You are cordially invited to the weddings of Lord Ratliffe’s three daughters as they marry their courageous heroes
A captain, a surgeon in the Royal Navy and a
Royal Marine prove true husband material in this stirring Regency trilogy from Carla Kelly
MARRYING THE CAPTAIN
THE SURGEON’S LADY MARRYING THE ROYAL MARINE
Praise for Carla Kelly, recipient of a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews and winner of two RITA® Awards
‘A powerful and wonderfully perceptive author.’
—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney
‘Kelly has the rare ability to create realistic
yet sympathetic characters that linger in the mind. One of the most respected … Regency writers.’ —Library Journal
‘Carla Kelly is always a joy to read.’
—RT Book Reviews
‘Ms Kelly writes with a rich flavour that
adds great depth of emotion to all her characterisations.’ —RT Book Reviews
About the Author
CARLA KELLY has been writing award-winning novels for years—stories set in the British Isles, Spain, and army garrisons during the Indian Wars. Her speciality in the Regency genre is writing about ordinary people, not just lords and ladies. Carla has worked as a university professor, a ranger in the National Park Service, and recently as a staff writer and columnist for a small daily newspaper in Valley City, North Dakota. Her husband is director of theatre at Valley City State University. She has five interesting children, a fondness for cowboy songs, and too many box elder beetles in the autumn.
Novels by the same author:
BEAU CRUSOE CHRISTMAS PROMISE
(part of Regency Christmas Gifts anthology)
MARRYING THE CAPTAIN*
THE SURGEON’S LADY*
*linked by character
MARRYING THE ROYAL MARINE features
characters you will have met in MARRYING THE CAPTAIN and THE SURGEON’S LADY
Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Marrying the
Royal Marine
Carla Kelly
To Lynn and Bob Turner, former U.S. Marines.
Semper Fi to you both.
Prologue
Stonehouse Royal Marine Barracks,
Third Division, Plymouth—May 1812
Black leather stock in hand, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junot, Royal Marine, stared into his mirror and decided his father was right: he was lonely.
Maybe early symptoms were the little drawings that deckled Hugh’s memorandum tablet during endless meetings in the conference room at Marine Barracks. As Colonel Commandant Lord Villiers covered item after item in his stringent style, Hugh had started drawing a little lady peeking around the edge of her bonnet. During one particularly dull budget meeting, he drew a whole file of them down the side of the page.
Hugh gazed more thoughtfully into the mirror, not bothered by his reflection—he knew his height, posture, curly brown hair, and nicely chiselled lips met the demands of any recruiting poster—but by the humbling knowledge that his father still knew him best.
He had written to his father, describing his restlessness and his dissatisfaction with the perils of promotion. While flattering, the promotion had bumped him off a ship of the line and into an office. I know I should appreciate this promotion, he had written, but, Da, I am out of sorts. I’m not sure what I want. I’m sour and discontented. Any advice would be appreciated. Your dutiful, if disgruntled, son.
A week later, he had read Da’s reply over breakfast. He read it once and laughed; he read it again and pushed back his chair, thoughtful. He sat there longer than he should have, touched that his father had probably hit on the matter: he was lonely.
Damn this war, he had thought then. The words were plainspoken as Da was plainspoken: My dear son, I wrote a similar letter to your grandfather once, before I met your mother, God rest her soul. Son, can ye find a wife?
‘That takes more time than I have, Da,’ he had said out loud, but Da was probably right. Lately, when he attended the Presbyterian church in Devonport, he found himself paying less attention to the sermon and more attention to husbands, wives, and children sitting in the pews around him. He found himself envying both the comfortable looks of the couples married longest, and the shy hand-holdings and smouldering glances of the newly married. He tried to imagine the pleasure of marrying and rearing children, and found that he could not. War had ruined him; perhaps Da wasn’t aware of that.
It was food for thought this May morning, and he chewed on it as he took advantage of a welcome hiatus from a meeting—the Colonel Commandant’s gout was dictating a start one hour later than usual—and took himself to Stonehouse Naval Hospital. He had heard the jetty bell clanging late last night, and knew there would be wounded Marines to visit.
The air was crisp and cool, but threatening summer when he arrived at Block Four, where his friend Owen Brackett worked his surgeon’s magic on the quick and nearly dead. He found Owen on the second floor.
The surgeon turned to Hugh with a tired smile. ‘Did the jetty bell wake you?’
Hugh nodded. ‘Any Marines?’
‘Aye. If you have a mind to visit, come with me.’
Hugh followed Brackett down the stairs into another ward. With an inward sigh, he noted screens around several beds.
‘There was a cutter returning from Surgeon Brittle’s satellite hospital in Oporto. The cutter was stopped at sea by a frigate with some nasty cases to transfer,’ Owen said. ‘Seems there was a landing attempted farther
