The Officer and the Lady. Dorothy Elbury
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Imogen stopped and turned to face him, a soft, warm glow lighting up her eyes.
Looking down at her eager expression, Beresford felt his heart seem to skip a number of beats, and it occurred to him that at this moment there was nothing in the world that he would not do to keep that ardent look on her face. He was then obliged to remind himself of the vow he had made less than twenty-four hours previously, and as he did so he felt a sudden lowering of spirits—for it was now becoming quite obvious to him that every minute he spent in Imogen’s company was going to place him in serious danger of breaking that vow, and it was absolutely imperative that he should not do so.
To become involved in a casual affair with Imogen Priestley was totally out of the question, and any suggestion of a more lasting attachment, highly compelling though that thought might be, was even more impossible to contemplate.
DOROTHY ELBURY
lives in a quiet English village in Lincolnshire, an ideal atmosphere for writing her historical novels. She and her husband have been married (it was love at first sight, of course!) for forty-five years, and they have three children and four grandchildren. Her hobbies include visiting museums and historic houses, and handicrafts of various kinds.
The Officer and the Lady
Dorothy Elbury
MILLS & BOON
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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 Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter One
August 1816
A s the two carriages reached the brow of the hill, the driver of the first, having heard a sharp rap from within, brought his team swiftly to a halt and cocked his ear to await further instructions from his passengers.
‘Well, here it is, David,’ said Matt Beresford, as he lowered the window and, with a broad sweep of his hand, indicated to his companion the extent of his late father’s property. ‘Thornfield—I suppose you might call it my “ancestral home”—for what it is worth!’
David Seymour gave a wry smile. His friend’s sarcastic tone had not failed to register.
‘Still not really made up your mind, have you?’ he observed.
Beresford shrugged. ‘As I recollect, I hardly seem to have been given a great deal of choice in the matter.’
Leaning forward, he opened the door, leapt lightly out of the carriage and motioned to the driver. ‘Wait here for about ten minutes, then carry on—my guess is that you will find the house gates about half a mile further up the road.’
Turning to Seymour once more, he said, ‘I noticed a door in the wall further back—I have a mind to try and get into the park and see what sort of state it’s in. You go on and I will meet you at the front of the house.’
With a resigned sigh, his companion watched him striding back down the lane. He had been acquainted with Beresford for some nine years now, ever since they had both set sail for India under the aegis of Seymour’s father who had, at that time, been a Resident District Commissioner with the British East India Trading Company. With Colonel Seymour’s help and support both young men had carved out very successful careers for themselves within the company and might possibly have remained in Hyderabad for the foreseeable future had it not been for the urgent and totally unexpected summons that Beresford had received from his estranged father’s solicitor some six months earlier.
Over the years, Seymour had managed, partly from the occasional conversation with his friend, but mostly from local gossip, to glean a good deal of Beresford’s early history. He was aware that Matt’s father, Sir Matthew Beresford, who at that time had held the office of Governor of Madras, had been so racked with grief at the death in childbirth of his beloved young wife, that he had instantly rejected his newborn son, having chosen to lay the full blame for the unfortunate lady’s demise upon the infant’s innocent head.
Accompanied only by a returning Company junior and a hastily acquired wetnurse, the child had been bundled on to the first available East Indiaman to sail for the home country, where he had been abandoned into the care of his maternal grandparents. Although Sir Matthew had, through legal channels, arranged adequate financial provision for his son’s upkeep and education, these ageing relatives had been obliged, forthwith, to entrust their grandson’s welfare to the hands of a succession of nursery maids and colourless governesses. Consequently, the young Beresford might have led a cheerless and somewhat prosaic upbringing had not an acquaintance of his grandfather chanced to recommend the services of an excellent, if rather avant-garde, tutor, one Thomas Hopkirk.
In addition to making sure that his young pupil was furnished with a wide and varied education, this highly enlightened academic had taken it upon himself to see that the boy was equipped with all the necessary sporting skills that a gentleman of his station might be likely to require. The very fact that Beresford had straightway knuckled down and made such a success of his mandatory career in India was, without doubt, due mainly to Hopkirk’s years of devoted teaching.
‘But, did you never attempt to contact your father?’ Seymour had asked in amazement, when hearing his friend’s history for the first time.
‘My grandparents tried on several occasions to win him over,’ Beresford told him. ‘However, as he seemed bent on continuing to ignore all of our communications, Grandfather finally gave up trying.’
‘But, when you yourself were older?’
‘You may be sure I did,’ said Beresford, with an emphatic nod. ‘As soon as I had completed my time at Oxford and had gained my majority, I made it my business to seek him out but, since his solicitor refused to divulge his current address, this was