The Elusive Miss Ellison Read online

  The shame doubled and redoubled, twisting his heart into knots. He forced himself to remain still and not squirm like a child. Many years had passed since anyone had made him feel quite so uncomfortable.

  The reverend steepled his fingers and leaned back in his leather armchair. “It was my understanding that it was your brother and his friend who were responsible.”

  He gave a small shrug, dropping his attention to his highly polished Hessians. “For the actual incident perhaps, but I fear my words goaded them. For that I am truly sorry.” His gaze lifted.

  “And I am truly sorry that you have carried this weight for so many years.” Something like peace and acceptance suffused the reverend’s face. “You and your brother were forgiven a long time ago.”

  Nicholas swallowed. “By yourself?”

  “Aye. And my daughter.”

  Memories flashed of the slight, golden-haired girl keening over a broken, bloodied body. He dragged guilty thoughts away and nodded stiffly. “Thank you, sir.”

  He glanced up at a lovely watercolor of St. Hampton Heath’s old Norman church. The square stone tower and small curved windows had spoken of assurance for countless generations. Peace teased the restlessness within him.

  “You will attend services?”

  He suppressed a groan. Yet another duty he had no wish to perform. “Perhaps.” The wise eyes seemed to search his soul, prompting a more enthusiastic, “I will try.”

  The reverend nodded. “I believe it will be a great blessing for our little village to have one such as yourself take an interest.” He smiled gently. “I trust your time here will also prove a great blessing for you, my lord.”

  His throat cinched. The undeserved warmth and kindness filling the drawing room seemed to almost choke him. He couldn’t take another jot. He rose. “Thank you, Mr. Ellison. Good day, sir.”

  After exchanging a slight bow with his surprised host, he exited the room and strode down the dim hall to the front entrance, fresh air, and freedom.

  He dragged in great cleansing breaths as he untied Midnight, his heart hammering its insistence that he get away. His fingers seemed clumsier than when he was a boy in short pants.

  From somewhere inside, a door slammed.

  As he mounted his horse, a dark gleam of gold flashed through the apple trees on the manor’s southern side. A small beagle appeared, yapping at Midnight’s heels, drawing a dismissive snort from the great beast. Nicholas wheeled his horse around, down the dusty drive, back toward the lonely three-storied stone pile that was the countryseat of the Earl of Hawkesbury.

  His inheritance. Not a blessing, like the reverend seemed to believe, but both a burden and a curse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LAVINIA CLASPED THE leather hand strap as the carriage wheels rumbled over the uneven drive. She glanced at her aunt, seated opposite, whose jerky movements mimicked Lavinia’s own.

  “I declare, for a man of Sir Anthony’s means, he keeps this road in shocking disrepair.”

  “We’re almost there, Aunt Patience.”

  “I’m sure the only reason Cornelia Milton insisted we attend tonight was to show off her overdressed house and overdressed daughters.”

  “And to welcome back the earl,” Papa offered mildly.

  “The earl.” Her aunt sniffed. “No doubt he’ll be as high-handed as the rest.”

  “I did not gain that impression when he visited yesterday.” Papa’s brow creased. “He seemed surprisingly self-effacing.”

  No, he had appeared everything rude and presumptuous. Lavinia exchanged a look with Aunt Patience but held her peace. Her aunt’s protests were nothing new, her vehemence against the nobility and the different rules for which society held them accountable had resulted in many a spirited rectory debate. The former earl had never seemed to mind her aunt’s lack of marked deference, but then Aunt Patience had always held he was the exception to the arrogant aristocratic rule. After yesterday’s encounter, Lavinia understood why.

  “I do wish I had more time to revise those notes for my sermon.”

  Lavinia patted his arm. “Your notes can be revised tomorrow, Papa.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” He grimaced as another rattle swayed the carriage’s occupants. “It was kind of the Miltons to send their coach for us, but I confess I will be glad to get there.”

  “As will I.”

  Another bump threatened to unseat her. She braced her kid boots on the carriage floor. While she would be pleased to reach the squire’s newly extended manor, she held mixed feelings about the guest of honor. Despite his overbearing manner yesterday, a new face—handsome or not—would be interesting. The newspaper accounts of the Peninsular War in Spain, so avidly followed in the rectory, suggested Major Stamford had been one of Wellington’s most courageous men, attaining numerous war honors. He must have interesting tales, indeed.

  Lavinia swallowed a sigh. She would try to give him another chance. After all, he did hold the keys to helping the poor of St. Hampton Heath.

  She glanced out the carriage window as the hedges slipped past. Bright sunlight meant she had little chance to study him yesterday, yet everything she had seen tallied with Sophia’s description. The earl was tall, his hair dark, his shoulders broad, but his face was in shadow, so she had been unable to see if his features were handsome. What had intrigued her most was the furious manner in which he rode away after his interview with Papa, as if he feared ghosts or some such Gothic nonsense might be after him. Strange behavior indeed for a man decorated for bravery.

  Papa had merely said afterward that the earl had expressed his regret at the events of the past, and asked for his and Lavinia’s forgiveness. “Which I offered, of course.”

  “Of course?” Aunt Patience had snorted. “Because he is an earl?”

  “Because he is a man.”

  “So once again nobility slips from responsibility faster than scones from a buttered pan! Do you really think Grace can be so easily absolved?”

  “Unforgiveness holds us slaves, dear Patience.”

  Yes, but how could Papa offer Lavinia’s forgiveness? He hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen—

  She bit her lip, breathing past the embers of resentment as the old hurts swelled past her good intentions. The frozen terror in that moment before the horse struck. Her mother’s cry that haunted Lavinia’s nights for years. The village whispers that the younger Stamford had asked for a doctor—only for his brother! Lord Robert’s oft-stated sorrow regarding the refusal of his nephews to own their culpability. The injustice flared anew, heating her chest. How could Papa offer her forgiveness? She glanced at Papa, offered him a taut smile, and forced her hands to unclench. Enough!

  Tonight, she need not follow the rest of the village in paying homage to the guest of honor. Tonight, she would focus on someone far less self-important.

  “My lord! Welcome to our humble abode.”

  Nicholas inclined his head to the evening’s host. “Thank you, Sir Anthony.”

  He looked around the drawing room, filled with the notables of the district. He nodded to Lord and Lady Winthrop, whose estate bounded his on the south; Mr. Jones, the attorney; and Mr. Ellison before glancing across the sea of interested faces. He dipped his head in acknowledgment and then turned to study the pictures on the wall. How many more of these nights must he endure? How many could he politely decline? His gaze shifted from a rather ugly painting of sunflowers to alight on a group of young ladies seated near the Palladian window.

  The group were much as any other: brunettes, blonds, dressed in the pale colors society dictated as acceptable, their simpering glances mere rustic versions of London coquettes.

  One young lady, however, drew his attention. Unlike the others, she did not glance his way. She was not the youngest, nor the most stylishly attired, dressed as she was in simple gray. Her copper-blond hair was not this year’s fashion, and she wore no adornments apart from a smile that flashed occasionally as she listened to a plain older woman. But
her poise, her calm assurance, as if she knew exactly what she was about, would not be out of place in a London ballroom. He frowned. She reminded him of someone—

  “The young ladies have been quite anxious to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

  He dragged his attention back to his host, masking his dismay with a polite smile. For months now he had suffered a great deal of attention from young ladies—and more particularly, from their mothers. He restrained a shudder at the memory of the recent London season Mother had insisted he attend. Conversations with insipid young ladies and vacuous young men, people who seemed to have no purpose but to see and be seen, held little interest for a man of action. It had been a blessed relief to finally be rid of the town and his social obligations, but now he was here in this dreary corner of Gloucestershire, and his status and supposed wealth once again drew attention. His smile grew taut. If only they knew …

  The squire motioned forward a fussily dressed woman of dark hair and two chins. “May I present my wife, Lady Milton.”

  Nicholas murmured the usual commonplace nothings, noticing with pain her look of awe. His eager hostess beckoned to a young girl as her husband continued. “And my daughter, Miss Sophia Milton.”

  The blond simpered, eyes downcast, as she blushed becomingly. “My lord.”

  Sir Anthony continued the introductions. “May I present Miss West?”

  “Good evening, ma’am.”

  The dark-haired woman gave him a cool-eyed look and sharp nod worthy of a duchess and then moved away.

  Nicholas frowned.

  “And this is our dear reverend’s daughter, Miss Ellison.”

  The poised girl from before slowly drew near, as if reluctant. “Lord Hawkesbury and I have already met.”

  He stared at her. That voice, those eyes …

  No. Surely not.

  He swallowed. “Miss Ellison.”

  “As you can see.” She mockingly sketched a curtsey.

  “I apologize. I did not realize. I did not expect to find you so, so …”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Clean?”

  His hostess gasped.

  “So grown,” he muttered. Which was stupid. He was no longer a stripling of fifteen. He should have expected something other than the little girl whose cries had cursed his dreams.

  His chest tightened with a thousand regrets as the cool, oddly disconcerting perusal continued. Her clear gray eyes held intelligence just as her father’s, but his had not been set in such a fair face.

  The squire turned. “Lavinia, I trust you will charm us all again with your musical prowess tonight.”

  Aloofness faded as affection filled her features. “Sir Anthony, your willingness to be charmed speaks more to your good nature than it does to my skill. I’m afraid you attach too much to my ability.”

  “Nonsense, my dear.” Sir Anthony turned to Nicholas. “Miss Ellison is a most accomplished young lady and has delighted the neighborhood for many years.”

  The usual response to such flattery would have been a blushing denial, but there were no reddened cheeks. Her earlier poise suddenly seemed irritating and smug.

  Nicholas flicked away an imaginary piece of fluff from his sleeve and drawled, “Such high praise! I am sure all London would be most eager to hear such prodigious talent.”

  Her chin rose. The sparkly gray eyes narrowed. “You are correct, sir, in attributing vast generosity and kindness of spirit to Sir Anthony’s comments. We simple rustics would no doubt bring the oh-so-elegant ton to their knees in appreciative amusement.”

  Ha. So the chit was upset. His lips curved as she made her excuses and left, and he wondered at the contrast between this overly confident young creature and her faded, gracious father.

  Insufferable man! How dare he condescend to attend one of these country parties and then turn his nose up at everyone and everything? Aunt Patience was right. The aristocracy was all the same, thinking themselves better than everyone else.

  Lavinia glanced across the row of silk-swathed ladies to where the earl watched the performances. He barely masked his boredom as Sophia valiantly attempted a Bach sonata—sadly beyond her ability. Lavinia sighed inwardly. Such offerings were only too likely to reinforce the earl’s dismissal of local talent.

  She straightened her shoulders. Aunt Patience’s insistence that Lavinia hone her creative abilities had not been for naught. And Lord Robert’s generosity in acquiring an excellent vocal instructor had proved him the exception to Aunt Patience’s objections to those of the aristocracy. Her smile at his memory faded. How sad that his nephew held himself so proud and aloof.

  Sophy finished with an air of relief, blushing at the applause.

  “Thank you, my dear. That was splendid, simply splendid.” Sir Anthony’s subsequent invitation to her aunt produced a technically challenging performance, and more genuine-sounding approbation. Then he turned to Lavinia. “Miss Ellison? Would you be so kind?”

  Lavinia moved to the pianoforte, smiling at the crowd to cover unaccustomed nerves. Her aunt and father watched with very different faces. Aunt Patience’s expression was one of pride, that the musical talent that ran deep in her side of the family would once again be expressed and praised—by all except the earl, no doubt. Papa wore a more wistful expression, something she’d seen many times over the past few years as she matured to look more like her mother. She could not disappoint either of them now.

  She centered the music sheets and then struck the first note, completing a run before she began to sing. The music was at once comforting and familiar, a Handel aria she recalled Mama playing many years ago. As she sang, her face relaxed, the very action providing greater range as her voice soared clear and true. A quick glimpse at Lord Hawkesbury revealed he now sat straighter, almost leaning forward, astonishment replacing his perpetual sneer.

  She played the final bar with a flourish, and the room swelled with generous applause. She caught the look on Papa’s face, a look of such deep tenderness she wondered if he really saw her or dreamed of her mother.

  At Sir Anthony’s insistence, she played a cheerier melody and then bowed, a smile all the acknowledgment she could offer for their generous encouragement. Lavinia couldn’t help but notice the earl’s eyes follow as she resumed her seat. She glanced at him. He looked away, his features settling into bland indifference.

  Later, during refreshments, her friends shared their impressions of the newcomer.

  Catherine Winthrop’s dark curls bobbed as she fanned herself. “I thought I might faint when he looked in our direction! He’s the most handsome man I have ever seen!”

  Handsome, perhaps, but scarcely a flirt. On the contrary, the earl seemed to find attention from young ladies trying, probably because he felt the locals so far beneath his notice.

  “Perry would be quite jealous.” Sophy said. “My brother has always counted himself the veriest tulip of fashion.”

  “The earl looks so distinguished, Livvie,” Catherine murmured.

  “Because he has a title?” At their puckered brows, Lavinia hurried on. “Don’t you think he looks rather a proud man? He has scarcely spoken to a soul all night.”

  “Proud? No, not at all.” Sophia looked over Lavinia’s shoulder, her expression growing lamblike.

  “You play quite well, Miss Ellison.”

  The deep-voiced drawl compelled her to turn. “Thank you.”

  She studied the earl. It couldn’t be denied. Despite possessing one crooked eyebrow, his hazel eyes, coupled with high cheekbones and dark, wavy brown hair, made an appealing picture.

  If you liked pictures that sneered. Although from the whispers around the room, it seemed many young ladies present would not mind the sneers.

  She, however, was not one of those ladies. “I trust the evening was not completely devoid of amusement for one used to London society?”

  His gaze wandered the room before settling back on her. “Tonight has been … tolerable.”

  She almost laughed. What a
rude individual. “Lord Robert used to enjoy these evenings very much.”

  “Yes, but my uncle was not a man known for discriminating tastes.”

  Heat pounded her chest. How dare he disparage his uncle’s generous good nature? “I fear you did not know Lord Robert as we did.”

  “That is most apparent.”

  He pulled out his quizzing glass and studied her as though she were a moth pinned to exhibit paper. She tilted her chin and glared at him until he finally placed the small glass away.

  “I am sorry, sir, to learn your eyesight is not as it could be.”

  “My eyesight?”

  She motioned to the quizzing glass. “I gather you have vision problems. Perhaps you should try whortleberries. Hettie, our maid, swears they have helped her eyesight improve immensely.”

  His eyes glittered. “I see quite well, thank you.”

  “That is something for which to be thankful. However, also something of a shame.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We rustics did not figure you to be such a dandy.”

  As the mocking glitter in his eyes disappeared, she excused herself and walked away, burning with determination to never, never allow the earl to ruffle her equilibrium again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A SHOT RICOCHETED through the night. Nicholas’s heart thudded in time with Midnight’s hooves as the horse pounded away, careless of dry scrubby brush or slippery rocks. Nicholas shuddered out a breath. His mission demanded he stay and seek out the opposition’s movements, but the stallion was unusually nervous tonight. No matter. He turned back to the hills.

  Red-gold flashed from up high. Fire ripped through his leg. Midnight reared, whinnying in fright. He cursed, grabbing at his throbbing thigh, reaching for the reins, but in the darkness his gloved hand only found air, and he was falling, falling—

  “Sir!”

  The fire pierced his eyes.

  “My lord!”

  Nicholas cracked open an eye.

  Edwin peered at him, holding a glowing candlestick. His wrinkled brow smoothed. “Just another bad dream, m’lord.”