Praise for Carolyn Miller’s
Regency Brides: A Promise of Hope
“Fans of Christian Regency romances by Sarah Ladd, Sarah Eden, and Michelle Griep will adore Carolyn Miller’s books!”
DAWN CRANDALL, award-winning author of The Everstone Chronicles
“Perfect for fans of Heyer, Austen, Klassen, Ladd, and Hunter, Carolyn Miller’s series is witty, romantic, and heartwarming, with a gentle dose of faith-boldness, too. Layered characters and attention to historical detail make each book a great read!”
READING IS MY SUPERPOWER, blog, readingismysuperpower.org
“This delightful story has just the right blend of family drama, faith, romance, and redemption. Separated by a heartbreaking misunderstanding in the past, Catherine and Jon’s journey will keep you turning pages and longing for them to learn the truth. Readers who are looking for an English historical romance reminiscent of Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer will be delighted with Winning Miss Winthrop!”
CARRIE TURANSKY, award-winning author of Across the Blue and Shine Like the Dawn
“Winning Miss Winthrop is a touching, charming tale of love won and lost and won again. Carolyn Miller writes with skill and grace that brings the Regency period to vivid life.”
JULIANNA DEERING, author of the Drew Farthering Mysteries
“Carolyn Miller doesn’t disappoint with yet another engaging Regency novel that leaves you wanting more…. With impeccable accuracy, witty dialogue, and seamless integration of Christian faith, Carolyn weaves a classic tale that is sure to become a permanent addition to your collection.”
AMBER MILLER STOCKTON, best-selling author of Liberty’s Promise
“Carolyn Miller has done it again! The characters are beautifully written, the depth of emotion is exquisite, the moments of wit are pure perfection, and the romantic tension is palpable. I loved every minute of this story and hated when I had to put the book down…. If you are looking for a superior Regency-era novel that will steal your breath, break your heart, and leave you wanting more, then I say run to your nearest bookstore and purchase a copy of this book.”
THE CHRISTIAN FICTION GIRL, blog, christianfictiongirl.blog
“With exquisite dialogue, beautiful descriptions, and careful attention to detail, Carolyn Miller continues to draw her readers into a magnificent Regency world with her newest novel…. The romantic tension pings with unrequited love which still simmers beneath the surface of two wounded hearts. Winning Miss Winthrop is a beautiful journey of healing, hope, and forgiveness.”
PEPPER D. BASHAM, author of the Penned in Time and the Mitchell’s Crossroads series
“Books like Winning Miss Winthrop remind me why Jane Austen and Georgette Heyer have been longtime favorite authors of mine…. While many modern-day authors are able to dress their stories in an admirable reproduction, few are able to re-create the tone and essence of the era with the authenticity Carolyn Miller displays.”
FICTION AFICIONADO, blog, fictionaficionadoblog.wordpress.com
REGENCY BRIDES
series by CAROLYN MILLER
A LEGACY of GRACE
The Elusive Miss Ellison
The Captivating Lady Charlotte
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey
A PROMISE of HOPE
Winning Miss Winthrop
Miss Serena’s Secret
The Making of Mrs. Hale
DAUGHTERS of AYNSLEY
A Hero for Miss Hatherleigh
Underestimating Miss Cecilia
Misleading Miss Verity
The Making of Mrs. Hale
© 2018 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 978-0-8254-4535-4, print
ISBN 978-0-8254-7504-7, epub
Printed in the United States of America
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 / 5 4 3 2 1
For Michael & Maria
brother & sister-in-love
Loved by God
CHAPTER ONE
Cavendish Square, London
October 1818
JULIA HALE LIFTED a weary hand and rapped on the yellow painted door. Please let him be in. Please! Whom she murmured to she did not know. The last person to pay her any heed had only wanted payment, and when she could not offer what he wanted, he’d sought payment of a vastly different kind. Which was why she now stood here. Hoping, begging, desperate for a miracle.
To no avail.
As the door remained closed, the now familiar ball of hopelessness swelled within, pushing against her chest, pushing against her thin veneer of self-control. She should have known it was too much to ask for help from a God she scarcely believed in, who would turn His back on her now even if her faith were as deep as Jon’s. Stifling fears, she tugged at the blankets and peered at her tiny bundle. She had to do something. Perhaps God would respond to the innocent, even if He turned His back on the guilty. And this was her last hope; every other avenue had closed. All that remained were the paupers’ homes, and she’d heard what those places were like. Nothing on this earth would induce her to leave a child in such a place.
Arms aching, feeling heavier than lead, she rapped again. Please answer. Please! She had seen the lights last night. Someone was home, even if it were just the servants kept to mind the house while the Earl of Bevington attended his estates in Derbyshire. Why wouldn’t they answer?
Another fit of coughing wracked her body, sending fire through her lungs and up her throat. She placed a hand on the iron balustrade as lightheadedness swept through her again. But she’d had no opportunity to rest, and no money for medicine even if she could. When the spots cleared from her vision she peeked at the face asleep in the blankets. Thank God the babe had not caught her illness. Not yet.
She bent down to place the bundle back in the willow basket, tucked the blankets around to protect from the damp morning air. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice scratchy and raw. “I cannot help you anymore.”
Blissful ignorance was the only response, one she was growing more accustomed to as the days dragged on. How long had it been since she’d been deemed worthy of anything more than a scrap of attention? Three months? Six months? More?
She bent to press a kiss on the downy head before rapping a final time on the wooden doors. Still no answer.
With a final desperate glance at the basket, she stumbled down the marble steps, grasping the balustrade for balance. God forgive her, but she had no choice.
Guilt pressed heavily on her heart. She tugged the dark hood closer, hiding the dirty, stringy locks of fair hair of which she had once been so vain. Not that anyone would recognize her now. That girl had existed in another world, one that now often seemed more fairy story than real.
She stumbled over a broken cobblestone, refusing to look behind. That way lay regret. But she had tried, had hoped to someh
ow see this wasted life redeemed, at least in part, through her actions today. Though what lay ahead of her now she could scarcely imagine. Was she now considered a fallen woman? Or had she been regarded as such since her flight from Bath all those months ago? A blur of tears filled her vision. Foolish, foolish girl …
A street sweeper glanced at her, his lip curled in derision. She did not blame him. She looked exactly what she was: pitiful.
Somehow, she stumbled on. God help her—what would she do now? Where could she go? Who could save—
“Miss? Can I help you?”
A well-bred voice, a youthful voice. Julia peered over her shoulder, blinked. Shook her head as if she could clear the blurriness. The lady—if lady she was, dressed in a most odd ensemble—seemed to own a poise Julia had never known, yet appeared younger even than Julia.
“You came to Lord Carmichael’s house?”
The lady knew Lord Carmichael? Was she a maid? Julia swallowed. “Yes.”
“I am the viscountess.”
Julia blinked again. No.
“Please, is there some way we can help you?”
She moistened her lips before managing to rasp, “He’s married?”
“Yes.” The lady smiled, glowing with internal satisfaction, tinged with something almost like surprise, as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune.
Envy tugged within. Oh, how well Julia remembered those days.
“We’ve been away,” Lady Carmichael continued, “and only returned two days ago.”
Julia nodded, surprise filling her as the viscountess drew closer and offered a hand, helping her to her feet. What an unusual bride Henry had chosen.
Conscious she was being watched carefully, she stuttered, “I-I s-saw the lights last night and knew someone must be in. Nobody is in Berkeley Square, or Portman. I don’t know … Mama … Jon.”
Where were they? Mama almost never left town, and Jon’s business interests made his staying in London something of a necessity. Surely he hadn’t been serious about retiring to that dreary corner of Gloucestershire?
Her arm was gently clasped, and she was led back to Bevington House, away from the prying eyes of the street sweeper. Now she noticed her benefactress had bare feet, undressed hair. What an odd woman! Was she serious about being Henry’s bride? Oh, if only she could remember—
“You left your basket—oh, it’s empty.”
Julia gasped. “No! Oh, no!” What could she do? She had failed! Who could have taken—? Guilt misted her senses, and she stepped back, desperately searching for the culprit. But she had passed no one! Oh, where could he be?
“There you are!”
She swiveled back to the now opened door, stifled another gasp. Lord Henry Carmichael, dressed in a quilted dressing gown, held a white bundle and a bemused expression. His white teeth flashed as he smiled at the lady dressed equally dishabille. “Serena, can you tell me why we have a baby on our front step?”
“A baby?”
Serena? A memory flashed. A black-clad, cool-eyed schoolgirl. Henry—her Henry—had married her? The lady drew closer, her expression now even more alive with interest, alert with piercing intent.
She swallowed, heart thudding, as the viscountess’s breath caught, her expression clearing into comprehension.
“Julia?”
Spain
Major Thomas Hale shifted, the perpetual ache from the hatch of welts on his back easing a mite as the pressure released. He drew in a breath and opened his eyes. The nightmare remained.
A dark, dank cell with barred window. A sloshing sound. A screech of laughter. Babble in a foreign tongue. He glanced at the other occupants. Grimy and unkempt as he, no doubt wishing they had never agreed to be ensnared by fortune’s fickle fancy, and thus be caught in this dire situation for—how many months now? He peered at the wall, counted the strokes denoting the days as if he didn’t already know, as if—by some miracle—he might have miscalculated, and this episode not be near as severe as he knew it to be. Five months. Five months!
Pain rippled through his chest. He’d been absent for almost half a year. A mission that should have taken a quarter of that time had been thwarted by lies and loose lips. A rumble of indignation churned within. How could the Crown abandon them, leaving them to rot? He peered across at young Desmond, whose right foot held all the signs of gangrene, the black decay creeping a little farther each day up his leg. How much longer did the lad have? Weeks? Days?
A creeping sound, like the slither of rats, slid through the room. He swallowed the bile. Muttered a curse. Wished for a boot to throw at the perpetrator. Settled for a barked utterance, not dissimilar to that which he used to bark at men a lifetime ago when his majority meant something.
The creature scuttled away. The room lapsed into silence. Desmond’s half-crazed moanings had ceased. Benson wouldn’t speak. Smith and Harrow, the two men with whom he’d communicated the most, had retreated into despondency. Fairley had been taken away two days ago. Thomas shivered. He dared not think on his fate.
How could a simple desire for gold have led them to utter misery? It was not as though they had engaged in anything illegal. The Crown itself had endorsed such activity. And it wasn’t as if he’d been motivated by greed. He swallowed regrets, focused on the truth that he’d had to do something; his prize money was near all spent trying to establish themselves respectably enough so she did not feel a whit of deprivation. His fingers clenched. If only he’d planned things better, if he had not listened, had not succumbed—
“Señor.”
Thomas blinked, refocusing, his gaze cutting through the dimness to the creature at the door.
She smiled. “I weesh you would not reject me.” She tipped forward, her soiled garments doing little to constrain her buxom figure. “Just a leetle talk, eh?”
He swallowed. Magdalena might be just another ploy used by the guard to get them to admit to their supposed crimes, but she was certainly the least unattractive one.
“You were not so cold last time, señor,” she continued provocatively, in that lilting, wheedling voice.
Guilt speared him. He closed his eyes. Forgive me, he cried within, turning away from temptation. God forgive him, but he’d stupidly thought he could learn something, possibly even learn a means of escape.
He’d learned something, all right. Learned that even the comeliest wench in Spain could be responsible for guilt every bit as lethal as that inflicted by thoughts of his wife.
His wife. Oh God, his wife. As the instrument of torture sauntered away with a lewd comment and a ribald laugh, his thoughts clattered. What was she doing now? How could she have borne so much time apart? Had she given up on him? Probably. Wretchedness echoed within. Still, she at least had options. She could always return to her family, even if he would stake his life that they’d take care never to receive him, should he ever return to the land of the living. He hoped, regardless of what happened, that his Jewel would not forsake him completely.
“H-Hale?”
A whimpering sound drew his attention to the prone figure nearby. “Desmond?”
The boy gasped, before emitting a series of piercing shrieks. “Get it off! Get it off! It’s eating me!”
Thomas stumbled from the pallet, hurrying to the boy’s side. A large rodent was indeed nibbling at the boy’s foot. He grasped the furry pelt and slammed it at the wall where it spattered with a sickening, satisfying thud.
The boy’s eyes turned to him, his teeth chattering. “I c-cannot do this anymore. Please, please make this stop.”
His heart wrenched at the hopelessness he saw in the boy’s eyes, hopelessness reflected in his heart. “I wish I could. But we have told them all we know.”
A tremor ran up the boy’s frame. “They will never believe us.” He groaned, the low sound soon changing to an ear-splitting shriek.
“Desmond, calm yourself.” If the lad weren’t injured he’d slap him.
“I want to die! I want to die! I want to—”
“You there!” A heavily accented voice growled from the door. “Shut up!”
“I want to die! I want to die! I want to die!”
Thomas shook him fiercely. “Desmond, you must be quiet, else they will—”
A heavy boot knocked his feet from under him, and he crashed to the floor, his jaw cracking on the refuse-smeared stones. He tried to push to his feet, but a musket butt smashed against his temple, felling him once more.
Panic reared within as the guards dragged Desmond to the door. “Leave him! He’s just a boy! He knows nothing—”
The business end of the musket poked at his face. “Cállate!”
He pushed to his knees, begging them in English, in Spanish, in French, but Desmond—his high-pitched cries continuing—was dragged from view.
Head throbbing, Thomas staggered to his feet, the taste of blood trickling into his mouth. He stood at the bars and shouted for mercy, but he could barely hear his own voice over Desmond’s shrieks.
There was a shot.
Desmond’s cries ceased.
And the now familiar soul-numbing despair crashed over him as he sank to his knees.
CHAPTER TWO
JULIA SHIFTED RESTLESSLY in the darkness, her movements jerky, her breath tight in her chest. The man leered at her, his lips drawing back in a grin that arrowed fear deep within. Why had she thought this a good idea? She lowered her gaze and moved past him, hurrying to the stairs where the woman had said her room was. Step after creaking step. The corridor was dim, the flickering light from the candle she held revealing a ceiling draped with cobwebs, like something she imagined from The Castle of Otranto. Her heart hammered, and she clutched her precious bundle closer to her chest. A whimper rose from within, and she forced herself to shush aloud, the sound an explosion in the unnatural quiet. She counted the doors: one, two, three, until she reached hers. Carefully shifting her bundle between her chin and shoulder, she moved the candle to her left hand, then grasped the door handle and moved inside the room.
The Making of Mrs. Hale Page 1
