Miss serenas secret, p.1
Miss Serena's Secret, page 1
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!”
READİNG 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!”
CARRİE 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.”
JULİANNA DEERİNG, 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 MİLLER STOCKTON, best-selling author of Liberty’s Promise
“Carolyn Miller has done it again! 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 CHRİSTİAN FİCTİON GİRL, 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.”
FİCTİON AFICİONADO, blog, fictionaficionadoblog.wordpress.com
REGENCY BRIDES
series by CAROLYN MİLLER
A LEGACY of GRACE
The Elusive Miss Ellison
The Captivating Lady Charlotte
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey
A PROMİSE of HOPE
Winning Miss Winthrop
Miss Serena’s Secret
The Making of Mrs. Hale
Miss Serena’s Secret
© 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 978-0-8254-4534-7
Printed in the United States of America
18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 / 5 4 3 2 1
For my daughters, Caitlin & Asher
Keep fanning the flames of creativity and see God’s extraordinary purpose in your lives.
I love you!
CHAPTER ONE
Bath, Somerset
June 1817
WARM SUMMER SUN lit the scene before her: a golden-yellow oak table boasting a squat blue vase with an arrangement of ferns and pink roses. The tension forever lining Serena Winthrop’s heart eased a fraction, as if in obedience to the florist’s intention. Perhaps this lesson might prove less discomfiting than the last. She dipped her brush into the china palette, dabbed it on the thick vellum, then leaned back. Tilted her head. Wrinkled her nose. No. The precise blue of the receptacle still evaded her. Egyptian blue? No. Prussian? Definitely not. Perhaps more like …
A smile slanted her lips as she wiped her brush over the cake of pigment then added a few drops of water to the mixing tile. The colors swirled together, into an exact blend to precisely capture the slight glassy sheen of the vase. She leaned forward and smeared it on in tiny movements. There. Perfection!
“Ah, Miss Serena.”
Her shoulders tensed again.
“I believe you are holding that brush incorrectly. Allow me to help you. Oh, and Miss Hatherleigh.” The voice grew flat. “You are here, too.”
Serena peeked across at the Honorable Caroline Hatherleigh, daughter of the Viscount Aynsley, whose pretty yet bored expression had miraculously transformed into something approximating calf love as she openly gazed at their art master. Caroline did not seem to notice that he never looked back.
Her stomach tightened as Mr. Goode drew near. Art lessons, her favorite times at Miss Haverstock’s Seminary for Young Ladies, had proved to be her escape from the wicked whispers of the world. When she sketched, or better, when she painted, she seemed to enter a different place, a place of possibility and freedom, yet a place she could control. Creativity seemed to ignite something within her, something so all-consuming that she could paint for hours without noticing she had missed deportment lessons, or a meal, or an engagement with a friend.
Initially, having such a handsome art master had not exactly hindered her enthusiasm, especially as he’d been quick to praise her efforts, even going so far as to declare to Miss Haverstock that Serena was a budding genius. That thought had warmed her, as had the principal’s request for a watercolor for the school’s foyer. Of course she had obliged, thrilled at the compliment, less thrilled by the envy the other girls had displayed. But she had striven to forget them, content to focus her energies on her next challenge. A portrait. A portrait of the art master.
She’d been working on determining the exact color of his eyes—a hazel, requiring a dab of yellow ochre mixed with Vandyke brown—when she had looked up at him one day in class. She’d noticed he liked to help her more than the other girls, and so she had avoided looking at him for too long, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. But he did have an interesting face, with a smile other girls said made their hearts skip, so she’d been studying his features to capture something of his essence. Only she had not realized just what she had captured. Not until that look that lasted too long.
Somehow in that too-long perusal, his face had subtly altered from that of a slightly too-handsome art master to the features of a man whose eyes and lips told of an interest far deeper than that of her other teachers. Never mind that the other teachers were all females, and at least a hundred years older than he; she had seen that look before. Nausea rippled through her stomach.
“Serena,” his voice now purred in her ear, his hand brushing hers. She jerked away. “Now, now. No need to be skittish. I want you to hold it”—he caressed her fingers, causing her skin to goose-pimple, as he twisted the squirrel-tipped brush slightly—“just so.”
“Sir, I—”
“Yes, I know it’s a little difficult to get used to a new technique.” He moved closer, his arm stretching along hers so she could feel his body heat seeping through the thin muslin of her sleeve. “But you have such talent. You could be even better if you trust my direction.”
She’d sooner trust a ferret with a baby bird. She angled her head away, but he moved behind her so all she could see was his dark coat sleeve. He continued to hold her hand prisoner. His breath tickled her ear, setting her hair’s tiny curls to quiver against her nape.
Suddenly she wished for a fichu to cover up her neckline. Whilst not immoderately low, the round-necked bodice still revealed far too much skin for her liking—especially when he stood above her, looking down, and she could tell from his breathing the view was to his liking.
Again, she tried to remove her hand from his grasp; again, he held on more firmly.
“Please let me go,” she said, just loud enough for him to hear, but not Caroline. The Aynsley girls had never been known for their discretion, and after the scandal surrounding her sister earlier this year, Serena had no wish to invite more speculation about the Winthrop family.
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“I would … if I could.” He uttered a tiny chuckle that suggested he was enjoying this game. “I am sorry, but it seems as though fair Diana has stolen all reason away.”
“Diana?”
“Pardon me. Serena.”
His words left her with the now-familiar uncertainty, shifting her emotions like the sea might toss a sailboat, his words sometimes innocent, sometimes not. But apart from a too-long hand-holding—even now his hand guided hers in the long, fluid movements the water-colors required—he had not done anything obviously wrong.
“Mr. Goode?” called Caroline. “Would you please come and look at my painting? I fear the shape of the urn is a little out of proportion.”
“Of course. I will be with you in just a moment.”
His other hand snaked around Serena’s body, touching her waist.
She froze. “Sir—”
“Shh. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. Trust me.”
She shook her head, moving vainly to twist her body away. “I will speak to Miss Haverstock. She will—”
“Do nothing,” he finished in a silky voice. “Just like last time. Remember?”
Something cold gripped her chest, pooling bile in her mouth. A previous complaint to the headmistress about Mr. Goode’s overt attention had fallen on ears seemingly as beguiled as the other young ladies. Helpless, his actions concealed from the room’s other occupant, she tried not to flinch as he stroked her waist.
“You want to become a better artist, do you not?”
She swallowed. “Y-yes.”
“Then let me help you.”
“I do not like your way of helping,” she muttered.
He laughed again. “Alas, we do not always get what we want.”
“Mr. Goode?” Caroline’s voice sounded petulant. “Have you finished with Serena yet?”
“Not by any means,” he murmured for her ears only, before finally releasing her and moving to the other side of the room.
Serena heaved out a shaky breath. Forced her attention back to the still life. Forced her whirling senses to concentrate, to narrow down, to fixate on the swirl of light gilding the vase’s rounded base. Gradually her galloping pulse reduced to something more of a canter as the methodical practice continued and she worked to overcome the soiled feeling in her soul.
Dip brush into water, then dab the cake of pigment. Apply to paper. Clean brush. Repeat.
The composition was nearly complete when she grew aware of his presence again. Her neck tingled, raising the hairs, as if every particle of her being was conscious of his perusal.
“I will miss you when you leave,” he said, in a louder voice than before.
She glanced behind her. Caroline had gone. Her heart began a rapid tattoo.
“I do hope your dear mama will be agreeable to private tutorials.”
Serena tried to ignore him, to concentrate on the canvas, but trying to ignore him for the past few months had resulted in this situation. If only she had not looked into his eyes! Mr. Goode might have been the most handsome man the seminary had ever employed, but there was something oily and unclean about him. If only the other girls knew, they would not envy his attentions to Serena one jot.
He was as far removed from the upright bearing and nature of her sister’s new husband as could be imagined. Jonathan Carlew Winthrop was everything decent and kind, his generosity as remarked upon as his wealth. It did not matter that he had come from a background less titled than hers, or that some people sneered at his connections in trade; the man he was now embodied everything she hoped to find one day for herself. Mr. Goode was the opposite of all that.
“Miss Serena? You are very quiet. Perhaps you would prefer to finish this later.”
“I’d prefer to complete it now.”
“Really? You would not prefer to do other things now?” A finger traced down her cheek.
She could not move, frozen, mouselike, before a cat. What could she do? If she spoke to Miss Haverstock again, she would not be believed. But if she did not, how far would his attentions go? Mama would dismiss her claims as fanciful. Papa was gone. Catherine and her new brother-in-law were still away on the Continent on an extended honeymoon. Who could she turn to? Who could protect her?
She had no one. Nothing.
A tear tracked down her cheek as his fingers went lower, under her chin, down her throat. Her heart pounded frantically against the cage of her ribs as a silent scream ballooned inside. Lord, help me!
Grosvenor Square, London
A kaleidoscope of noise and color filled the ballroom, mirrors and diamonds flashing, conversation thrumming under the tinkle of laughter.
Viscount Henry Carmichael smoothed his neckcloth and moved to the young brunette beside the pillar, standing with her mother, a rather formidable-looking creature of heavy dark brows and down-turned mouth. “Good evening, fair ladies.”
“Ah, Lord Carmichael. How lovely to see you again.” The elder held out her hand and received the peck he bestowed there.
“And you, madam.” Though Harry had forgotten her name. Never mind. He was always rather impressed with how far he could sustain conversation without using names. “I wonder, does your sister dance?”
“My sister?” Her frown smoothed as the young lady smothered a giggle. “I suppose you mean dear Eliza here.”
“I suppose I do,” he said with an easy smile.
“Naughty man.”
He bowed his head to acquiesce and turned to the brunette. “Tell me, Miss Eliza, do you dance, or do you prefer to stand by pillars and show them up by your beauty?”
Another giggle. “I like to dance, sir.”
“Shall I see if I can find a partner for you?”
“Oh, but—”
“Come.” He held out his hand, her crestfallen face lighting once more. “I do not see anyone worthy enough for you to dance with.”
“Save yourself?” she suggested.
“Oh, I’m not terribly worthy.” He led her into the set that was just forming.
“But you are a viscount.”
Her innocent comment soured the champagne lining his stomach. He forced his smile to remain fixed as they completed the maneuvers. She was not the first young lady, nor would she be the last, to focus on his title and someday ascension to the earldom. He had known it all his life, had seen the wheedling and cajolery given to members of his family as people he once thought friends had tried to use him for their own purposes. And while he liked to help, he did not like the feeling of being manipulated, nor friendships that seemed based on undercurrents he was yet to ascertain.
He twirled Miss Eliza to the end of the row, his thoughts whirling in time to the music. Perhaps that was why he enjoyed Jon Carlew’s—no, he grinned, the new Lord Winthrop’s—company so much. Since meeting early in their Oxford days, the man’s principled honesty had appealed as much as his refusal to engage in the social-climbing practices common among Harry’s friends, Jon’s merchant background less important than his proving to be one of the few people Harry knew he could trust. Which meant the newly married baron was one of the few friends who knew Harry’s deepest secret.
“Lord Carmichael?”
He almost stumbled, suddenly conscious the music had drawn to a close and his partner was gazing up at him anxiously. “Shall we find your dear mater?”
After escorting her back to her mother—and pillar—Harry ambled off to the card room. He had done the pretty, done what was expected and asked a wallflower to dance, and now he could spend time doing what he preferred. As he moved beneath the glittering chandelier, a hand accosted him. “Dear boy.”
“Lady Harkness!” He bowed to the redheaded woman draped in green and flashing emeralds. “The night has suddenly improved.”
“Tell me, have you heard from Jon?”
“I’m afraid not. Which leads me to suspect he is enjoying his new bride very much.”
She laughed. “And so he should. They have waited long enough, don’t you agree?”
He nodded, as a thin spear of envy prodded within. Once he had wondered about pursuing Miss Catherine Winthrop, before realizing her heart had long been secured by his best friend. But to find another like her, someone whose patience and sweetness meant she truly deserved a man of Jon’s caliber, why, that would be nigh impossible.
