Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

by Caroline Ashton

  ‘No she would not.’ Lady Tiverton twitched the shawl draped over her elbows. ‘I need her with me.’

  Conniston sketched a minimal bow and directed a minimal smile at Lady Tiverton. ‘Shall we?’ he said to Rowena.

  He shepherded her away from Harriette who heaved a sigh that lifted her shoulders. ‘Her own curricle. How wonderful.’

  ‘It will be wonderful if she doesn’t break her neck,’ Conniston said. He trod down the first two steps.

  Harriette’s attention returned. ‘What?’ Her face brightened. ‘Are you going for a drive?’

  Rowena looked meaningfully at her cousin. ‘Lord Conniston has suggested a stroll.’

  Harriette stepped forward. ‘That will be better than nothing. Better than sitting around stitching a handkerchief and wishing Araminta could have stayed longer.’

  ‘Harriette.’ Her mother repeated. ‘Come here at once. I said I needed you with me.’

  Harriette drooped. ‘Yes, Mama.’ She trailed into the house on a wave of sighs.

  Still staring into space, the footman closed the door behind her.

  Left on their own, Conniston extended his hand to assist Rowena down the steps. The gesture made her feel a hundred years until the warmth of his touch made her stunningly conscious of her real age and feelings.

  Conniston waited until she stood on the ground before releasing her hand. ‘Lady Harriette seemed mighty taken with the idea of driving a curricle herself.’ He looked at her face, so calm it appeared almost expressionless. ‘I suppose it would hold no appeal for you.’

  Rowena clasped her hands together, hurriedly suppressing the tingle left by his touch. His nearness and his assumption that she might be no more than a boring sort of female caused her eyes to sparkle.

  ‘Why, sir? Why should you suppose I would not like to drive such a vehicle?’

  He glanced at her in surprise, then bowed. ‘Forgive me, Miss Harcourt-Spence, I am obviously in error.’ He studied her flushed face. Something of a gleam entered his eyes. ‘Allow me to rectify my fault. Shall we instead stroll to the stables and have my phaeton put to? Not a curricle, I’m afraid but nonetheless, much more exciting than a governess cart.’ Rowena gasped. ‘Ah, I see the idea appeals.’ He smiled. ‘Come – let us to the stables.’

  Rowena gave way to the increasing suspicion that he was teasing her. She folded her hands at her waist and composed her features. ‘Another day, perhaps, my lord. I fear any more excitement after Miss Neave’s departure might produce a fit of the vapours.’

  A crack of laughter emerged before he smiled at her. ‘You are being missish again, as your aunt would say.’

  Despite her best intentions, Rowena smiled back.

  ‘I see having you as a sister will be one entertainment after another.’ His smile widened.

  Rowena’s vanished. She glanced at him with anxious eyes. He had turned and was surveying the immaculate lawns that swept from the house down to the lake. She hoped he had failed to notice the sudden change in her expression. He gestured at the stand of trees planted by Tiverton’s grandfather, or rather, by his gardeners.

  ‘The lime avenue it is then.’ He waited until Rowena moved before falling into step beside her. ‘Perhaps now is a fortunate opportunity to discuss the arrangements I shall make after the marriage.’

  Rowena stopped walking. ‘Arrangements?’

  ‘Indeed. I had proposed to take Amabelle to France and then on to Italy. Assuming it will be safe to do so by then, of course.’ He turned to her. A slight breeze disturbed his hair, ruffling one brown lock onto his forehead. ‘But now I am less sure. Do you think she would enjoy the galleries and buildings? The history, perhaps?’

  Rowena was very certain Amabelle would not. She, on the other hand . . . she strode out again, faster than she intended. The ancient branches of the first pair of limes closed over her head, hiding her expression in their green dappled gloom. ‘I fear it might be somewhat trying for her to be so far away from home.’

  Pebbles crunched under Lord Conniston’s boots. He flicked at a leaf drifting down. ‘Is that your tactful way of indicating she has no interest in the treasures of Europe?’

  She suppressed a sigh. Memories of hours spent in her father’s study poring over his books filled with pictures of Paris, Rome, Venice and the many other cities that he had brought home from his Grand Tour invaded her mind. Another sigh of longing did escape and drift into the air. ‘Perhaps when she is a little older . . .’

  Conniston frowned. ‘I see.’ He walked on in silence.

  The cattle in the field beyond the avenue looked up from the grass, their jaws rotating with their ceaseless chewing. They watched his progress with large, incurious eyes, content to stay their side of the railings.

  Rowena was obliged to hurry her steps to keep up with him. ‘She is still very young, sir.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  More paces.

  More silence.

  The cows resumed their attention to the grass.

  In the green cathedral of high branches three swallows swooped into, only to disappear as fast as they came. Rowena stole a look at his face. His expression appeared stern, rather like her father’s when a groom he had trusted had been brought before him for stealing.

  Conniston stopped. He swung round. ‘If you came with us, perhaps?’

  Delight filled Rowena. ‘Oh, I would . . .’ She bit back the words as reality struck, obliterating the momentary surge of delight. She swallowed. ‘I am honoured by your consideration but it is impossible for me to leave home. Papa and Cousin Thomasina . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Cannot Miss Quigley supervise the household for a few weeks?’

  A slight bitterness tinged her laugh. ‘You were not there, my lord, when she ordered sparrows for Christmas Day’s nuncheon. Nor when she all but set fire to the new linen else you would not say such a thing.’

  Conniston stared at her. ‘Sparrows? For Christmas?’ A half shake of his head. ‘Incredible.’

  Rowena rubbed three fingers against her temple, hiding her expression from him. ‘I know.’

  Conniston surveyed her. ‘The housekeeper perhaps?’

  ‘No. Papa thinks Cousin Thomasina manages well enough.’

  ‘I see.’ He bent his head, trying to see her averted face. ‘So ordering the household falls to you?’ A silent nod. ‘But, Miss Harcourt-Spence, does not your father realise?’ A shake.

  Several wordless moments passed until Conniston drew a deep breath. ‘So it is unlikely you would be able to visit your sister for any length of time once she was established at Ampney Park?’

  ‘I fear not.’ Rowena was not quite sure whether that would be a blessing or the reverse. Tears prickled her eyes.

  ‘That is most unfortunate. I had looked forward to seeing you there. As would Amabelle.’

  Rowena discovered her handkerchief had dropped from her sleeve somewhere. She sniffed in a regrettable fashion.

  Conniston cleared his throat. ‘Pray do not distress yourself, Rowena. I will see to it that you can visit Amabelle. After so many years together it is no surprise that you expect to miss her.’

  Rowena swallowed, trying hard to overlook his use of her name. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered brokenly.

  His face in the shade of the trees looked dark. The scar on his cheek seemed to gleam whiter.

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘I have it.’ Conniston’s remark fluttered the birds overhead. ‘I shall send Mrs Catesby to stand in your place while you visit us.’

  Rowena gasped. ‘Who, sir, is Mrs Catesby? She is not known to any of us.’

  He waved an airy hand. ‘The wife of my agent. A very capable woman, I gather.’

  ‘But what will Mr Catesby think? Does he not have need of her himself?’

  ‘That is of little account.
He can eat at Ampney and I’ll have Mrs Brinscott send down an extra maid to his house.’

  ‘But his family? Are there children?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stared at her. ‘Hence the extra maid. Do you think I’d remove Mrs Catesby without provision for their care? Besides, they are not infants any more. The eldest works in the stables.’

  Rowena hurriedly reviewed the shift in opinion of him his first comment had induced. ‘You are very kind, but I really could not allow you to disrupt their family.’

  ‘Nonsense. Mrs Catesby will be pleased to have a change of scene. And some time away from her usual duties.’ He smiled. ‘It is settled, then. Now, you seemed interested in the notion of visiting Italy. Have you studied their artists? Which is your favourite?’

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The stroll developed into a lively discussion of the artistic merits of Classicism, Neoclassicism and the florid period dividing them. Rowena found her opinion of him reversing yet again. He was not boorish. Rather he was perfect company, even if he did find David’s Oath of the Horatii melodramatic.

  Their discussion so occupied them they failed to notice the rainclouds gathering beyond the trees. When the first heavy drops plopped through the leaves and raised miniature craters in the dust Conniston looked up. ‘Good God,’ he said only to apologise for his words. ‘We’d better return to the house at once.’ He hurried her to the head of the avenue and halted. The rain was falling much heavier than in the shelter of the trees. He frowned at her thin muslin gown. ‘A dilemma, ma’am. Should you prefer sanctuary here or make a dash for the Abbey?’

  Rowena composed her features into a mask of anxiety. ‘What are a few raindrops, my lord, compared with Lady Tiverton’s disapproval if we’re late for nuncheon?’

  For a moment he was deceived, then he laughed. ‘So very true. Let us avoid her frowns at all costs even if it means a soaking.’ He eyed her half boots. ‘Are you able to hurry in those?’

  ‘Indeed I am.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The boots were subjected to another inspection. ‘Nevertheless, I insist you allow me to support you.’ He took her left hand in his own and lightly rested his right round her waist. When she grasped a bunch of her skirt with the other, he laughed. ‘Well then, Diana. Forward.’

  The rain increased. They arrived under the portico with their clothes darkened by thunder drops. Conniston’s breathing had barely changed but Rowena was left gasping. She knew it was not only from exertion. Her hand had trembled in his at every step. Her waist had burned under his fingers. She prayed he thought it caused by their speed. He must never know how she had tingled at his touch. Flushed, she glanced at his face.

  He was smiling down at her, his eyes amused and clear. The scar on his cheek had turned faintly pink. The movement of his mouth crinkled it a little. She half raised her hand to smooth it. ‘I see you have the speed of Atlanta, ma’am. Well done.’

  His words recalled her to her senses. She snatched her hand down. ‘Two goddesses, sir?’ she managed. ‘Diana and Atlanta? I fear I am not so graced.’ Eyes lowered and her expression hurriedly composed, she walked past the impassive footman into the marble hall. Her boots left small muddy imprints on the tiles.

  The Earl regarded his own footwear. ‘Forgive me, ma’am, if I leave you. Lady Tiverton will not approve of muddy boots.’

  Rowena caught sight of her reflection in the window by the door. ‘Nor of disordered hair.’

  The Earl studied her curls. ‘If you say so, ma’am. I see nothing amiss.’ He bowed again and ran up the stairs.

  Walking at a slower pace Rowena reached her room. She stared at herself in the looking glass. So he had found her hair acceptable. She hugged the comment to her. He had liked her hair. She tidied herself slowly. Her mouth curved into a trembling smile. She forced it away. ‘Stop it,’ she told her image. ‘That way lies madness.’ The memory of his touch returned. Her heart disobeyed her instruction.

  The whole family was the small dining room. The Marchioness, facing the door from her seat at the far end of the table, had Lord Conniston on her right and Miss Wexley on the left. She looked her niece up and down.

  ‘Rowena, you are only just in time.’

  ‘I apologise, ma’am. We . . . I was caught in the shower and had to change my shoes.’

  Lady Tiverton sniffed. ‘Very well. Make sure you don’t take a cold. Damp feet are a sure way to one.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Harriette, seated next to her father, patted the high-backed chair beside her. ‘Sit with me, cousin, do.’

  Rowena walked to the chair, conscious of Conniston’s eyes upon her. A footmen pulled the chair out and slid it gently back under her. Fearful the turmoil of her emotions would betray her, she concentrated on arranging her gown. A linen napkin, fanned into a peacock’s tail, stood on the plate before her. Only when she had shaken it out and settled it across her lap could she look across at Conniston.

  His lordship favoured her with a slight incline of his head. No light showed in his face. No humour. It was quite different from a bare half hour ago. His cool regard shocked her. Why had he changed so? What had happened? They had been such entertaining companions. The transformation drained the joy from the memory.

  ‘What ails you, child?’ Lady Tiverton waved away a dish of green beans. ‘You have turned quite pale. You must have taken a chill after all. Have some castor oil before you retire. I set great store by a good dose of castor oil.’ She permitted a footman to place a small portion on beef in the exact centre of her plate. ‘I hope you and Conniston have discovered a way round Amabelle’s stupidity.’

  Rowena covered the sudden rush of emotions by helping herself to a spoonful of peas.

  Conniston’s impassive voice cut through the silence. ‘We discussed the possibility of a tour of France and Italy for Amabelle, ma’am.’

  ‘Ah, excellent idea. Assuming the Monster isn’t still at large. It should appeal to the child.’

  Miss Wexley was heard to whisper something about his lordship being so generous, so kind, but no-one favoured her with a response.

  The footmen circled the table moving the silver dishes to whoever looked in need until Garton decided the party was served. He signalled and the men retreated into a line at the serving table. Conversation died into a silence broken only by the chink of cutlery on porcelain. Garton allowed himself a satisfied twitch of the lips.

  Within seconds his satisfaction vanished. A cacophonous hammering sounded on the main door. The merest flicker of his eyebrow indicated to the head footman that he was in charge until peace was restored. Garton paced slowly from the room.

  Lady Tiverton was unmoved by the interruption. She continued her supervision. ‘Harriette, don’t slouch so. It’s very unbecoming.’

  Harriette’s shoulders jerked back and her spine arched rigidly. ‘Sorry, Mama.’

  ‘So you should be. You don’t see your cousin slouching all over the place. And I’m sure Amabelle did not attract Conniston by inferior posture.’

  His lordship signally failed to enlighten the party as to what had attracted him to Amabelle. Rowena had never understood it. No-one could deny her half-sister was beautiful. The brilliant eyes in her heart-shaped face would light up at the slightest occasion. But Conniston had seen many seasons. And debutants. He must have realised Amabelle was too immature to assume the management of even the smallest household. Rowena’s spirits sank. Amabelle could not have sustained the debate she had so recently enjoyed with him. She would bore him within the month. Judging by his expression now, he would not make the slightest effort to hide it. Amabelle’s spirits were delicate and mercurial. She would be cast down and deeply unhappy. The pendulum of Rowena’s opinion swung once more. Perhaps her sister was right to decline such a volatile man. Perhaps –

  The door opened and Garton entered balancing one of the Abbey’s silver platters on h
is fingertips. Lady Tiverton put her fork down. She watched her butler approach. He bowed and lowered the platter until it was level with her elbow.

  ‘A message, milady. Sent post haste.’

  Everyone stopped eating. Her ladyship slid her knife under the seal leaving a smear of sauce on the paper. She unfolded it. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. Her hand gripped the letter until it crumpled. ‘That will be all, Garton, thank you.’ She wafted a hand at the footmen. The butler caught their eyes. He led them in a stately line out of the door.

  The instant it closed, Lady Tiverton slumped back in her chair. ‘Amabelle has fled.’

  The women gasped. Conniston shot to his feet. His chair rocked backwards. Even Lord Tiverton roused himself.

  ‘What?’

  Lady Tiverton swivelled round to her niece. ‘You must prepare yourself, Rowena. Your father went after them. He has suffered a fall and has been brought home quite out of his senses.’

  Rowena rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘What? Who? What are you saying, ma’am?’

  The letter waved in the air. ‘Read for yourself.’

  Rowena pushed her chair aside and hurried round to grasp the paper.

  ‘Who has written?’ Lord Tiverton demanded, pushing himself to his feet. ‘And who’s the them he went after?’

  Rowena scanned the sheet. ‘Mr Marchment.’

  ‘Marchment?’ Disbelief coloured Tiverton’s voice. ‘You must be mistaken. He’s old enough to be her father. Not to mention that he’s married.’

  ‘No, no. Mr Marchment has written,’ Rowena said. ‘It’s Matthew she’s with.’

  Her aunt was less than satisfied. ‘And he is?’

  ‘The Marchments’ younger son.’ Rowena sank, trembling, onto her chair. ‘He says Papa is very bad.’

  Conniston had not spoken. He strode round the table. In a single movement he twitched the letter from Rowena’s limp fingers. The four women watched him read it. Harriette clutched Rowena’s cold hands in hers.