Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant

Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant
Helen Dickson

A Dangerous Mission, a Passionate Past…Nathan Rochefort has never understood why his fiancée Lucy Lane broke off their engagement. But now, faced with a treacherous mission, he needs her skills more than ever…Lucy has put her handsome officer and his betrayal firmly behind her – until Nathan explodes back into her life, a fierce reminder of all the hopes and dreams she once held dear.In the depths of the Portuguese mountains Lucy and Nathan succumb to the intensity of their feelings, little realising that the consequences of one stolen night will link them together – for always.

Lucy’s whole body began to tremble as his lips descended to hers, and she sought to forestall what her heart knew was inevitable by reasoning with him.

‘This isn’t what we planned,’ she whispered, shuddering as his lips trailed a hot path across her cheek to seek her ear. ‘You promised …’

He smothered what she had been about to say with his mouth, kissing her long and deep until Lucy shivered with the waves of tension shooting through her. The instant he felt her trembling response his arm tightened, supporting her.

‘Don’t worry, Lucy,’ he murmured huskily. ‘I’ll stop whenever you tell me to.’

Imprisoned by his protective embrace, reassured by his promise and seduced by his mouth and caressing hands, which had found their way under her shirt to bare flesh, Lucy clung to him, sliding slowly into a dark abyss of desire.

Author Note (#ulink_595e5ca9-9691-5752-a24c-20aaf61649a7)

I read numerous books across all genres. I write Historical Romance and I am never not writing.

Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant is set in the Regency period, a time when people lived through one of the most romantic and turbulent ages of British history. Of course you can’t write about the Regency period without the Peninsular campaign popping up somewhere. When I began writing this book I knew very little about it, but what I did know was that novels about that time must have conflict. I wanted to write a story that touched on the campaign but without the battles, for the conflict to be between my two main characters, Lucy and Nathan. It was for this reason that I chose Portugal as a backdrop, when the country was relatively quiet and the battles were being fought over the border in Spain.

Portugal is a world away from Lucy’s life as an actress on the London stage, but when her old love, Nathan Rochefort, a spy in the British intelligence, reappears in her life and asks her to accompany him on an assignment—to rescue a woman and her child being held for ransom by rebels in the mountains in Portugal—being hounded by creditors and tempted by the money Nathan is offering, Lucy agrees to go with him. It’s a rocky road they travel as they make their way into the Sierras, but then the road to true love is never easy.

Lucy Lane and

the Lieutenant

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

HELEN DICKSON was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Contents

Cover (#ubb93f374-fef9-5a93-935e-2d5ea41e2f72)

Excerpt (#u60bb7d43-329f-538f-87dd-612b74bf5469)

Author Note (#u5c6970b4-8de7-5ed5-abc2-c0ca33dda67a)

Title Page (#ub5544785-549e-504b-b382-b8c8ce6b3e97)

About the Author (#ube1964bc-71f0-57ab-8352-f2580dd16c94)

Chapter One (#udb06437e-1818-5de3-960d-530b75440ced)

Chapter Two (#u914458c4-2485-5c9d-9f11-d04504b7ec91)

Chapter Three (#u7bd099f9-60c8-595b-8160-a63773f7f2cc)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_64c086a1-723f-5a6c-a9b2-a184a5456b95)

1812

The elegant, dignified creature who made her way down the stairs was the very epitome of poise and grace, beautiful and refined. Her gown was magnificent, creamy pale gold satin with tight elbow-length sleeves and a low heart-shaped bodice adorned with delicate golden-white lace. Her maid Polly—a nineteen-year-old redhead who fussed over her like a mother hen, seeing that she got the proper rest, the proper food and all the services suitable to a lady of the theatre—had stacked her hair on top of her head in glossy chestnut curls, leaving three long fat ringlets to dangle down between her shoulder blades.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs Jack was there to take her hand. ‘Happy birthday, Lucy. You look adorable,’ he said, raising her fingers to his lips.

The startling green eyes sprinkled with gold that glinted from under black eyelashes sparkled and the lovely mouth curled with the suggestion of a smile. ‘Thank you, Jack,’ she answered coolly, wishing she didn’t have to attend this party being held in her own house, a small but charming establishment in Leicester Fields. ‘I can’t help thinking all this is a little over the top and premature. I’m beginning to think it would have been more appropriate to celebrate my gaining the part to play Portia when they see how well I perform the role. The cost of all this has practically ruined me.’

‘It isn’t just about that. It is your birthday, darling,’ Jack purred, ‘though how you can be twenty-four when you look much younger defies logic.’

‘And you always were a wretched liar,’ Lucy remarked, laughing softly.

‘You are growing older and wiser, Lucy, I grant you—and more beautiful. Maturity becomes you. Now come along,’ he said, drawing her hand through the crook of his arm. ‘Everyone is waiting for you.’

There was a rousing burst of applause as they entered the tastefully furnished drawing room. Although the house was small, the drawing room was large and airy with windows looking out over a small flower-filled garden. Decorated in shades of white, pale green and gold, with a lovely pearl-grey carpet on the floor, it was an ideal place for entertaining and roomy enough to accommodate several people. A buffet table had been set up, offering a lavish array of food.

They were immediately surrounded and separated, and Lucy found herself being ever so vivacious and charming to a host of actors, writers, poets, romantics and wistful dreamers and a pack of persistent journalists from Fleet Street who bombarded her with questions and compliments. The company would no doubt become rowdier as the evening wore on and more liquor was consumed.

Lucy was one of those lucky people who was hopelessly in love with the very activity from which she made her living and, since her aunt Dora’s savings were now depleted, enabled her to keep the elderly lady in her small but comfortable accommodation. But not for much longer if her finances didn’t improve.

In the theatre nothing was certain and the thought that she might sink into penury was a constant worry for her. The past few years had been a struggle as she sought to achieve some success in the world of theatre—a success that would mean relief from the crushing weight of bills that hounded her daily. Aunt Dora had suggested that she give up her rented house and move in with her, halving the bills, and Lucy knew the day was fast approaching when she might have no alternative. But she had lived with her aunt for most of her life and her independence, which she cherished, had been hard won.

At four and twenty and unmarried, Lucy had been employed as an actress since she was fourteen. Almost a lifetime ago, she reflected somewhat ironically. To play Portia in Shakespeare’s TheMerchant of Venice would be her crowning glory. It was a dream she’d nursed since embarking on her career. Opening night was four weeks away. She was terribly excited, but she had much to do before the production took to the stage.

Jack handed her a glass of much-needed champagne. Looking handsome in black-and-white evening attire with an ivory-silk waistcoat, eyelids drooping lethargically over his sleepy brown eyes, his light brown hair neatly brushed, he looked particularly attractive.

‘Thank you for rescuing me, Jack. Those journalists certainly want their pound of flesh—if you’ll pardon the pun,’ she jokingly remarked with reference to Shylock in The Merchant of Venice.