“The Elusive Miss Ellison will delight the hearts of Regency romance lovers with its poetic narrative, witty verbal swordplay, strict social constructs, and intriguing touch of mystery. Carolyn Miller is a bright new voice in the Regency genre, and I look forward to reading more of her charming stories.”
—LOUISE M. GOUGE, award-winning author
“Lovers of Jane Austen will be enchanted by Carolyn Miller’s debut novel—especially readers who want to know more about the hero’s journey to adoring their Regency heroine. This beautifully written book is definitely worth reading!”
—DAWN CRANDALL, award-winning author of The Everstone Chronicles
“Carolyn Miller gives the reader a sweetly satisfying tale and a charming Regency couple worthy of Georgette Heyer herself. I hope this is just the first of many.”
—JULIANNA DEERING, author of the Drew Farthering Mysteries
“The Elusive Miss Ellison is a delightful romp. Light and enjoyable, but also rich with the theme of forgiveness. A lovely read.”
—ANGELA BREIDENBACH, Christian Authors Network president and best-selling historical romance author
“Fans of historical romance will love Carolyn Miller’s debut novel. Nicholas’s journey from proud, self-centered man to caring and devoted suitor will capture the reader’s heart as it did Lavinia’s. With just the right touch of inspiration and interesting historical detail, Carolyn transports you back to Regency England.”
—CARRIE TURANSKY, award-winning author of A Refuge at Highland Hall and Shine Like the Dawn
“In The Elusive Miss Ellison, Carolyn Miller has created a heroine who will steal your heart and a hero who is as frustrating as he is charming. With unexpected twists and turns, the story stays true to the times. The scenes in the English countryside as well as in London will capture the imagination of those who love the Regency period and win over those who are experiencing the era for the first time.”
—MARTHA ROGERS, author of the best-selling Christmas at Holly Hill and recently released Christmas at Stoney Creek
“The Elusive Miss Ellison is a wonderful blend of romance, witty banter, and Regency-era charm sure to delight readers.”
—ANGELA K COUCH, author of Mail-Order Revenge and The Scarlet Coat
“From the moment I cracked the pages I was transported to another era with a heroine as compelling as Lizzie Bennet and a Darcy-esque hero.”
—LISA RICHARDSON, author of The Peacock Throne
“Carolyn Miller’s writing style is reminiscent of Jane Austen, with a modern sense of wit and spunk. Lavinia is a spirited heroine who will leave you smiling to the very last page, and despite the initial presumption of a disinterested, battle-scarred war hero, Nicholas quickly sneaks his way into your heart. This minister’s daughter and guilt-laden earl are supported by an ensemble cast who keep you turning the pages. You’ll be swept into a story of God’s amazing grace and the slow unfolding of a love that overcomes even the greatest opposition.”
—Amber Stockton, author of more than twenty novels, including the best-selling Liberty’s Promise
The Elusive Miss Ellison
© 2017 by Carolyn Miller
Published by Kregel Publications, a division of Kregel, Inc., 2450 Oak Industrial Dr. NE, Grand Rapids, MI 49505.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in reviews.
Distribution of digital editions of this book in any format via the Internet or any other means without the publisher’s written permission or by license agreement is a violation of copyright law and is subject to substantial fines and penalties. Thank you for supporting the author’s rights by purchasing only authorized editions.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version.
The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-8254-4450-0
Printed in the United States of America
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To the Giver of the Ultimate Gift.
And to Joshua. I love you.
CHAPTER ONE
St. Hampton Heath
Gloucestershire, England
June 1813
“WHY, LIVVIE! WHATEVER are you doing?”
Lavinia Ellison placed down her gardening trowel, swiped perspiration from her brow, and smiled up at her friend. “Good morning, Sophy.”
“Oh, er, yes, good morning.” Sophia Milton’s nose wrinkled as she peered at Lavinia’s handiwork: a tall pile of weeds. “But where is Albert? Surely tending the garden is his responsibility. I know Mama would never permit me to do so, let alone without a hat—”
“Albert is tending our old Jersey. She has been rather ill lately.” She avoided the question of permission. After all, neither the preparations for Papa’s sermon nor Aunt Patience’s Sunday school lesson deserved interruption for such a minor matter.
“Oh. That’s unfortunate for you all.”
Lavinia nodded as she dusted off her skirts. Sally’s sad decline was unfortunate not just for their household, but for the poor families in the village blessed by her superior milk production. Still, God would provide. And if He didn’t, Lavinia would find a way. She pushed the twinge of worry to one side and led the way indoors, cleaning up quickly before directing her guest to a seat in the morning room. She picked up her embroidery. “So, what brings you here on this glorious sunny day?”
“Oh, Livvie! You’ll never guess who is coming tomorrow night!”
She swallowed a smile at her friend’s wide cobalt eyes. Sophia Milton was notorious for her passions. “Alas, you are correct. Do tell.”
“Father said the new earl has accepted the invitation to our musicale!”
The new earl. Lavinia’s chest tightened.
Sophia sighed. “I saw him from the window when he called on Papa yesterday. He’s ever so handsome. So tall and dark …”
Yes, but a handsome appearance counted for naught unless matched by good character and actions. She quashed her uncharitable thought, offered a polite nod, and cast her attention back to her ever-frustrating needlepoint as her visitor continued listing his charms. Why Aunt Patience insisted that Lavinia embroider was beyond comprehension. The list of accomplishments for young ladies was ridiculously long, especially when young men did not have nearly so many requirements.
After Sophia finally stopped for breath Lavinia murmured, “Your mother must be very happy.”
“Oh, yes! And Papa, too.”
But of course the squire would be pleased. The second-largest landowner in the district had a wife whose social aspirations far surpassed their sizeable income. To receive such a distinction would prove most gratifying. She frowned at the miniscule mistake she’d just made in her stitching. Why couldn’t sewing be simple and enjoyable, like music? She swallowed a sigh and glanced up.
Sophia’s smile had dimmed. “But Mother has heard he is something of a flirt, so we should be on our guard.”
“I hardly think I need be on my guard. I would think the prettiest girl in Gloucestershire should be more concerned about attracting attention.” Lavinia gazed without envy at her visitor’s artfully styled blond tresses, crimson cheeks, and fresh new muslin, overlaid with embroidered blue flowers. Lady Milton might have her shortcomings, but dressing her daughter to disadvantage was not one of them.
“Livvie, you do not seem terribly thrilled.”
“You should know by now that I am quite unwilling
to be excited about someone I have never met. But after I meet him, if indeed he does condescend to appear, I shall endeavor to seem excited for you. Will that suffice?”
Sophia laughed. “Must you always talk such nonsense?”
“I’m afraid I must, if only to balance some of the prosiness of ordinary conversation.”
The younger girl’s brows knit together. “Oh no!”
“What is it?”
“Now we know the earl shall attend, whatever shall I wear?”
SOPHIA SOON SWEPT from the house in a flutter of muslin and ecstasy, leaving Lavinia to open the window, drink in the delightful scent of the late flowering lilacs, and then exchange her embroidery for her sketchbook. As she sketched the glorious rainbow of pansies cascading down the garden’s rock wall, she thought on the Earl of Hawkesbury she had once known.
Lord Robert had been as kind as her father: generous, interested in his neighbors, seeking the well-being of his tenants and the local village of St. Hampton Heath. A truly good man. But his death two years ago had precipitated a series of family tragedies. George, his younger brother, had died of influenza within six months of inheriting the title. Less than a year later, while his younger son had been engaged in heavy fighting on the Peninsular, George’s elder son, James, had been killed in a hunting accident. Her fingers clenched. His death she could not even pretend to mourn.
A blur of tan-and-white fur leapt through the open window. Mickey barked and jumped onto her lap, as if sensing her disquietude. She hugged him close as her art pencils spilled to the floor. Perhaps Sophia and her parents were right to be excited about the district’s new addition. Lately, Hampton Hall had taken on a slightly neglected look, thanks to the bailiff’s less than stellar efforts. And the family’s prolonged absence meant the little things Lord Robert formerly noted, such as cottage roof repairs and sending baskets at Christmastime to the poor—services that made a great difference in the lives of the less fortunate—these things had been missed.
“If the new earl fulfills his obligations, he might prove a blessing, Mickey.”
He barked his agreement, wriggled away, and dashed through the open window to the tangled underbrush of the rose garden beyond. Tangled underbrush she would resume clearing this afternoon, when Papa and Aunt Patience were sure to be absent and unable to object.
She returned her attention to her sketchbook, working to capture the purple heart of a pansy, until the swish of skirts announced her aunt’s arrival. “So, little Sophia hopes to snag herself a Hawkesbury, does she?”
“I don’t believe Sophy has any such idea, although Lady Milton may.”
An appreciative twinkle lit her aunt’s deep blue eyes. Over the past fourteen years, Lavinia had learned many things from this independent, intelligent woman, yet sometimes she still found it difficult to believe that Patience West was Mama’s sister. Mama had lived up to her name. Grace had filled everything from her musical voice to her pretty mannerisms and her compassion for others. Patience’s forthright, practical ways contrasted as strongly as her dark hair differed from Mama’s—and Lavinia’s own—fairness.
“That woman would be far better off teaching her daughters useful accomplishments and knowledge rather than filling their heads with frippery and empty dreams.” Aunt Patience smoothed her severe gray dress, which matched Lavinia’s.
Lavinia gestured to the discarded needlepoint. “Useful accomplishments?”
A thin smile escaped her aunt’s lips. “One of these days, my dear girl, you will realize that not every worthwhile endeavor can be as enjoyable as writing letters to The Times.”
Memories arose of the past week’s efforts to bring solace to two poor tenant families, endeavors of far greater worth than needlepoint, and far from pleasant: The sour stench of sickness, only slightly alleviated by the aroma of the hearty beef stew she’d brought. Dark, dank cottages filled with a dense chill no fire could chase away. The sad-eyed desperation of wee children who seemed to suspect their mother might die soon. The old ache rippled across Lavinia’s soul. Tears pricked. She blinked them away. The earl simply must help.
Her aunt patted her arm. “Worthy endeavors are most often rather less than enjoyable.”
Lavinia nodded. Good deeds were not about personal pleasure but pleasing God: visiting the sick, biting one’s tongue, rooting out envy, forgiving enemies.
And allowing the past to remain buried in the churchyard.
The seventh Earl of Hawkesbury leaned back in his saddle. Fields of sun-ripened barley waved golden in the June sunshine. The scent of fresh-dug earth filled his nostrils as a light breeze ruffled nearby hedgerows. In the distance, the village of St. Hampton Heath reposed peacefully, watched over by the gray-stoned church. Such an idyllic pastoral scene, yet its peace did little to ease the tension edging his heart.
Fourteen years since that disastrous day. Fourteen years filled with study, travel, and then war. Fourteen years spent avoiding this upcoming interview. Sweat beaded his brow as it had the first time he faced cannon fire. He swiped at the moisture, disciplined his limbs to remain still and not turn his horse for home.
Midnight snorted and stamped his hoof, impatience pulling at the bit.
He patted his horse’s neck. “There, there, boy. This surely cannot be as bad as Burgos.”
The great horse nickered, as if remembering the chaotic withdrawal of allied troops from that Spanish fortress amidst rain and cold.
Nicholas’s jaw tightened. Too many good men had died or been captured in that campaign, back when he’d been plain Captain Stamford. Thank whatever gods may be for his horse whose faithfulness had brought him safely to Ciudad Rodrigo. He stroked the glossy mane with tender affection.
Midnight lowered his head, tugging at young grass.
“At least we have food now, don’t we, boy?”
Midnight’s ears flickered. No French cavalry had chased them harder than starvation, the pangs of hunger carving deeper than the bullet wound in his thigh.
No, the only thing chasing Nicholas now was his conscience.
He shook off the memories and squared his shoulders. “One can only hope this mission proves as unexceptionable as the first, eh?”
Small hope of that.
After wading through the paperwork his bailiff had prepared, his first port of call had been to visit the local squire and baronet. Sir Anthony’s delight at his impromptu appearance had been cast in the shade by his effusive invitation to some local assembly, which made him wonder how many unmarried daughters the man had. All soldierly assurance had fled, replaced by mealymouthed capitulation. This visit would be equally trying, but for very different reasons.
“Come. We best get on, before someone overhears me talking to you, questions my sanity, and insists I be sent to Bedlam.”
He tapped Midnight’s flanks and rode down the drive. They soon arrived at a modest, red-brick manor house, surrounded by oaks and fruiting trees. A servant girl was kneeling in the adjoining weed-strewn garden.
“Excuse me,” he called. “Is your master at home?”
The girl squinted up. Dirt smeared her face, her hair tucked under a monstrously ugly mobcap. He nudged Midnight closer. Her gray eyes widened and she backed away. Poor simpleton.
“There is nothing to be afraid of. He is a good horse.”
She raised a hand to shade her eyes but said nothing. Perhaps she was a mute.
“I am the seventh Earl of Hawkesbury.” How strange it felt to say so, like he was defrauding the world, just as his brother had defrauded his creditors. He swallowed bile. “Now, can you tell me if your master is within?”
The pink staining her face as he announced himself gave way to something rather less maidenly as she lifted her chin. “I cannot.”
“I beg your pardon?” Who was this chit to refuse a major’s command? To refuse an earl’s command? He put iron in his voice. “Tell me, is your master home?”
“No.”
He jerked a nod, wheeled Midnight
around, and then paused. “Wait. Do you mean to say he is not home, or do you merely defy me?”
A trace of a smile flashed across her face before her features settled into coolness. “If you are enquiring about Mr. Ellison, he is at home. As for my master, I cannot be expected to own what I do not have.”
He blinked. Perhaps he was the simpleton, after all. The most unusual servant girl picked up her basket of weeds and disappeared around the side of the house. He stared after her, until Midnight’s restless nickering recalled him to his mission. He secured his horse, rapped on the heavy wooden door, and waited. Apparently the rude maid had neglected to inform anyone of the visitor. What kind of servant was she? And what did she mean by saying she had no master?
A rattle of locks dragged him from his musings. Another servant greeted him, wide-eyed with the customary awe his rank and fashion usually merited, and ushered him inside. Nicholas was announced and led into a cluttered drawing room, lined with bookcases.
An older gentleman looked up. “Lord Hawkesbury! Welcome back.”
“Thank you.” He sat at his host’s request and studied the reverend. Deep lines creased a face topped with graying brown hair. He would have been somewhat plain save for a pair of shrewd gray eyes that gave cause to wonder just how much the older man saw.
“The village trusts you will enjoy your stay here.”
“I hope, Mr. Ellison, those are your sentiments as well.”
“Of course, sir.”
Nicholas glanced away. A pianoforte stood near the window, stacked with an untidy pile of papers. “I never had the opportunity to say how very sorry I am for the incident of years ago.”
Which was a lie. He’d had the opportunity. Uncle Robert had begged, cajoled, even threatened both of his nephews with banishment, but the pride running so deep in his mother had forbidden either of her sons to apologize.
Until now.
He steeled himself to meet his host’s justifiable recrimination—but saw compassion instead.
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