked the contents of her reticule and began a search for a mislaid umbrella. Hurry up, hurry up, Lizzie pleaded inwardly, he may be gone by the time we get to the door. But he had not. A straggle of parishioners had lingered behind to offer their condolences and Sir Lucien Delacourt’s son had a word for every one of them. While they waited in line, the clouds overhead began to mass into a thunderous blanket. It was doubtful they would make it out of the churchyard, she thought, yet alone reach Brede House before the coming cloudburst, but she was sure it would be worth the inevitable drenching.

At last the final parishioner had said his final word and the young man was clasping her employer by the hand.

‘Dear Mrs Croft, my grateful thanks for coming out on such a day.’

His voice was as beautiful as when he’d spoken from the church lectern, and it was not just his voice that was beautiful. He seemed even taller now, more upright, more hardened. Lizzie liked what she saw and, from the shelter of the laurel hedge, unashamedly looked her fill.

‘How could I not come, Justin? Your father was a dear friend, a very dear friend. And to lose him so swiftly. I cannot believe he is no longer here with us.’ Henrietta Croft dabbed her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief.

‘Nor I.’ He squeezed her hands warmly, but his lips compressed into a thin, uncompromising line. ‘I had no idea how frail he had become.’

‘He has not been well for some time,’ Mrs Croft conceded, ‘but the heart to fail! None of us expected that.’

‘I should have been here, seen what was happening...’ His eyes seemed to wander to a distant horizon and there was a bleakness in their depths. They were green—or were they grey? Lizzie wondered. They held a curious light, ever changing like the sea, and they spoke of restlessness, of constant motion. ‘I should have realised how vulnerable he was.’

‘You must not blame yourself, Justin—you have been fighting for King and country, and very bravely by all accounts. It is what your father would have wanted. And he has left you problems enough, I don’t doubt. The estate must be in a sorry mess.’