The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace

The Lost Love of a Soldier

Jane Lark

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Contents

Jane Lark

Dedication

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

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Author Note

The Illicit Love of a Courtesan

Chapter One

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

Jane Lark

I love writing authentic, passionate and emotional love stories. I began my first novel, a historical, when I was sixteen, but life derailed me a bit when I started suffering with Ankylosing Spondylitis, so I didn’t complete a novel until after I was thirty when I put it on my to do before I’m forty list. Now I love getting caught up in the lives and traumas of my characters, and I’m so thrilled to be giving my characters life in others’ imaginations, especially when readers tell me they’ve read the characters just as I’ve tried to portray them.

You can follow me on Twitter @JaneLark.

This is an unusual story for me. I chose to write the prequel to The Illicit Love of a Courtesan - The Lost Love of a Soldier - because the readers who love the series asked for a prequel. But when I decided to write this, I realised I had to follow elements of a real story.

I’d made the decision when I wrote The Illicit Love of a Courtesan to use the title of a real regiment who fought in the battle of Waterloo. I chose the 52nd (Oxfordshire) Regiment of Foot. So when I began this story my first task was to research the 52nd, to find out how they came to be there, and what part they played in the battle.

The 52nd returned from The Peninsular War to Britain, in the summer of 1814, two hundred years ago to the year of this novel, and therefore this became the window of opportunity for my fictional characters, Paul and Ellen, to meet.

I dedicate this story to all those who serve in the military, and the families who support them.

Chapter One

“Lady Eleanor…” A gentle almost-knock struck the door as Ellen’s maid whispered through it, as if she feared someone hearing her, even though she knocked on the servants’ entrance to Ellen’s bedchamber.

Ellen’s father, the Duke of Pembroke, would not be near the servants’ stairway.

“Pippa?”

The handle turned. The door opened.

“My Lady, a letter.” Pippa held it out as she came in. “It is from the Captain.”

“From Paul?” Ellen swept across the room, her heart clenching as she moved. Paul was the reason the whole house had slipped into tiptoeing and whispering. He’d caused her father’s recent rage, and now everyone was terrified of causing offence and becoming the next focus for her father’s anger.

If it was rude to snatch it from Pippa’s hand, then love had made Ellen rude.

Her fingers shook as she broke open the blank seal and unfolded the paper.

My love.

Holding the letter in one hand, the fingertips of her other touched his words.

My love… He’d only said those words for the first time a week ago, and yet she’d hoped to hear them for weeks, perhaps for months. Paul. An image of him dressed in his uniform crept into her head, his scarlet coat with its bright brass buttons hugging the contours of his chest. She loved the way he smiled so easily, and the way it glowed in his blue eyes. But he was a man of strength and vibrancy; life and emotion burned in his eyes too, and power cut into his features.

He was a breathing statue of Adonis; his beauty more like art than reality.

Her gaze dropped back to his words.

I’m sorry. Your father has said, no, and by now I am sure you know it. I tried Ellen, but he would not hear me out. He said I am not good enough for you. He would not even consider me. He will not have his daughter become the wife of a mere captain, no matter that I am the son of an earl. He wishes you to be a duchess. He will never consider a sixth son who must earn his living. He actually had the audacity to tell me even if I had been my brother and the heir, he would not agree to our match.

But I refuse to give you up, and I must leave for America soon. My love. I want you with me. Will you come with me without his acceptance? Will you run away with me? We can leave at night and head for Gretna; elope. You know how much I feel for you. You know I cannot bear to let you go. Remember my love burns brighter than the sun for you. You are my life, Ellen. Come. Send word via your maid if you will. My heart shall ache until I can look into your topaz eyes again.

All my love, forever and ever yours,

Paul

Tears dripped onto the paper, blurring the words. She loved him too. They’d met in June. He’d come for a house party with his father, the Earl of Craster, and his brothers. His family had come to talk politics, but Paul had only come to entertain himself.

Ellen looked up from his letter, wiping away her tears. “I will write back, Pippa. You will take the letter for me?” The maid hovered near the door watching.

When Paul had come here, even though Ellen was not officially out and allowed to socialise in high-society, her father had agreed to her joining the party.

She’d been sixteen then.

She’d eaten with the men during the day and entertained them in the evening, playing the pianoforte and singing while they stood or sat in groups and talked. But in those weeks Paul had singled her out. He’d sat next to her for several meals, and turned the music sheets for her when she’d played; his thigh brushing against hers as they’d shared a narrow stool.

She’d known her father’s intention had been for her to draw the interest of the Duke of Argyle, but she didn’t want to marry an old man. Paul had talked to her and made her laugh, whispering as she played, while the other men talked politics and struck bargains about the room.

They’d communicated through the servants since the beginning of August.

Paul had befriended a groom while he’d stayed here and the man took letters back and forth, passing them through Pippa.

Ellen’s conscience whispered as she turned to open her writing desk, which stood on a small table before the window.

The very first time she’d seen Paul, before they’d even been introduced, something had pulled her gaze to him.

Perhaps it was his scarlet coat which made him stand out among her father’s political friends, or his dark blond hair, which swept sideways across his brow, as though his fingers had combed through it. Or his blue eyes which had looked back at her. Or the dimple which dented his cheek when he’d smiled before looking away.

When they were introduced, her stomach had somersaulted, and when he’d kissed the back of her fingers her knees had weakened. It was as if she’d known him a lifetime as he’d held her gaze.

She’d told her sister, Penny, she wished to marry the soldier, not the old Duke.

She should not have written to Paul though, not without permission… Thrusting the guilt aside, she put his letter down to start her own, sitting before a blank sheet of paper.

Paul.

My father has shut me in my room. I am to stay here until I agree to marry the Duke of Argyle. You would not believe how cruel he was about you. I know he is a Duke, but I have three sisters who may marry who he wishes. I choose to marry a captain. Yes, I will elope with you. Only tell me when! Send word as quickly as you can. I do not wish to stay here another hour even.

I cannot wait to see you. Come and fetch me.

Love, love and more love.

Yours and yours always,

Ellen

Ellen blotted her words, then sealed the letter, dropping a little melted wax onto the folded paper. Then she blew on it to cool it, and waved it in the air. She finished by kissing the still warm wax, before she gave the letter to Pippa.

“Be careful, do not let anyone see you pass it to Eric.”

“I shan’t, my Lady. Did you wish me to bring you something to eat? I can fetch something from cook.”

“No, do not take the risk, Pippa. If my father’s steward or the housekeeper discovered it you would lose your post and I will never forgive myself. I can manage. It is just a little hunger.” It shall not be for long…

“Then is there anything else, my Lady?”

“Nothing, Pippa. Go.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy, then left, the servants’ door closing behind her.

Ellen walked over to a chair by the fire and looked into the flames. Her fingers curled into fists as she held on to her excitement.

It was Christmas in a week, mid-winter.

She picked up the handkerchief she was embroidering for her youngest sister, Sylvia, and sat down, then took out the needle intending to sew again, but her hand dropped as anxiety twisted and spun in her stomach. She’d felt muddled for weeks – quivery inside. She’d been confused ever since Paul had left in the summer.

Before he’d gone he’d slipped a note into a book he’d read aloud to her. It had said simply, may I write to you? She’d nodded, her heart blooming with relief that his leaving would not be an end to their friendship.

His first letter had come by mail, but her father checked the post and when he’d spotted a letter to her he’d read it and returned it to Paul, telling him not to write. There had been nothing condemning in it, no words of love, only facts and stories, but still she’d endured a severe interview, and her father hadn’t even known she’d given Paul permission to write.

Paul’s second letter, telling her about his first, had come via Eric and Pippa. It had still been merely talk, but he’d said he’d taken lodgings nearby for a week or two so he might establish a way to communicate with her. Her heart beat rapidly even at the memory of that first letter. She’d thought, surely if a man would go to such lengths, then his feelings were more than mere friendship.

A week later she’d ridden out with Penny and Eric, and met Paul briefly. They’d walked through the woods at the edge of her father’s land, near his tall red-bricked folly, and they’d all laughed. Laughter was a rare thing in her family. Only when she was with her sisters, somewhere private, did they ever find moments to laugh.

Paul had gone to London after that, but he’d continued writing. He’d mailed his letters to Eric, who’d carried them to Pippa. For weeks they’d been conversational, but in November their tone had changed. He’d spoken of the summer, and said pretty things about the colour of her eyes and hair, and the fullness of her lips.

A week ago he’d written to say he’d hired a room at a local inn and asked to meet her. She’d ridden out with Eric, and not even told Penny, fearing her father’s reaction.

She’d known what she’d wished Paul to say. Over the months since the summer she’d fallen in love with him.

Numerous hours had been wasted ever since she’d met him, lying on Penny’s bed, or her own, whispering about Paul. When Penny had met Paul, he’d smiled his charming smile and bowed in his regimental way. Penny had been enchanted, and Ellen had loved him even more for being nice to her sister.

Rebecca and Sylvia were too young to be confidents, yet she did love all her sisters, but now, if she went with Paul, she’d have to leave them behind. Loss shot through her heart like an arrow passing through it.

A tear escaped. She wiped it away.

When they’d met a week ago, Paul had taken her hands and said he loved her, that there was no other woman he wanted, or would want. He’d been ordered to go to America and wanted her with him. He’d asked for her agreement to speak to her father. She’d given it, her heart swelling and bursting with joy.

If she’d stopped to think, she would have known her father would never consider a captain of the 52nd Regiment of foot.

She did not want to marry anyone else, though, and if she wished to marry Paul, she had to leave. That was her father’s fault.

Paul was one and twenty, but she was seventeen – old enough to know her own heart but not to marry without the consent of her father, unless they went to Scotland.

~

“Captain, there is a letter waiting for you at the desk,” a maid said.

Captain Paul Harding crossed the bare boards of the inn’s entrance hall to collect it, his gaze running over the wooden racks. “My letter?” The clerk turned to pick it out from a pile.

“Thank you.” Paul turned away and headed to the taproom, his boots brushing over the beer scented sawdust spread across the floor. Looking at the maid who served there, he said. “May I have an ale?” The girl nodded and moved to pour it. After accepting the full tankard, he occupied an empty table in the corner of the room, ignoring the general conversation of the local labouring men.

His heart clenched at the sight of the familiar flow of letters forming his name.

Ellen had written them. Lady Eleanor Pembroke.

He’d fallen hard for this girl in the summer when he’d never fallen for a woman before. But Ellen was uncommonly beautiful. Her hair was raven black, and her skin like porcelain, while her eyes, which shone bright as she spoke, were the palest most striking blue he’d ever seen in a woman. She’d captured his attention in the summer, like a siren.

Perhaps he’d been at war too long and now he just wished for peace and beauty to surround him, to shut out the bitter memories and images of blood and corpses strewn across fields. Who knew? But he’d not wanted to leave this girl behind in August, and now he had to go back to war he did not wish to leave her in England. He craved this girl, as he’d craved water after hours of fighting, dry mouthed, thirsty and heart-sore.

She was young. But if he waited someone else would snap her up by the time he returned. To keep such a beauty, he had to take her with him. The girl could keep him sane, when all about him was brutality and madness.

He’d spent the last three years watching the few men who had their wives travelling with them, following the drum. It was not a pleasure filled life, but at night they’d had each other, before and after a battle.

His choice had been the comfort of a camp whore or the camaraderie of jaded war beleaguered men.

Not that he did not like his men; they’d survived too much together. But there were times a man wanted a woman, and there were times only one woman would do.

He wanted solace, someone to take to bed and escape war with – someone who would help him shut out the visions of the death he’d left behind.

Of course more fool his heart – picking the daughter of a duke.

He’d held little expectation Pembroke would welcome his proposal, but Paul had known he had to try to do things properly.

God. His father would go mad when he heard of this. It would set Pembroke against him for years, when his father sought a political alliance. But self-sacrifice be damned. He’d given his life to society. Now he’d discovered something he wanted more than others’ good opinion. Ellen.

He’d had little to do with his father though anyway, since he’d gone to war. His father had paid for his commission, and then his duty had been done. He’d ensured his sixth son had an independent living.

At first Paul had kept in contact with them, but war was not a thing to write of, he’d grown distant from his family now. In the summer when he’d been with them at Pembroke’s, he’d had little conversation to share with them. He was not interested in politics, and they would not have been interested in his tales of survival and death.

He cracked open the seal on her letter and read it quickly, drinking his ale as he did. She’d said, yes. Not that he’d doubted she would, he’d known since the summer the girl was attached to him. But before he’d felt guilty. Now he did not. Argyle? God, her father was a bastard. Paul would be rescuing her from a life of hell.

Her father, and his, could go hang. This girl was meant for him, and he was right for her. He needed her too much.

He couldn’t remember the point attraction had become love. At some point between catching her staring at him across the room the first day he’d arrived at Pembroke Place and hearing her sing as he sat beside her turning the pages of her music, while her thigh brushed against his through a thin layer of muslin, her cotton petticoats and his pantaloons.

Any day soon this girl would be his, and she may have to learn how to endure the hardship of an army camp, but regardless he would make sure she never regretted eloping. Determination to make her happy gripped in his gut, and determination to love the girl so she’d never feel she lacked a thing.

Setting his empty tankard sharply back on the beer stained table, he rose and returned to the clerk’s desk. “When may I hire a yellow bounder? I need a fast carriage.”

“I can find out for you, Captain. Are you dining? If so I’ll see what is free while you eat.”

“Yes, I’ll dine.” Paul turned away and returned to the taproom. Not that he was hungry. His stomach had been tied up in knots for more than a week. Ever since he’d received his orders to sail and decided to come back and get Ellen he’d hardly been able to eat a bloody thing. He wanted this woman too much.

She’d stayed in his head since he’d left in August. She’d hovered in his dreams at night and walked with him in daydreams in the sunlit hours. She’d enchanted him, and he’d found her unfledged and ready for flight.

Thank God he’d come to entertain himself when his father and brothers had visited Pembroke’s. He could so easily have stayed away and gone to London.

But his father and hers were going to be mad as hell.

He asked for another tankard of ale and ordered the pork dish. He’d eaten enough bloody rabbit for a whole century during the Peninsular War. He would not touch the rabbit pie. It reminded him too much of the biting pain when hunger gripped inside you and you still had to march or fight. Yet he barely touched the meal, his hunger now was for a certain pale-blue-eyed, black-haired beauty.

Finding Ellen had been like finding treasure on the battle torn fields in his head. His sanity clung to her, something beautiful to remind him that everything was not ugly. She was someone to fight for. Someone to survive for…

The clerk arrived. “The day after tomorrow. Would that suit, sir?”

“Yes.” The sooner the better. Tomorrow would be torment. Now he’d made up his mind, and Ellen had agreed, he simply wished to go. But if there was no choice. “That will suit.”

“Thank you, Captain.” The man bowed.

~

Ellen’s stomach growled with hunger for the umpteenth time as she lay on her bed. She’d been confined to her room for four days, but this would be the last day… She was leaving. The thought clutched tightly in her heart. No one knew. In ten hours Paul would come to meet her.

She’d not even told Pippa, she was too terrified her father would hear it from someone if she said the words aloud.

Every detail of their escape, in Paul’s words, was safely tucked inside her bodice near her heart, pressing against her breast.

“Eleanor.”

Heavens.

“Eleanor!” The sound seeped through her bedchamber door; a deep heavy pitch that made her instantly wish to comply. Obedience had carved its mark into her soul – and yet she was about to disobey. Where on earth would her courage come from?

“Father?” The key turned in the lock on the outside and Ellen scurried off the bed.

When the door opened she stood by the bedpost, her hands gripped before her waist, her back rigid and chin high, but her eyes downturned. It felt as though she was one of Paul’s soldiers on parade when she faced her father. She did not feel like his flesh and blood.

“Your Grace.” She lowered in a deep curtsy sinking as far as she was able, in the hope he would think her penitent and be kinder. She did not look up to meet his gaze in case it roused his anger. But she needn’t even look at her father to know when he was displeased; displeasure hung in the air around him without him saying a word. Yet he never showed his anger physically, apart from barking orders and offering condemning dismissals.

Those cutting words and his exclusion were enough punishment though. He never looked at her as if he cared, never smiled…

What I am planning will horrify him …

Her father’s fingers encouraged her to rise, with a beckoning gesture.

“Papa.” She lifted her gaze to his.

Paul’s words, promising faithfulness, love and protection, pressed against her bosom as she took a deeper breath. A blush crept across her skin. She feared even the blush might give her away.

Compared to her father, Paul was water to stone, something moving and living.

Vibrancy and approachability – warmth – emanated from Paul.

Her father hid beneath coldness and disdain. If there was any warmth in his soul she’d never been able to see it. He most often communicated in a series of bitter glares rather than words.

Yet Paul had experienced awful things. Death. Illness. He had cause to be bitter. He’d seen friends die, and killed others for the sake of freedom in Europe. He never spoke of it though, even when she’d asked. He always spoke of good things. But she supposed his months in England were months to forget the Peninsular War.

“Well? Have you thought about your behaviour, Eleanor?”

Paul’s letter was warm against her heated breast. Yes, she had thought, and she had made a choice – to leave. “Yes, Papa.”

Until this summer she’d thought her father was unaware of his daughters, they’d grown up in the hands of servants, with a daily visit from her mother. But last year she’d reached a marriageable age, and now he saw her – but only as a bargaining tool. He wished her to marry to secure a political alliance.

“And are you sorry?”

Ellen’s gaze dropped to his shoes. She felt no regret. “Yes, Papa.”

“You will take Argyle?”

Ellen took a breath longing for courage. She did not feel able to lie to that extent.

“Eleanor?”

Looking up, she faced his stern condemning glare. His expression was as unreadable as marble. “I cannot, Papa. I do not wish to marry His Grace.” Her father had a way of making other people seem small and insignificant – incapable. “Papa?” Do you love me? Will you miss me?

“You do not have a choice, Eleanor. You will do your duty.”

His gaze held her at a distance, blunt and cold.