Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) (2 page)

Sir Richard’s mouth pursed. ‘What do you know of battles and scars, miss?’

More colour stained Rowena’s cheeks. ‘I saw the account in your copy of the London Gazette, sir.’

Conniston scanned her face. ‘And what did you think of it, Miss Harcourt-Spence?’

‘I thought it sounded very dangerous, my lord. And hot.’

A sharp laugh. ‘Hot? Yes, by God’s grace, it was hot. When is India never hot?’

‘The account mentioned you by name, my lord.’

‘Of course it did. I’m an Earl.’ He paced two quick strides towards the window then swung round to face her. ‘What it did not mention were the hundreds of good men killed that day. Or the thousands injured. Or dying from cursed disease.’

‘Really, Conniston –’ Sir Richard began.

Rowena took a tiny step forward. ‘It said every one of Major-General Wellesley’s officers had a horse shot from under him.’

Conniston’s turbulent grey eyes locked into Rowena’s blue ones. ‘It is true, ma’am.’ He paused. An enforced calm covered his face. ‘But the battle of Assaye is no subject for tender ears.’

‘Quite right, Conniston. Rowena, take yourself off to your piano or needlework or whatever.’

Rowena dragged her eyes away from the Earl’s and her mind from sudden thoughts of his strong arms protecting her from unspecified dangers.

‘As you wish, Papa.’ She curtsied. ‘Good day, my lord.’ A second curtsey and she left the room.

Laurence, eighth Earl of Conniston, stared at the closing door.

Chapter Two

R
owena walked across the hall trying, with difficulty, to forget the passion she had seen fire into a pair of grey eyes. Surely it had been a true, heart-felt passion caused by anger at the common soldiers’ fate. One could only approve of that. By the time she had gained the stairs and reached her half-sister’s room she had managed to banish the memory. Almost.

The click of the opening door had Amabelle swivelling round from her favourite pose on the window seat. She planted her feet firmly on the floor. ‘I’m shan’t be persuaded,’ she scowled. ‘So don’t try.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’ Rowena closed the door with a snap. ‘If you can’t see the advantages in the match, you’re too lacking in sense to make him a commendable wife.’

‘I’m not lacking in sense.’ Amabelle slumped back against the glass, her arms folded across her chest. ‘I know it’s a good offer but I don’t want it. If you think it’s so good, why don’t you try for him?’

A passionate-eyed image surged up. Rowena squashed it down. ‘He has no interest in me.’ She squeezed onto the small space left on the window seat and reached an arm round the embattled figure. ‘Papa only wants the best for you, dearest. Your Mama made him promise with her last breath.’

Amabelle’s face clouded. Her head drooped. Moments passed before she whispered, ‘Poor Mama.’

‘I know.’ Rowena turned her head away.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Amabelle’s hand reached out and grasped Rowena’s fingers. ‘I forget sometimes that your Mama’s been gone for so much longer.’

Sir Richard Harcourt-Spence had lost two wives. His first, Lavinia, had been the staunchly English daughter of the tenth Duke of Maddingly. She had died young, nearly nineteen years ago, leaving him with Rowena barely able to toddle. A year later, visiting Paris with his brother-in-law, by then the eleventh Duke, he had married the darkly-pretty Marguerite, youngest daughter of Monsieur le Comte de Lamballe. Amabelle had been a honeymoon baby.

‘If you did marry him,’ Rowena continued, ‘you might not have to see him overmuch. He’ll spend time with his friends in London. Gentlemen like their clubs. And cards. And hunting. And managing his estates will occupy him too. He likes to involve himself in that.’

‘How do you know?’

Rowena stood up and turned her back. A speck on the window pane seemed to attract her attention. She rubbed at it with a finger. ‘I think Papa mentioned it once.’

In truth the Earl had told her, seated beside her at the Stanhopes’ dinner before their ball last year. Light from the triple candelabrum beside them had flicked specks of bronze into his eyes and . . . She cleared a throat unaccountably dry and left the window to its own devices. Turning back, she surveyed her sister.

‘Just consider, dearest, you love pretty clothes. As the Countess of Conniston you will have all you could ever want. And a carriage of your own to show them off in.’

‘Bonnets and dresses won’t make up for going to a house I don’t know, with people I don’t know, with a man I don’t much know. And don’t care to.’ The heart-shaped face looked up. Misery filled its contours. ‘I’d have to leave you. Leave Southwold.’ The trembling lips folded tightly for a second. A sob burst free. ‘I don’t want to. It’s my home.’

Rowena smoothed a hand over her sister’s curls. ‘But you’re bound to leave it sometime, whomever you marry. It doesn’t mean leaving us for ever. You’ll still see us.’ The hand slid round the narrow shoulders. The dark head leant against her waist. ‘I could visit you often.’

‘No you couldn’t. You’ll be married too.’

‘No. I shan’t marry. I shall stay and look after Papa.’

‘But he’ll live for years and years. You’ll be an old maid by then. Far too late find a husband.’ She clutched Rowena’s hand. ‘And you can’t stay here when he dies. That horrid northern man will have everything.’

Both sisters knew the Southwold Hall estate was entailed. They could not inherit it since it must, perforce, go to the nearest male relative. The man – a cousin, several times removed – had called two years ago on his way home from London. He had not been a personable individual, though he had smiled a lot. The visit had been endured but not enjoyed.

Amabelle stared anxiously at Rowena. ‘It would be awful. He’s sure to have a horrid, pinch-faced wife. And dozens of children. You’d be bossed about by some strange woman in your own home and forced to pander to her brood.’

‘Be that as it may, I shall stay with Papa.’

An expression of singular determination crossed Amabelle’s face. ‘No, you must marry. Cousin Thomasina can look after Papa.’

Thomasina Quigley was the daughter of Sir Richard’s uncle and several years his senior. She had never married and had thankfully joined Southwold Hall after Marguerite’s demise.

‘Dearest, she is not capable. You know she isn’t. She hasn’t been for years.’

Amabelle’s fingers teased the lace frill at her cuff. ‘She is a little . . . strange.’

‘A little? Don’t you remember the Christmas before last? She ordered ten sparrows for dinner instead of a goose and four chickens.’

Their panicking cook had ventured up to the drawing room to beg for different orders. Since then every menu had passed under Rowena’s scrutiny. As had the organization of the linen, the dairy and every other item of household management. Cousin Thomasina had barely noticed. Papa certainly had not. Those responsibilities meant never entertaining thoughts of marrying anyone. Certainly not Lord Conniston. And he hadn’t asked her. Had he?

‘She’ll just have to learn. You’ll have to teach her. And anyway, there’s the question of an heir.’

Rowena blinked. ‘What?’

‘An heir. Papa mentioned getting an heir for Lord Conniston.’ A small frown pleated her forehead. ‘How do you get one? How do ladies increase?’

A similar frown drew Rowena’s brows together. ‘I don’t know.’ Three puzzled breaths passed. ‘However it is done, I’m sure Lord Conniston will be a perfect gentleman about it.’

‘Well, I’m still not marrying him. He’s horrible to look at. I’d rather marry Edward.’

Edward Marchment, a neighbour’s son and former playmate, lived five miles away. The three of them and Edward’s younger brother, Matthew, had ridden their ponies together, collected apples – without permission – together, and spent endless summer days together until Rowena had let down her skirts and put up her hair and Edward had gone off to university in Cambridge. After that it had been Matthew and Amabelle laughing in the sunshine or making races of the raindrops running down the windows until Matthew had grown tired of such pursuits.

‘Well you can’t. He’s still in Cambridge. And he’ll take his father’s seat in Parliament eventually.’ Rowena knew Edward had far too much sense to marry the darling scatterbrain before her. He needed a wife who would forward his career, not be simply a pretty ornament. She swallowed hard. ‘No, dearest, Lord Conniston is a good match . . . a brilliant one . . . you must accept him.’

‘But I don’t –’

Amabelle’s words were cut short by the bedroom door flying open. A bird-like lady, well past any trace of youth, appeared, draped in shawls and wearing a dress with an unfashionably-long train. Salt-and-pepper hair escaped from a straw bonnet lavishly decorated with full-blown silk roses most of which had faded and many of which looked in desperate need of several anchoring stitches. A puzzled expression covered her face.

‘Ah – girls, have you seem my paisley anywhere? I can’t seem to find it.’

Both girls tried to remember if they had seen that particular one of Cousin Thomasina’s many shawls. Her tally must run to nearly a dozen by now and she was forever losing them. There was at least one to be found in every room she used. If Ellie did not tie Miss Quigley’s lace cap firmly under her chin each morning she would probably mislay that too.

Rowena eyed the bonnet. ‘Are you going out, cousin?’

Thomasina shook her head bemusedly. ‘No. Why?’

Rowena sighed. ‘I’ll come and look for it.’ She put her hand on Amabelle’s shoulder. ‘Try to be sensible, dearest. If you dislike Lord Conniston’s appearance so much you can always sit on his right side. That really is a handsome profile.’ She walked to the door, easing Thomasina out of the room, and leaving her sister to her thoughts. She buried her own far down in her mind.

Rowena found the shawl folded neatly over the end of the daybed in Thomasina’s room. The daybed was carefully angled away from the window even though the sun rarely reached it.

‘Thank you, dear. It’s very kind of.’ Thomasina yawned. ‘I think I’ll have a little rest. Looking for my shawl has quite tired me out.’

Rowena helped her settle onto the daybed and tucked the fine material over her feet. She untangled the bonnet’s ribbon ties so she could lift it gently off the grey head. ‘Would you like me to call you down for nuncheon or will you have it here?’

‘I think I’ll have it here. A little porridge and a piece of cheese.’ She wriggled the kid slippers off her feet. They dropped to the floor, taking the shawl with them.

Rowena caught the light fabric. She tucked it in again. ‘You rest now, I’ll tell cook what you would like.’ She tried not to think of the expression that would cross Mrs Kesgrave’s face when she heard that order. It was lucky the cook was a kindly person who would make a little cream soup and some flummery instead. Thomasina would have forgotten what she had requested long before it arrived.

Gentle snores followed Rowena to the door. She shut it as quietly as she could and walked down to the drawing room. The late morning sun was shining happily through the tall window. The bevelled mirror over the carved fireplace on the opposite wall scattered the sunbeams into a hundred diamonds that danced over yellow damask furniture and pale Aubusson rugs. Everything was faded now. Sir Richard had indulged Marguerite, letting her change the furnishings in the principal rooms. He had not replaced them since. The charm of her Continental taste lingered everywhere. Everywhere except Rowena’s own room. Even though she had been too young to understand the few baby memories she had of her own mother, Rowena had clung fast to one particular chair. Her nurse had later told her that it was the one Lavinia always sat in. Rowena’s favourite doll rested on it now, propped on a small square cushion her mother had embroidered with bluebells. Marguerite had been a sympathetic woman; all of her predecessor’s choices had remained in her stepchild’s bedroom.

The drawing room was empty. Rowena seated herself at the piano and let her fingers play a sad glissando. The last note faded into silence. She sat motionless. A tear slid slowly down her cheek and splashed onto the ivory of middle C. She brushed it away, straightened her spine and launched into a rousing scherzo.

Chapter Three

L
ord Conniston rode away from Southwold Hall after a further discussion with Sir Richard and a glass of Madeira. He frowned. He had expected to be contracted to marry by now. The girl was young and pretty. A trifle immature perhaps but nonetheless her connections made her an entirely suitable wife. What she did not yet know about running a large house – which was probably all of it – she could learn from Mrs Brinscott, his housekeeper. He himself would show her how to check over the housekeeping accounts with his steward.

His horse walked slowly down the gravelled carriageway towards the tall wrought-iron gates. Conniston’s frown deepened. His hand lowered; the reins slackened. A fat woodpigeon burst in alarm from the thicket beside the gate. It flapped skywards leaving a single feather whirling behind it. The horse took violent exception to the interruption. It skittered and reared. Gravel spat from beneath its hooves.

Conniston pulled on the reins, his thighs tightening on the horse’s flanks. He leant forward, uttering soothing words and stroking the animal’s quivering neck. Under his hand the stallion calmed and walked on. It was the Earl’s latest acquisition and he loved it. It was a total thoroughbred from its soft muzzle to the last whisking hair of its tail. An elegant thoroughbred, just like Rowena Harcourt-Spence.

The thought so rocked him he yanked the horse to a standstill. What on earth was she doing invading his mind? Not that he could deny she was well-bred. She was after all, the Duke of Maddingly’s granddaughter. And there was elegance in her bearing and poise. His brows drew together. Today she had been different. Less composed with none of the animation he remembered brightening her face. Was there a reason? If so, what? He urged his horse on, pondering. Perhaps she was unwell. Or set about by her sister. His hands tightened on the reins. Perhaps she disapproved of his offer. Would she dare? He scowled the more. The scar on his cheek stood out whiter against his flushing skin. The stallion was urged into motion with a sharp nudge of booted heels.

He rode on to Fincham Wortly. Unnoticing, he passed the vicar standing by the church’s lychgate. A puzzled expression covered the reverend gentleman’s face when his raised hat went unacknowledged. In the main street, ladies whispering behind their gloved hands watched him pass, hoping for their own salutation. Disappointment reigned. Even the dusty bulk of the Cambridge coach with its four horses whinnying and stamping in front of the inn was overlooked.

Edward Marchment alighted from the coach holding firmly onto the door frame. The unfolded step dipped under his weight, momentarily tilting the entire coach body sideways. The sight of the introspective Earl in his immediate vicinity surprised him.

‘What’s he doing here I wonder?’ he asked no-one in particular. ‘Come to his hunting lodge ready for the Twelfth I shouldn’t wonder.’

Edward was a presentable young man of slightly above average height. His fair complexion and open features readily earned him the trust of strangers. His family and friends were sure it would stand him in good stead when the time came to try for his father’s seat in parliament. Not that he, or they, expected that to be any time soon. Mr Marchment was in fine health, in the prime of his middle years. Nor had he declared an intention of retiring from public life in the foreseeable future. Edward looked forward to completing university before taking a post as secretary to some man of importance. Once there he would learn about affairs of state first hand. His father’s friendship with Sir Richard would undoubtedly help him secure a fine position.

He looked up at the skinny ostler currently balancing on one knee on the coachman’s seat. The man reached forward for the nearest portmanteau. ‘Take care of that,’ Edward called. ‘It has all my books in it.’

The man folded his lips firmly together. The unfortunate remark that would surely cost him his tip, if not his job, was never uttered. He lugged the bag towards him and lowered it carefully onto the seat. Its weight convinced him it contained more books than he, Larkin, had ever seen anywhere. He clambered round it, almost tipping himself into the road when his boot-heel caught on the seat’s side rail. Safely back on terra firma, he pulled the bag over the rail, staggering when it landed in his arms. He lowered it gratefully to the ground and caught the coin Edward tossed to him. He knuckled his forehead. ‘Thankee, sir.’

Edward nodded. He looked about him. There was no sign of his father, or of anyone else come to collect him. The clouds gathering sullenly overhead threatened a shower at the very least, if not a downpour. He shrugged, flicked a finger at the innkeeper and walked into the old, timbered building. ‘I’ll have a draught of ale, if you please, landlord.’ Landlord and ostler exchanged looks.

Edward sat in the taproom while his fobwatch ticked away twenty-three minutes. In the twenty-fourth minute there were sounds outside of a gig reining in. A few scuffles and a face appeared at the window. Edward’s younger brother Matthew scanned the room. A wide grin spread across his features. He banged on the thick glass. ‘Eddie. Eddie. You’re home.’

The face disappeared. Matthew erupted through the door seconds later, a younger, sunnier version of his brother.

Edward jumped up. He put his tankard down and thumped his sibling on the shoulder. ‘You’re late, sir. Very late.’

‘Not much. I had to stop. Jessie caught a stone. I had to wriggle it out of her hoof.’

‘She’s fine now? Not lame?’

‘Not in the least. I kept a good eye out for her.’

Edward wrapped an arm round Matthew’s shoulders. He picked up his portmanteau. ‘Come on. Let’s away. I expect Mama is waiting.’

‘She’s been waiting ever since you went up.’ Matthew’s young eyes sparkled. ‘Tell me what it’s like . . . university. Better than old Wragley’s classes?’

Edward snorted at the comparison with the tutor who had prepared him for university and was now doing the same for Matthew. ‘Much. I’ll tell you while I drive.’ He swung the portmanteau into his brother’s arms. Matthew gasped, clutching it close as it slipped downwards.

‘You?’

‘Me.’

The pair paused beside the yellow-painted gig.

‘Oh, very well. You drive and I’ll listen.’

Edward’s Mama, Mrs Florence Marchment, stood up from her chaise-longue in the drawing room in a flurry of lace and sarsnet that quite misled everyone about her determined nature. A wide smile pleated the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.

‘Darling boy.’ She wrapped her arms round his neck for a few brief seconds before holding him away. ‘Let me look at you.’ Her eyes travelled across his face from side to side, then from hair to chin and down to his toes. ‘I swear you’ve grown thinner.’

‘Not thinner, Mama. Older. It’s been near three months.’

‘I know. I watched every day.’ With a final squeeze of his upper arms, she re-seated herself on her chaise and patted the striped linen cover at her side. ‘Now, sit and tell me all you’ve done.’

Edward shrugged off his travelling coat and tossed it across the end of the chaise. Its many capes fluttered over like the pages of an abandoned book before it slid onto the floor. He settled himself beside his smiling mother.

The next half hour passed in drinking tea and recounting of some of the less trying incidents of the second Punic War. Mrs Marchment exclaimed at the notion of taking one elephant over the mountains let alone heaven knew how many, with or without Hannibal’s supervision. Her delight at having her first-born home again showed in her eyes and smile.

Matthew listened as patiently as he could, reluctant to restrict his mother’s pleasure. His fidgeting showed how little he was succeeding.

‘Mama,’ he said at last. ‘Where’s father?’

Mrs Marchment lowered her dish of tea that had turned cold during Edward’s account. ‘I expect he’s still closeted with Mr Jamerson. I haven’t heard them emerge from the book room as yet.’ Jamerson was the Marchment’s solicitor. ‘I’m sure he won’t be much more delayed.’ She wrinkled her nose after a sip of cold tea. The dish was deposited, unfinished, onto the fragile table beside her chaise. ‘But I haven’t told you our news.’ A heavy sigh slid into the air from Matthew’s direction. ‘Now, Matthew, ancient wars are ancient wars but a wedding is a wedding.’

‘Oh ho,’ Edward said. ‘That will please the ladies. Who’s the unlucky man?’

‘Now dear, you mean lucky. It’s Lord Conniston. He’s been much at Southwold Hall of late.’

‘Southwold?’ Edward grinned. ‘So Rowena’s captured a goodun then?’

‘Now that is vulgar talk. And it’s not Rowena. She’s over twenty, almost beyond any idea of a husband now. No, it’s Amabelle.’

All the humour left Edward’s face. ‘ ’Bella and Conniston? You can’t mean it. She’s only out this year. And he’s ancient.’

His Mama folded her hands triumphantly in her lap. ‘I thought that would surprise you. At one time Papa and I thought you two might try to make a go of it. Not that that would have suited. No, Lord Conniston must have much more appeal to Sir Richard. And he’s not ancient. I doubt he’s much into his thirties.’

Edward scowled. Only having a brother, he had long regarded Amabelle as the younger sister he had never had. ‘That’s still too old for ’Bella.’

‘Well, there’s bound to be an announcement soon.’

Matthew bounced up from his chair. ‘Oh, come on, Eddie, do. Abbie dropped her pups last month. Seven of them. All fine except the last . . . he’s a bit weedy but he’s doing well.’

His mother sighed. ‘Away with you then. Go and see Abbie. Matthew’s been with her every day since.’ She flapped her hand. ‘Go on. Papa should be free by the time you return. You can pay yours respects to him then, Edward.’

Edward collected his coat. Both boys bowed to their mother then the younger hustled the elder unceremoniously out of the room.

Florence Marchment shook her head from side to side causing the lace tails on her cap to flutter. She lifted a copy of
The Ladies Companion
and addressed her interest to an article therein on the most efficacious way of preparing a hare for jugging. She must show it to cook.

Down in the stables prone on a sheaf of hay, Edward looked at the last and smallest of Abbie’s seven pups his brother held out to him.

‘Here, now you’ve seen all of them. I’m going to call him Mimimus ’cos he’s the smallest. He’s weaned though.’ He smiled at Edward. ‘Eddie? What’s amiss?’

Edward pulled himself into the present. ‘Sorry, Matt, something just crossed my mind.’ He took the squirming little bundle. ‘Minimus is good. Have you named the others?’ Matthew shook his head. With a gritty effort of will, Edward helped his brother select six more names.