Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (10 page)

Rowena pressed her hands over her mouth.

‘But he’s offered for Miss Rowena’s sister.’

‘Yes, but I’ve heard the girl won’t have him.’ A laugh rumbled down the room. ‘The stupid chit. Anyway, now she has, you’re quite at liberty to encourage him.’

‘Well . . . if you say so, pa, but I really don’t want to be part of society. It’s all too boring.’

‘We shall see. You might change your mind if we can get you to some of these balls and such next Season.’ A pause. ‘I’ll still wed Miss Rowena though. I’m not getting any younger. If I’m going to do it, I need to do it now.’

‘If you want to, pa. She can nurse you when you’re old.’

Under her hands, Rowena was forced to bite her lip.

‘She’d do more than that I hope. Anyway, to please me, see if you can engage Conniston a little. I’ll offer for Miss Rowena again. There’ll be plenty of opportunity at the ball.’

A heavy sigh. ‘If it’ll please you, pa, but I really don’t want to.’

‘Good girl. Come along now.’

Footsteps sounded. Rowena shrank back into the seat, heart scarcely beating. The footsteps receded. A door opened. It shut.

Silence.

Rowena’s heart thumped into disbelief.

Chapter Seventeen

T
he countryside around Darnebrook Abbey was throbbing with excitement. Or at least those families who had received invitations to the Tiverton Ball were. Embossed invitation cards had been displayed on the mantles of those so favoured for the best part of a month, much to the discomfort of less favoured individuals. Dresses had been bought, stitched or made over. Carriages and gigs were ordered, borrowed or hired. Dance steps were practiced on wet afternoons. Morning calls had discussed little else.

When the great day dawned skies were assessed with concern. Would it be too hot for comfort in a ballroom full of energetic dancers? Would it pour with rain and soil the ladies’ slippers and trains? The day, pleasantly warm and dry, was greeted with relief. When it faded into the early evening a welcome coolness arrived.

As the first of her guests’ carriages pulled to a halt under the portico, the Marchioness of Tiverton marshalled her husband, her daughter and Rowena into a receiving line at the entrance to the ballroom. She ran her eye over them.

‘Harriette, do not stoop so. It is quite unbecoming.’

‘Yes, Mama. I mean no, Mama.’

Further down the room, Araminta chattered to her father, Lord Conniston and Madame de Gambade, the petite dancing mistress of uncertain years. Her accented babble was interrupted several times as she demonstrated steps and turns. Madame de Gambade clapped her hands delightedly. The tall ostrich plume on her head nodded and flared in a manner Lady Tiverton privately considered excessive. But then Madame was French and that was never an advantage to Lady Tiverton’s mind.

The footman at the door cleared his throat. ‘Doctor and Mrs Glennard.’

The ball had begun.

Rowena danced with the Reverend Augustus Nethercott’s elder son, Everard; with Captain Fookes of the Fifteenth Light Dragoons, currently paying a duty call on his Mama in Fordingham; and with her cousin Tristan’s former playmate, Berrington Somerville.

When the set ended, Mr Somerville offered his arm. ‘Would you care for some refreshment, ma’am?’

‘Now, now,’ said a familiar voice behind them. ‘You young sprigs mustn’t keep Miss Rowena to yourselves.’

Archibald Neave lifted Rowena’s hand from Somerville’s arm prior to transferring it to his own.

‘I say,’ Somerville protested. ‘I can’t allow that. You’ve had Miss Harcourt-Spence’s company all week.’ He recaptured Rowena’s fingers. ‘I’m sure you will have the pleasure later.’

Rowena tried to look as if it would be a pleasure. The disappointed suitor watched them depart for the supper room.

All the tables were occupied, either by couples flushed from dancing or by gentlemen intent on savouring the products of Darnebrook’s kitchens or avoiding the dancing mistress’s attempts to commandeer them to partner a girl in the next set. Along the wall opposite the windows a line of footmen and maids, each holding a silver tray of tidbits, stood in front of the long empty table that would later be filled with the buffet dishes. Couples and small groups meandered up and down in front of them, picking at this tray or that.

At a card table near the second window, The Reverend Mr Nethercott pushed his remaining tasty morsel of pastry into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. He dabbed at the crumbs with a finger, he conveyed them to his mouth then pushed the plate away. Licking the final soupçon of flavour off his finger, he surveyed the room. ‘Ah,’ he said, catching sight of Rowena and her escort hovering by the door. He rose and flapped his fingers at them. ‘Here, Berrington. Here. Take my seat. I must remove myself before I succumb to the sin of gluttony.’ He rose and held his chair for Rowena, patted her shoulder when she was seated then drifted away to be engulfed by the crowd.

‘Now, Miss Harcourt-Spence.’ Berrington Somerville looked at her with an expression of concern. ‘It is passing warm in here. Would you take a little ice, perhaps? Or a lemonade?’

‘A lemonade, please.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Excellent.’

He weaved his way between the tables with determined steps, his eyes firmly on the line of maids. Several of his parents’ acquaintances were seated between him and his goal and commanded his attention. So intent was he on reaching the lemonade, he greeted then with little more than a polite nod.

Rowena watched her partner’s determined progress until a laugh drifted across the room. It was the vibrant, trilling laugh she had come to know so well in the past few days. Fanning herself somewhat violently she looked in its direction. Seated four tables away beside the door, Araminta Neave was smiling up into the face of a man standing over her. He turned, exposing his profile to Rowena’s view. A scar crossed his cheek. Rowena looked down sharply until another of the laughs dragged her attention back. Madame de Gambade was bearing down on the pair. Jumping to her feet, the laughing Araminta pulled Conniston’s hand. Smiling, he allowed himself to be dragged back into the ballroom.

‘Isn’t the lemonade refreshing, Miss Harcourt-Spence? Perhaps you would prefer some blancmange?’

Recalled to herself, Rowena looked at the glass placed in front of her. She forced a smile onto her face and took a sip. ‘Not at all Mr Somerville. It’s delicious.’ To prove it, she took another gulp. A delicate, somewhat wrinkled, hand descended onto her shoulder. The lemonade gurgled in Rowena’s throat. She swallowed hard, coughed and blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes.

‘Oh, la, ma’mselle.’ Madame de Gambade fluttered her hands. ‘I declare I ’ave inconvenienced you.

‘Not at all, ma’am.’

‘C’est bien. Maintenent, it ees a shame to see such a ’andsome couple not dancing. Come, come . . .’ She beckoned with all her fingers. ‘We prepare ourselves for the Kelsterne Gardens. You will make an excellent first couple.’

‘But we have only just seated ourselves, ma’am.’ Having at last secured a place and his opportunity of a private discourse with the delightful Miss Harcourt-Spence, disappointment covered Berrington Somerville’s face. The opportunity was demolished in a flurry of French and deplorable English. Rising, Somerville and Rowena were led, or rather, propelled into the ballroom.

‘Ah, ’ere we ’ave an incomplete set.’

The dancing mistress guided them to a pair of couples who had been looking rather disconsolate. She reeled off the introductions. Rowena discovered she was to dance with Ma’amselles Nethercott and Gifford and M’sieurs Wadesworth and Rennick. Mr Rennick was quite the tallest man Rowena had ever seen. She smiled up at him as the set curtsied or bowed. The smile vanished when she caught sight of Lord Conniston behind his shoulder. By his side, her hand lightly in his, stood a beaming Araminta.

Rowena found herself struggling not to frown. The orchestra in the balcony struck the first notes. Still staring at Conniston and his partner, she missed the set’s first two steps. Somerville was obliged to tug gently at her hand. Her attention summoned, she skipped her way gracefully through the chains, links and circles of the dance. She even managed a smile when, approaching the bottom of her set she came face to face with Conniston dancing towards the top of his. Colour filled her cheeks.

‘I say, Miss Harcourt-Spence,’ Berrington Somerville declared at the end. ‘You look quite spiffing.’ He escorted her to one of the gilt chairs under the balcony while fervently expressing his hope of another dance. Or even, if he might be so bold, to be her escort to supper.

Relief swept over Rowena. She smiled and thanked him and promised him her company. Now, if the dreaded Mr Neave asked her to be his dinner partner she could decline with a clear conscience. She leant back in her chair, watching Madame de Gambade organise couples into long sets for Strip the Willow.

Mrs Nethercott, seated on the chair beside her, whispered in her ear. ‘I’m pleased to see you are not dancing this set, Miss Harcourt-Spence. I’m surprised dear Lady Tiverton has allowed dear Harriette to join in. Far too vigorous, I fear.’

‘Is it? I don’t know it. It was not much danced in London.’

‘I am pleased to hear it.’ The reverend’s wife settled back, evidently ready to be scandalised.

To her chagrin, Rowena was soon to agree with her opinion. At least as far as Araminta Neave’s set was concerned. The ladies and gentlemen faced each other across two arms-lengths of polished floor. Araminta was partnered by Captain Fookes. Further down the set Conniston stood opposite a rosy-faced creature in a pink gown decorated with two rows of frills and several bands of ribbon.

The music started and Araminta set off. She and the captain grasped each other’s arms at the elbow and spun round in the centre. The figured gold foulard of her gown swung out as did the rope of bullion that tied a silk rose to centre of the high waist. Released, she grasped the arm of the first gentleman in line and circled vigorously with him while the captain waited. She and Captain Fookes linked arms and circled again. The process continued to the bottom of the set. Lord Conniston watched her every move. Rowena could not decide if his expression was one of delight or amusement. He certainly smiled widely when it was his turn to spin Miss Neave.

The pattern was repeated as the pair worked their way back to the top, with the captain circling alternately with every lady and his partner. All the ladies, apart from the rosy-faced girl, looked less than pleased to be flung around so vigorously. Araminta encouraged him, clapping her hands and laughing. Harriette laughed enthusiastically as the captain spun her around. Reaching the top, Captain Fookes caught hold of Araminta’s arm again and they swung down the set, this time both of them circling with the other dancers as well as each other. Araminta’s laughs turned to shrieks. The gathered back of her gown flared out even further, wrapping itself round the captain’s legs more than once. From his expression he was delighted to be so encumbered. Their swings grew more and more energetic until they arrived at the bottom, laughing and panting, accompanied by several disapproving glances, not least from the ladies in their set, some of who were discretely trying to tuck away dislodged curls. Conniston was smiling broadly. The dance ended after the pair had formed an arch for the others to skip under. Araminta looked pinkly joyful but the other ladies of her set looked were flustered.

Rowena watched the floor clear. Conniston was escorting his mousey-haired partner to a lady of senior years, presumably her mother. He looked immaculate, despite the energies of Strip the Willow. Only a single brown curl has flopped onto his forehead.

Mrs Nethercott spread her fan in front of her mouth, staring over the top at someone approaching behind Rowena. ‘Not that I care to indulge in gossip, Miss Harcourt-Spence, but is he as rich as they say?’

Rowena’s head snapped round. Archibald Neave was advancing towards her. She leapt to her feet, thankful that Neave’s bulk was inhibiting his progress. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, ma’am. I beg you to excuse me. I . . . I need my reticule from the retiring room.’ She slipped along the side of the ballroom behind the pillars, trying to look as if it was mere chance.

In the retiring room, four maids stood in a line watching another on her knees behind a lady gaudily dressed in emerald and yellow silk. The girl clambered to her feet, a dish of pins in her hand. She was short and thin and very young. The dress she was wearing had obviously been intended for a wider person. Rowena recognised her. It was Alice, the maid Minchin had assigned to her after a tearful Ellie had departed.

‘There, ma’am. That should hold it,’ she said.

The woman tilted backwards to peer over her shoulder. ‘I expect it will have to.’

Alice’s eyes sparkled. She blinked rapidly. The mob cap perched on her pale hair trembled.

Rowena hurried towards her. ‘Would you find my reticule for me, please, Alice? I need my handkerchief.’

The girl hurried to a table drawn up behind the maids. Seconds later she held out a reticule heavily embroidered with mimosa blossom and closed with yellow cord drawstrings.

Rowena took it from her. ‘Thank you.’ She pulled the strings open and extracted a flutter of lawn and lace.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, miss?’ Alice dared to whisper. ‘I had a peep in the room when we was setting out the table here. It looked real fine.’

‘It is but I think I may leave soon.’

‘Oh, miss. Surely not? It hasn’t been supper yet.’

Rowena remembered her promise to Mr Somerville. She sighed. Promises were made to be kept. She wondered what the time was. She wondered even more if she could avoid Mr Neave until supper was announced.

‘Quite right, Alice. I’m promised to Mr Somerville. I had better go and find him. She tucked the handkerchief into the top of her long glove and held out the reticule. ‘Take care of this again, please.’

The girl clutched the bag to her chest, wishing and wishing she too could go to the dance and enjoy herself like Miss Harcourt-Spence.

Rowena drew a deep breath and stepped back into the ballroom.