The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Read online

  Praise for Carolyn Miller’s

  Regency Brides: A Legacy of Grace

  “Displaying a flair for comedy and witty dialog, Miller is clearly an author to watch. Her debut Regency rockets off the page with clever, snappy repartee, creating an exciting and fast-paced read. Fans of Georgette Heyer and Julie Klassen will love this romance.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL, starred review

  “An engaging, page-turning read worthy of a Regency reader’s time…. The Captivating Lady Charlotte has complex characters, a sweet, slow-building romance, and twists and turns.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS

  “This romantic story is reminiscent of Jane Austen: finding love despite the societal norms of the day while adding the spiritual elements of extending God’s grace and forgiveness.”

  —CHRISTIAN MARKET

  “Carolyn Miller brings a story of high hopes, deep forgiveness, and a quiet kind of love that rings with truth. Drama and high society combine in a tale Regency lovers won’t want to miss!”

  —ROSEANNA M. WHITE, best-selling author of the Ladies of the Manor series

  “Fans of historical romance will love Carolyn Miller…. 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

  “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

  “With compelling characters and an engaging story, encapsulated by the romantic era of Regency England, Carolyn Miller’s writing style is reminiscent of Jane Austen, with a modern sense of wit and spunk.”

  —AMBER STOCKTON, author of more than twenty novels, including the best-selling Liberty’s Promise

  “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.”

  —LOUISE M. GOUGE, award-winning author

  “The Captivating Lady Charlotte, Carolyn Miller’s second Regency novel, surprised me. I was expecting a sweet romance and adventure, but I got so much more. The hero’s story is touching, truly heartbreaking, and I loved seeing the heroine learn what true love really is. Well done! More please!”

  —JULIANNA DEERING, author of the Drew Farthering Mysteries

  “Lovers of Jane Austen will be enchanted by Carolyn Miller’s debut novel…. This beautifully written book is definitely worth reading!”

  —DAWN CRANDALL, award-winning author of The Everstone Chronicles

  “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

  “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…. 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 Christmas at Holly Hill and Christmas at Stoney Creek

  The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey

  © 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.

  Apart from certain historical facts and public figures, 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 978-0-8254-4452-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 / 5 4 3 2 1

  For my sister Roslyn.

  Thank you for sharing your love of Georgette Heyer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brighton Cliffs, England

  April 1815

  THE HONORABLE CLARA DeLancey stood atop the chalky cliffs. Above her, heavy clouds menaced the moon, revealing then concealing the scene below. At her feet glowed the lantern borrowed for tonight’s escape, while far beneath, the English Channel churned white and deadly. Wind whipped clothes around her body, tugging at her, like the despair that had tugged for months, begging release.

  Leaning forward into the night wind, only half hoping it would retain its furious strength, she closed her eyes and breathed in the salty tang as sea spray spattered her cheeks. Another breath. Another. She hadn’t felt this alive in weeks.

  The wind grew louder, rushing in her ears, a snarling, savage thing. How capricious nature could be, how cruel; capable of causing shipwrecks, yet also of sustaining life. How strange that something could be one day so admired, the next feared or despised. A broken laugh escaped. She, like nature, fell into the latter category.

  A kaleidoscope of images raced through her mind. A handsome man. A beautiful lady. A ballroom filled with the expectations of the ton. A broken promise. Soul-sweeping shame.

  The anger burned again, as if stoked by the very fires of Hades. How could he? She dragged in another breath. How could he reject her?

  She opened her eyes. Peered down through the gloom to where specks of foam denoted the crashing waves of high tide. The wind continued its merciless grasp, teasing free her hair from the cloak’s hood. Would the wind hold her should she step out? Did she even want it to? She leaned forward, farther still. The roaring surf grew louder, louder. Should she dare—

  “Miss!”

  She jumped. Pebbles scattered beneath her feet, upsetting her balance, and she was sliding, sliding, closer to the treacherous edge—

  And in that moment, knew she did not want to die.

  A scream erupted from her depths.

  A firm hand grasped hers.

  She clung desperately, as ebony locks lashed her face. Angry fire roared down her right arm until it felt like it would snap. She scrabbled frantically amid the rock and wispy tufts of grass for a handhold, tearing her left hand’s nails and skin.

  Slowly, slowly she was hefted to the clifftop, the final tugging momentum surging her forward to collapse on the grassy verge. She dragged in air, heart pulsing faster than her fingers could ever play, and rubbed her right arm, so near to being wrenched off. She would never play piano again!

  She’d nearly never played anything again.

  Guilt streaked through her, twisting her insides. How dared she have been so foolhardy? How dared her rescuer risk his life for her?

  She glanced to where he lay gasping beside her, one hand over his face. An angel sent from the Almighty? No. Not unless the Almighty employed angels who looked like disreputable seafarers, dressed as this person was in a battered cocked hat and sealskin cloak. She inched away, pushing to her grazed hands and knees, wincing as she rose. She snatched her hair back, pulled the hood down nearly to
her eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t really seen her, would not recognize her and add further shame to her already impressive roll of dishonor.

  “Miss?”

  Angels didn’t growl, did they? She peeked across. And they definitely wouldn’t have a propensity for startlingly blue eyes capable of flailing a person with an angry glare.

  “What the blazes did you think you were doing?” the most unangelic creature yelled, getting to his feet.

  She scurried, wretchedly rabbitlike, away from the dim glow cast by the lantern. “Th-thank you.” Her voice was too soft to be heard above the wind’s roar. She tried again, slightly louder. “Thank you.”

  The man stood—sandy haired, taller and far broader than she’d first realized—and took a step toward her. “Thank you? That’s all you have to say?”

  What more could she say? She lifted her shoulder in a shrug.

  He took another step toward her. “What on earth were you doing?”

  She paced back. Lifted her chin. “Thank you for saving me”—her voice was now too high, too squeaky—“but I do not think I need tell you of my personal business.”

  “Tell of your personal—Miss, I’ll have you know I just saved your life! You could have died. I could have died! What fool game were you playing at?”

  Clara tugged the cloak closer as shivers rippled up her spine, through her limbs. How could she explain her moment of insanity? It wasn’t a game, but life and death. Her eyes filled. Thank God the hood hid her features, offering small hope of recognition.

  He studied her a moment, his fair hair gleaming in the moody moonlight, the hard contours of his face softening a smidgen. “Look, miss, I’m sorry for startling you. But you were standing so close.” He shook his head. His frown returned. “What are you doing here at this time of night, anyway?”

  She shook her head. Took a step away, inching closer to the path, not the cliff edge.

  He snorted. “Meeting a lover, is that it?”

  Another broken laugh released, sounding like the rasp of a dying bird. If only he knew. He was obviously not a member of the ton—otherwise he would most certainly both recognize her and know just how unlikely that scenario would be. She shook her head again.

  “No?” His brows shot up, his gaze intently curious.

  Clara retreated another pace. She had the feeling if she fled he’d simply chase her; if she spoke again, this illusion of anonymity might be pierced. Either could prove fatal. If she somehow returned home without either occurring, she might have a chance to slip into bed and pretend this was some kind of Gothic nightmare she would never dream again.

  “Still nothing to say for yourself?” He gave a surprisingly warm chuckle. “Look, can I at least have your name? Or where you live? I’m sure there must be someone somewhere who cares about you.”

  Cared about her? Sadness rolled through her, certain and ceaseless as the waves pulsing below.

  “Look, miss, I understand you might feel embarrassed, but I promise not to tell your parents.” The wind began to shriek. “You do have parents, don’t you?”

  She took another step behind. He followed. What a bizarre clifftop dance in the moonlight this must seem to those angels tonight, those angels who had definitely not descended to assist her, electing as they had to watch the show like a poor man from Covent Garden’s uppermost stalls. Why would God send angels to help her? He certainly didn’t care.

  Another step, another. When she judged enough paces met, she whispered another thank-you, then turned and fled into darkness.

  Behind her, she heard, “Hey!” but she did not stop. Could not stop. Thank God Mother could not see her. Thank God Lady Osterley couldn’t see her—any hope of regaining a reputation would surely be lost. Legs pumping, she picked up her skirts and ran faster, even faster, until another sound gave her pause. A short cry, then a thud. Her heart thumped. Surely he couldn’t have fallen from the cliff? She glanced behind, saw a figure prostrate on the ground. So maybe the angels had decided to assist her after all. But delaying to check he was not hurt would eat into her escape and her chance to remain unknown. She picked up speed, panting, lungs burning. Anyone who saw her would think her a madwoman! A sob escaped. Anyone who knew her would think the same.

  Eventually, with lungs fit to burst, her mouth tasting of metal and blood, pulse thundering in her ears, she recognized the path she’d walked daily this past fortnight had opened onto the lane linking Brighton to Rottingdean. She slowed, approaching the gentle crescent of near-new houses that formed Brighton’s outermost limits. None of the brick-and-stucco terrace houses were, of course, large enough for her parents’ satisfaction, but that mattered not; Lord and Lady Winpoole received few visitors these days. Besides, satisfaction played little part in her family’s world anymore, what they could afford being of far greater importance.

  She hurried past the central garden with its sad statue of the Regent—designed to win the builder acclaim but instead reaping disdain for its dis-proportions and now-missing right arm—carefully avoiding the gravel as she rushed to number ten. Fortunately, their elderly neighbors’ lights were dim, but still she needed to moderate her frantic breathing to be as soundless as possible. A step up to the front door—remaining unlocked, thank God—a twist of the handle, and she was inside, had removed her shoes, was creeping up the stairs, careful to avoid the eighth and ninth steps which always creaked. A heart-pounding minute later she was in bed, her pelisse hung crookedly on the back of a chair, her cloak puddled on the floor, two more items she would need to remedy tomorrow morning.

  Clara crooked an arm around her pillow, huddling into warmth as the clock downstairs struck midnight.

  The witching hour. The hour of affliction.

  She closed her eyes, her escape still beating frantically in her chest, and begged the dreams to stay away.

  Cursed hour? Cursed life.

  No one would ever tell her different.

  “Benjamin Richmond Kemsley!” His sister’s eyes widened.

  Ben stumbled to the fireplace, holding out his hands, wishing they would heat faster. He might have faced a thousand nights of icy furor on the open seas, but he’d never felt so chilled as he did tonight. He snuck a peek at his sister. Sure enough, her jaw still sagged.

  Matilda closed it with a snap. “What on earth were you doing, racing out of here like that? And now, look at you! You seem to have faced Napoleon singlehanded!”

  He fought the pang of regret at missing such a fight and nodded to Matilda’s husband. The Reverend David McPherson possessed humility and meekness that often proved the perfect counterbalance for Matilda’s volubility, volubility a trait all Ben’s family seemed to possess.

  A noise drew his attention to the drawing room door and the other member of the household, young Tessa, her red hair tousled as if she’d just woken from sleep. “Benjie!”

  “Why aren’t you in bed, little sister?”

  “I heard noises.” She frowned. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Because I am not seventeen.” He ruffled her hair, smiling as she protested this usual display of affection.

  “What on …” Her blue eyes widened as she took in his appearance. “For heaven’s sake!”

  Humor faded as the events from earlier grew large in his mind again. Yes, he’d felt heaven’s urgent call guiding his steps tonight. “Just that.”

  “What happened?” Matilda gestured him to sit, handing him a cup of steaming tea. “You had us worried.”

  “I …” Couldn’t explain, really. How to say he’d felt a sudden urge to go to the clifftop, when it was nearing gale-like conditions outside? Couldn’t. “I needed a walk.”

  “Tonight?”

  He nodded to his sister, even as he exchanged glances with the reverend. He could perhaps share his suspicions with his brother-in-law, but not while Tessa was in the room.

  Matilda scowled. She murmured something to Tessa. Whatever that was, it resulted in Tessa hugging him and whispering, “I’m glad you
’re safe” before she departed.

  Leaving him with his not-to-be-so-easily-placated sister. Her brows rose. “Well?”

  He shrugged. “I was using Tessa’s telescope, and I saw a light.”

  “A light?” She sighed. “Don’t tell me you were off saving the world again?”

  “All right. I won’t.”

  She snorted, but it sounded more like a chuckle. “Why you think you need to rescue everyone and everything, I’ll never know.”

  “Mattie,” her husband murmured.

  Ben studied her levelly, as a hundred raw memories surged through his soul. African skies, desperate children, shark-menaced waters, a life unsaved …

  Pink tinged her cheeks. “Well, yes, there is that.” She shook her head. “My brother, the rescuer.”

  “Not always,” he muttered. He cleared away the emotion clogging his throat. “I saw a light atop the cliffs.”

  “What? Someone was out in this weather?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who was it? Anyone we’d know?”

  He slid David a look before meeting his sister’s blue gaze. “I’m hardly acquainted with my new brother-in-law, let alone all the people of your acquaintance, dear sister.”

  The rose hue darkened but the intense stare did not waver. “Why do you think they were there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He thought about the girl. He did have a suspicion, but such an action was so drastic he barely dared form the thought, let alone speak such a thing aloud. What would cause someone to abandon all hope, ignore God’s principles, and risk eternity?

  The pain etched in his heart sharpened. He’d seen men give up, men in war, those flung into seas, men who’d succumbed as pain or blood leached all life from them. But he’d never known someone to yield who was healthy—and from the way she’d sprinted off, the firm body he’d so briefly held, the lass was certainly healthy.

  “Ben?”

  He glanced up, met their worried faces, worry he’d seen too often in the weeks since his return from the seas ringing Cape St. Francis. He smoothed his forehead free from scowl, forced his lips up. “What does a man need to do here to get another cup of tea?”