The Elusive Miss Ellison

by Carolyn Miller

  He glanced at Miss Ellison. A dimple lurked near her mouth, but her profile remained steadfast. “Now Miss Ellison has the right idea. The view here is remarkable.”

  Perry grumbled something and moved away.

  Nicholas moved closer to her. “I do not think he fully appreciates such charming pastoral scenes.”

  “I did not think you would either.”

  “You might be surprised at what I find charming.”

  Her lips pressed together.

  He laughed. “Bravo, Miss Ellison. I applaud your self-control.”

  “You, my lord, are insufferable!”

  “Livvie”—Perry’s plaintive voice reached them—“come and look at the view here!”

  He glanced at her clenched hands. “But perhaps not as insufferable as some?”

  Her laughter spurted but then concluded with a sigh. “I don’t know why he had to come.”

  “No? I would have thought it obvious.”

  The color rose in her cheeks.

  “Your delightful company aside, I am sure her ladyship sent her son to chaperone her daughter.”

  “Then he should chaperone her. I don’t know why she had to wear such silly shoes for walking. She’s making everybody late.”

  “The view will still be here when everybody arrives.”

  She turned away.

  “Do not blame your friend for her mother’s ambition.”

  “I do not. Sophia is a sweet girl—”

  “With a protective parent who only desires to see her daughter well situated.”

  “I know.” Her shoulders slumped.

  “Thornton is the best of fellows, but his prospects are not as promising as some.”

  “Meaning yourself, I suppose?”

  He held his peace as her chin took on a mutinous tilt. “Money is not everything, my lord!”

  “But it tends to be to hopeful mamas.”

  She paused, lips pursed, before muttering, “Lady Milton does very little that does not suit her.”

  “Now, now, Miss Ellison. It is not very charitable of you to notice such shortcomings in others.”

  “And I must always be charitable, mustn’t I?”

  The edge in her tone caught him by surprise. He stepped closer, but her look quelled further advance.

  “I may sound uncharitable, but we hold fewer pretensions in the country, Lord Hawkesbury. Perhaps we are just more honest than those who hide who they truly are. That is yet another benefit of living in a small village; we know each other, often only too well.”

  “Benefit indeed.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Yet despite our faults, we still accept each other with affection.”

  “Really? Because from where I stand, you seem to see a lot of my faults, without showing much acceptance, much less affection.”

  “Are you saying you desire my affection?”

  His heart skipped a beat. He cleared his throat. “Let us not get carried away, Miss Ellison.” She flushed. “I would, however, appreciate at least a cease-fire in the hostilities.”

  She glanced away, controlling her temper with a visible effort.

  He took pity on her. “Perhaps I—”

  “Before you say anything, I am well aware of my own faults, sir.”

  “Like a certain propensity to leap to conclusions?”

  “You don’t need to enumerate my failings.” Her shoulders slumped. “We both know how extensive a list of my faults would be.”

  Before he could contradict, she moved away, the moaning complaints of the remaining party announced their arrival, and once again the moment for reconciliation was lost.

  LADY MILTON WAS not to be underestimated. Not content with picnics or merely promoting her daughter, she had apparently mounted a campaign to rival that of Wellington’s, devising an offensive to propel her daughter into the path of eligible men, at the expense of others.

  Nicholas realized this during a particularly insipid dinner at the Miltons’. Surprised at the few guests, he was made even more so by the absence of Sophia’s particular friend.

  He glanced across a table groaning with delicacies. “Lady Milton, could you please enlighten me? Are the Ellisons unwell?”

  She colored. “I’m sure I do not know.”

  “Mr. Ellison has a slight cold, my lord,” Sophia offered with a pretty smile. “Lavinia says he gets a trifle run down at times. Probably from all those visits they make.”

  Nicholas watched her from under hooded eyes. For all her soft prettiness, sometimes the squire’s daughter reminded him of a gilded gong Uncle Robert had brought back from his travels: although delicately inscribed with oriental decorations, the noise it produced was a harsh clang. He had always much preferred the plainer brass one, which commanded a rich resonance.

  Thornton smiled. “You are good friends with the reverend’s daughter, Miss Milton?”

  “Livvie and I have been friends since we were in leading strings.”

  “Perhaps you might help clear up a mystery about her. I wondered—”

  “A mystery?” Lady Milton interrupted, frowning. “There is no mystery as far as Lavinia is concerned. I have always found her to be remarkably, indeed, almost overly forthright.”

  Nicholas exchanged glances with Thornton over the top of his wine glass. So Lady Milton had claws …

  He leaned back in his chair, eying his hostess. “Miss Ellison is refreshingly candid.”

  “Shockingly candid, more like.” She sniffed. “I have always found her to be far too independent and unwilling to accept the merest suggestion regarding genteel behavior.”

  “Indeed.” He strove for a nonchalance he did not feel, his heart stinging as Lady Milton’s comment echoed his past words to Lavinia.

  “She treats people in such a high-handed manner! Unlike my sweet girl, here.”

  Nicholas lowered his eyelids, covertly studying the woman whose lips were loosened by a potent mix of wine and jealousy.

  The squire cleared his throat. “Come, come, Nellie. She has proved to be a good friend to our Sophy.”

  “And she seems quite a good friend to many in the village,” Nicholas murmured.

  Lady Milton’s gaze sharpened. He met her look blithely.

  “That’s right,” Sir Anthony frowned. “Lavinia is always visiting and helping the poor, taking meals to the sick in her basket.”

  “So that’s what her basket contains.” Thornton nodded. “Mystery solved.”

  “But she’s forever disappearing to goodness knows where! The number of times I’ve called at the parsonage and she’s been unavailable.”

  Nicholas bit back a smile. He understood perfectly why Lavinia would not choose to linger with Lady Milton’s barbed kindnesses.

  “I have been forced to have tea with that aunt of hers.” Lady Milton shuddered visibly. “That woman, with her letters to the newspapers, and her outlandish ideas …”

  “Well, I’m sure Lavinia’s visits to the poor must be very disagreeable, and I for one would not want to undertake them,” Sophia smiled, “but for all that, I have never once heard her complain. Livvie always has a smile and a kind word for everyone.”

  Everyone except him.

  Lady Milton sighed. “Well, I suppose I forget that sometimes. Perhaps it’s to be expected when a girl grows up motherless.” Her face settled back into its usual lines of discontent as she glanced his direction. Her mouth formed a perfect O, her cheeks deepening to scarlet. “I am sorry, my lord. I didn’t think.”

  Nicholas bit back an acidic comment and drained his wine glass.

  Thornton shot him a sympathetic glance and swiftly changed the subject. But as the talk turned to village matters, he grew uncomfortably certain of two things. Miss Ellison deserved his support, not his censure, especially as it seemed her family was one of the few who actually did anything to help the village. The other conviction held equal challenge: the decidedly lax and complacent nature of his bailiff could go on no more, which meant he would need to
spend more time here in St. Hampton Heath.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Clearing the undergrowth from the gardens proved a place of solace from the turbulence of Lavinia’s emotions. Here nobody flattered or flustered her or, worse, called her motives into question. Here she could just be.

  She knelt down, her gloved hands pulling at the ivy. No doubt her back would ache as it did every time she weeded, but that was a small price for the shrubbery being brought into something resembling her memories. She smiled to herself. Papa had been pleasantly surprised by “Albert’s” efforts this summer, his pleasure soon drifting into reminiscence as he recalled the afternoons he and Mama had spent on the little timber love seat, chatting, dreaming, so many years ago.

  She sighed as she pulled the innumerable, stubborn ivy tendrils. Papa’s cough had worsened of late, and Dr. Hanbury seemed unable to offer anything more than the suggestion he rest. Of course, Papa’s idea of rest was much like hers: unwilling to cope with the confines of a bedchamber, he preferred to read in his study until late in the night, despite protests from her and Hettie. Her eyes blurred. If the unthinkable occurred, and Papa were no longer here—

  “Ahem!”

  She gasped and glanced up to see the earl, face shadowed in the afternoon sun. “You startled me!”

  “I’m sorry, that was not my intention. My humblest apologies.”

  She pushed back her bonnet to see him more clearly. He stood tall and lean as always, but the harsh planes of his face seemed softer than before, the expression in his eyes warmer than what she recalled from that ridiculous walk three days ago.

  He waved a hand at the shambles she’d made. “Your garden design is not quite that of Capability Brown’s.”

  “So it would seem.” She returned her attention to the stubborn roots of the ivy that had plagued this stretch of the garden for years. Every single little stem must be removed and burned, else it would reappear, and this horrible process must begin again.

  “May I enquire as to why you do not employ the gardener for this task?”

  “You may.” She pulled out another weed, then another.

  “Miss Ellison”—amusement lined his voice—“why is the gardener not clearing this? Surely it’s not something for a genteel young lady to be attempting.”

  “As always I must beg to disagree—”

  “As always,” he murmured.

  “But I am not merely attempting.” She pulled out the last one before smiling up at him. “I am succeeding!”

  His lips curved, his gaze meeting hers steadily, thoughtfully, disconcertingly. “I gather this garden is another project for the indomitable Miss Ellison.”

  She leaned back on her heels and surveyed her handiwork. “One that’s needed attention for years.”

  “And as usual you are not content to sit idly by in the hopes someone else will be inspired to do something.”

  “Papa enjoyed this garden in his younger days. I want him to enjoy it again, before—” Her voice caught.

  “Your filial concern does you much credit, Miss Ellison.”

  His voice was soft, surprising her into a need to blink away tears. She moved to rise when a fawn-gloved hand appeared. “Allow me.”

  He helped her stand, but confusion at his nearness and his unlooked-for gentlemanly behavior refused her ability to look at his face. She removed her gardening gloves and saw his pristine glove now held smudges of mud.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dirty your gloves.”

  “Alas! Whatever will Edwin say?”

  She glanced up and saw his eyes were wide with tease.

  “Despite my valet’s best efforts, Miss Ellison, I am not as dandified as some may think.”

  Her cheeks heated in remembrance of her long-ago comment. To hide her embarrassment she reached to move some rose cuttings. A thorn bit into her palm. She winced.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. Only a thorn.”

  He grasped her hand and examined it closely before raising his gaze to hers. “May I?”

  She nodded, surprise rendering an inability to speak.

  He stripped off his gloves and with long, slender fingers gently kneaded the flesh. From such close proximity she could see how his hair curled behind his ears, the dark thickness of his eyelashes, smell his scent so clean and masculine and appealing …

  Her breath hitched.

  He paused. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  “N–no, my lord.”

  He smiled, continuing his tender ministrations until the thorn was released. “There.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She contrived to pull her hand away—heaven forbid he think she desired such attention—but his grip firmed, accompanied by a frown.

  “You are bleeding.” He pressed his thumb to the small red mark, his hand clasping hers gently as his intent study continued. “Such a small hand to hold so many cares.”

  Heat shivered up her arm. Her breath continued to hold in abeyance, as if one whisper might puncture the earl’s fixed concentration.

  He glanced up, gold glinting in the green depths of his eyes, his lips pulling to one side in what could only be described as a rueful smile. “It’s always best to deal with these things before infection sets in … or so my nanny used to say.”

  She fought for her voice to sound natural and not like she was still gripped by wonder. “Did your mother not attend to you as a child?”

  His lips drooped, his jaw tightened. “She did not.”

  Her heart panged for him as she searched beyond the nobleman’s arrogant polish to the lonely little boy she suddenly knew he had been. Was that why he held people so aloof?

  As if sensing her sympathy, he released her hand and stepped back.

  She swallowed in a desperate attempt to steady her thoughts, her heart. “Thank you, my lord, for your assistance.”

  “I am glad to be able to render a small service to you, even if”—his lips curved up on one side—“you still refuse to tell me why I find you and not your gardener completing this chore.”

  “I don’t refuse.”

  “No?” He raised an eyebrow.

  She smiled at the return of this characteristic action. “Albert, Hettie’s husband, takes care of the outside work, but because there’s so much garden, I help him sometimes.”

  “I see. And do your father and aunt approve?”

  “I like gardening.”

  “Yes, but do your father and aunt approve?”

  The wretched heat flooded her cheeks once more. “I fail to understand why you concern yourself with this matter.”

  “Only that you seem to delight in concerning yourself in mine. Surely what is good for the gander is also good for the goose?”

  “Are you calling me a goose?”

  “Are you calling me a gander?”

  “You—you are impossible, my lord!”

  “And you are right as always, Miss Ellison.”

  She laughed. “Now that is a sensible answer.”

  Light filled his eyes as his smile flashed. “I remain your most humble servant.”

  “Now, may I be so bold as to ask the reason for your visit? I presume it was not to retrieve a thorn?”

  “Rest assured, madam, that if I had the slightest indication you required my assistance, I would be here at your service instantaneously.”

  “You are kind. However, I think the ability to appear anywhere in an instant might sadly be beyond even a man of your vast resources. Your visit, my lord?”

  He smiled. “I understand from the housekeeper your father and aunt are not available.”

  “Aunt Patience attends a symposium in Gloucester. Papa is unwell.”

  “It is he I came to see.” He withdrew a small book from his coat pocket. “I found this small volume in my library and immediately thought of him. It is John Foxe’s Sermon of Christ Crucified,” he added almost apologetically.

  “Oh! Papa will be so pleased. John Foxe’s book of m
artyrs is an inspiration to us.”

  “I rather thought it might be.”

  “It is very thoughtful of you to be so kind to Papa. Thank you.”

  He inclined his head. “And remember, Miss Ellison, if I can assist you in any way, I would be honored.”

  “Thank you.”

  As he bowed and strode away to his horse she couldn’t help but wonder over the earl’s strange transformation—and why he’d sought her out, instead of simply giving the book to Hettie.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NICHOLAS RODE HOME in a state of bliss. Finally, he seemed to have made amends with Miss Ellison, his efforts to charm put to better use than in any ballroom. Yet he’d meant every word. Something about his neighbor drew truth from him, fired protectiveness within. And it felt good to see approval in the eyes of an intelligent young lady, someone whose wits matched his own, whose compassion for others led to surprising activities. Life with her would never be dull indeed.

  This content lasted until he caught sight of Johnson riding off to goodness knows where. His frown continued as he entered the Hall and found Giles.

  “Do you know where Johnson goes?”

  “I’m afraid not, m’lord.”

  Thornton entered the hallway. “What’s the matter, Stamford? I looked for you this morning, but you had already gone.”

  Nicholas ignored the guilt riding through his stomach. Not for nothing had he refrained from telling Thornton where he would go. Petty though it might be, he would never have been able to smooth matters with Lavinia if her captain had been along. “I need your help.”

  “Ah! I sense adventure. What can I do to assist?”

  After withdrawing to his study, Nicholas poured out his concerns about Johnson. “But I just cannot find any real evidence. The books always seem correct, and few of the tenants offer complaint except to say he’s a trifle high-handed in his demands for rents. But he says the estate never seems to have enough money to make improvements.”

  “Such as?”

  “Improvements to the tenant housing. Haven’t you heard Miss Ellison’s diatribes? She is passionate about her poor.”