Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1)

Rowena

C
AROLINE
A
SHTON

Copyright © Caroline Ashton 2016

Caroline Ashton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

All rights reserved. If you have purchased the ebook edition of this novel please be aware that it is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and refrain from copying it.

Cover design based on
The Wind Miller’s Guest
by Edmund Blair Leighton used under a Wikimedia Commons licence

For translation rights and permission queries please contact the author’s agent

[email protected]

About the Author

C
aroline was born in Durham City but has lived in many different parts of the country before finally settling in Norfolk. Aged eleven, she began writing stories for the school magazine and has continued whenever work, marriage and raising three children have allowed. She started writing (almost) full time
during a creative writing degree with the Open University. Caroline’s favourite activity, other than writing, is walking with her husband and two cocker spaniels.

Rowena
is the first of
The Regency Belles
series, and the second novel
Araminta
is being published simultaneously.

Caroline’s previous Regency novel
Follow Me
and her contemporary novel
Pulling Up The Weeds
are also available from Amazon

For Becky, Fi and Sue.

Chapter One

‘O
h no, Amabelle, no!’ Rowena Harcourt-Spence caught the embroidery frame her half-sister hurled wildly across the bedroom. ‘Throwing things will not help.’

She seated herself on the bed, gripping the frame with its inexpertly stitched pansies in the lap of her gown. Despite the best of intentions, a flush of irritation covered her features. She shook her head to banish the hasty words that threatened.

‘Father insists you stay in your room until you accept his lordship’s offer,’ she said, her voice not quite level. ‘And so you must. You know he never changes his mind.’

The dark-haired girl scowling angrily on the window seat swivelled round and swung her feet up onto the long cushion. She wrapped one arm quickly about her knees. With the other hand she jabbed a fingernail at the painted window-shutter until a cream flake fell off. It landed on her hem.

‘Well, I won’t,’ she said. ‘I just won’t. Even if I have to stay here until I’m old and grey.’ Her chin rose. ‘I’ll die here if I have to.’

Rowena’s flush deepened. Her sister’s obstinacy was trying her severely. Her hands clenched on the embroidery. The scene in their father’s study an hour ago churned in her mind. His face red, his tone determined, Sir Richard had dismissed Amabelle and addressed his elder daughter. The girl’s repeated refusal of Conniston’s offer would not do. Most certainly not. It was Rowena’s duty to make her sister accept him. The words had caused her such mounting distress that her self-control had almost broken. They had certainly destroyed her one dream. The hope she had cherished of sharing her life with the Earl of Conniston was gone for ever.

Hiding her sorrow, she had left the study. In her bedroom, she had forced herself to accept the decision. Drawing on the depths of her spirit, she had vowed never to betray the cost it would drag from her. Now with Amabelle, she pressed on before that resolve could weaken.

‘Lord Conniston is a wonderful match. Attaching him in your first Season has made you the envy of every other debutant.’

‘Well they can have him.’ One jab more vicious than the rest broke off another cream flake. ‘Or you can. I don’t want him. He’s ugly. That scar . . . ugh.’ She shuddered dramatically and flicked her gown sending the paint flakes tumbling. ‘And he’s old.’

‘He is not old!’ Rowena’s blue eyes sparkled. ‘He’s barely thirty. And as for ugly . . . I don’t know how you can say that.’

The memory of her first sight of him during her own début three years ago distracted her. None of the revulsion her sister felt had afflicted her. Far from it. The Earl’s quizzical grey eyes and smile had captivated her. When she did notice the thin white line running from cheek to jaw all she had felt was a desire to raise her fingers to smooth away any remaining pain. The memory warmed her face. She unclasped her hands from the embroidery and wiped a tendril of hair behind her ear. Her teeth captured the edge of her lip and held it tight.

‘What’s the matter, Rowena? You’ve turned quite pink.’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Apart from your stubbornness.’ She rose with less than her usual elegance. ‘I’ll leave you to reconsider his lordship’s offer.’

‘I don’t need to. I’ve told Papa I don’t want him. There’s an end to it.’

‘Oh really, Amabelle. Do be sensible.’

The younger girl blinked at the impatient note. ‘What’s wrong? Have you the megrim?’

‘No I haven’t.’ Rowena forced herself to walk calmly to the door. ‘And if I have it’s because you are being so silly.’

Lips pressed firmly together to trap words that could never be unsaid, she left the room. Out of her sister’s sight her poise crumbled. She hurried back to the refuge of her own room, her fingers twisting together at her waist until she pushed the door open.

The room with its lilac flowers on pale walls usually calmed her. Today it failed. Resting her back on the closed door, she pulled in one long breath. With two fingers pressed under her nose and her breath held tight in her chest, she blinked until her eyes ceased to prickle. Her gaze travelled slowly around her private domain. Here was the brass bed with its comforting, faded quilt and frilled pillows. The washstand on its carved legs faced it, a rose-painted basin and ewer on its marble top. The tall clothes-press loomed in the corner. By the far window a narrow table had a straight chair drawn up to it. On it rested her hairbrush and comb and her . . .

Her glance stopped. A leather-bound diary lay there. Its silver lock glinted in the sun. She sighed. Inside the dark blue covers she had detailed every meeting she had had with Lord Conniston. There had been many. As one of Uncle Tiverton’s closest friends he had been often in her company. Morning calls, nuncheons, balls, she could remember them all. And at all, her liking for him had increased.

The memory of one moment brought a smile despite the moisture on her lashes. She could picture it so clearly. The drive along Rotten Row in her aunt’s carriage. The warmth of the day. Her aunt’s feather-crowned head drooping sleepily causing the plumes to dip and bounce so comically. The Earl and she had caught each other’s eye, both hard put not to laugh out loud. The tears filled and slid onto her cheeks. She had not read of that, nor of any meeting, nor written for nearly a month. Not since the fateful afternoon Lord Conniston had approached her father and asked not for her but for Amabelle.

Sitting alone and heart-sore, she had turned the silver key one final time. From now on she would celebrate her sister’s happiness with every ounce of her being. Never again would she read of her past hopes.

Or so she had thought but Amabelle’s refusal today had fired temptation. She walked to the table and sat down. The jewel box that had belonged to her mother hid the key in its velvet lining. Her fingers hesitated for a moment. Then they moved and the lock clicked open.

Lines of writing, neat in black ink, covered the pages. A ribbon marked the final entry. She eased the pages backwards from it. Back to the first time she had seen him.

Lord Conniston called upon Aunt today. She called him by his Christian name: Laurence. A lovely name and how well it suits him. Noble. Dignified. But there is a lift in it to match what I think denotes a pleasing sense of humour. He is tall, above the average, but not haughty. He smiled when Aunt presented me and his grey eyes looked kindly down at me. There was a slight mark upon his cheek but nothing to detract from his pleasant aspect. He took my hand and said –

A tiny scratch sounded on the door. The handle turned and it creaked open. Rowena snapped the diary shut and twisted to face the door. A young girl in a long grey dress and white-bibbed apron peeped round the edge. A strand of pale hair poked out from under her frilled cap.

‘Beg pardon, miss,’ she whispered. ‘But the master’s in his study with his lordship just arrived. They’re asking for Miss Amabelle.’

Rowena’s composure trembled. ‘Then you had better tell her, Ellie. She’s in her room.’

‘Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.’

Ellie closed the door and scurried along the corridor.

Still sitting on the window seat, her back turned to the sunny view, Amabelle was not pleased at the summons.

She sniffed. ‘Please tell Papa I am indisposed.’

‘But Lord Conniston’s here too, miss.’

‘Then I’m definitely indisposed.’

Amabelle swivelled her feet onto the seat. Her muslin gown caught on the edge of the long tapestry cushion, revealing her ankles. Unconcerned, she folded her arms around her knees. She tilted her head to the window. Outside, wide lawns sloped down to a lake that sparkled in the sunshine.

Ellie pushed the door shut, flattening herself against it. ‘Oh, miss.’ She bit her lip. ‘What’ll the master say if’n you don’t come out?’

‘I don’t care.’ Amabelle’s small, pointed chin lifted. She continued to gaze out of the window. ‘He told me to keep to my room ’til I agreed to marry him. And I haven’t so I can’t.’

Ellie twisted her hands in her apron. ‘I . . . I don’t think I dare tell him that, miss.’

‘Well I –’ Amabelle’s shoulders slumped. ‘Oh, very well.’ She unwound from the seat. ‘Say I am coming.’

A long breath escaped from the maid. ‘Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.’ She bobbed a curtsey and disappeared round the door as quietly as she had come.

Amabelle decided she would not hurry. She would smooth her dress. Straighten the peach ribbon threaded in her dark curls. Perhaps buff her nails with the chamois pad on her dressing table.

Five minutes later her hand trailed down the polished banister curving protectively round the stairs. On the dark wall, stern painted faces frowned down at her. Most of them she had never known but Great Grandpa Algernon faced her at the landing and Grandpa Lytton stared from beside the bottom step.

The sound of her slippers pattering on the black and white tiles of the hall floor broke the silence. She crossed to the study’s panelled door. Her fingers curled round its handle. She paused, then knocked instead and waited.

‘Enter.’

Sir Richard Harcourt-Spence stood by his desk. He was a solid man, broad shouldered and heavy featured with sturdy legs that could force the most defiant of stallions into submission. None of his physique had passed to his daughter. She was a model of her late mother, Marguerite: petite, slim and fine-boned, with dark hair and large, brilliant eyes that shone almost violet when she was happy.

A tall figure stood in the window embrasure. Sunlight streamed into the room around it, turning it into a black silhouette. Laurence Radley, eighth Earl of Conniston.

Amabelle shivered. She curtsied.

‘Come here, girl.’ Sir Richard held out an imperious hand.

Amabelle walked towards him, almost tripping on the edge of the thick Turkey rug on which he stood. Halting, she stared, not at him but at the slightly muddied toes of his riding boots. A crumb of dried earth fell from the nearest one onto the red and blue tufts.

Sir Richard glowered at the bowed head. ‘Lord Conniston and I grow impatient with your stupidity, miss. It is time this was decided.’

He waved his hand towards the desk. Several sheets of paper covered with looping script were spread across its top. A pen lay on the glass inkstand beside them, its carved nib black with ink. ‘The contract is drawn, miss. You are well provided for. When you produce an heir, you will be even better favoured.’

A shudder shook Amabelle’s muslin dress from puffed sleeve to hem.

Lord Conniston coughed. ‘Perhaps, Sir Richard, we can leave that aspect to a later time.’

He stepped away from the window. With the light no longer behind him he assumed form and colour. Another pace brought his polished boots into Amabelle’s lowered vision.

He bowed. ‘Good morning, Miss Amabelle.’

Her eyes travelled up the white britches above the boots to the yellow damask waistcoat and perfect blue tailcoat that failed to disguise his strength. A snowy cravat fell from chin to lapels. Her gaze flicked quickly to the chestnut hair styled
en brosse
. Nothing would make her look at his face. Another tremor shivered round her throat. Even unseen, she could not forget the scar that stitched his left cheek from temple to jaw.

Her eyes whipped back down to his boots. She curtsied again. ‘My lord,’ she croaked.

‘I hope I find you well?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ she mumbled to his feet.

‘Now, miss –’ Sir Richard began.

A soft knock on the opening door interrupted him. Rowena entered, her face calm, her hands linked loosely at her waist. The soft tones of her well-modulated voice slipped into the room.

‘Good morning, Lord Conniston.’ She forced herself to smile when she looked at him. The smile did not reach her eyes. She curtsied. The frill of her gown draped briefly over her toes.

The Earl bowed. ‘Miss Harcourt-Spence.’

Sir Richard frowned. ‘How come you here, Rowena?’

‘Ellie told me his lordship had arrived, Papa, and that you had asked for Amabelle. I . . .’ Her fingers curled together. She raised her chin a fraction, lengthening a throat that ached, and schooled her features into serenity. ‘I hoped perhaps there might be good news.’

Her father’s frown deepened. ‘Your sister, miss, continues as recalcitrant as ever. I’m amazed Conniston is still interested.’ He gave the slightest bow to the Earl.

Conniston walked forward. Rowena looked levelly at him, not flinching from sight of the scarred cheek.

‘I too had hoped Miss Amabelle was of more compliant mind today. It seems I am to be disappointed again.’

The recalcitrant, incompliant girl shoved a satin-covered toe into the tufts of the rug. Her hands twisted together. She folded her lips tightly until she could contain herself no longer.

‘I’m sorry.’ She burst out, her face pink and her eyes over-bright. ‘I really am but don’t want to marry you.’ She turned and fled from the room.

‘Amabelle!’ Sir Richard roared at the disappearing muslin hem. ‘Come back at once, miss.’ The door slammed. He took a pace towards it.

Rowena held up a hand. ‘Please leave her to me, Papa. I’m sure I can make her see how much she would enjoy marriage to his lordship.’

Both men stared at her.

‘Enjoy?’ Sir Richard said. ‘What’s enjoyment got to do with marriage?’

A short laugh escaped Laurence Conniston. ‘Would she enjoy it, Miss Harcourt-Spence?’

Rowena’s head swam round on its slender neck. ‘I’m sure she would, my lord.’ A slight brush of colour entered her cheeks. Her eyes lowered briefly then lifted again on a determined breath. ‘She’s only just turned seventeen. Too young to appreciate the . . .’ Words died in her mouth. The flush in her cheeks crept up to the fair curls.

Conniston raised his eyebrows, examining her more closely.

‘... the advantages,’ she finished.

A narrow smile lifted his mouth. ‘But you, ma’am, being a good three years older perceive those advantages?’

Rowena raised her eyes to his. The words she wished to say dried on her lips.

Conniston frowned. ‘Your sister seems to think marriage to a maimed individual overrides any advantages.’

Words rushed easily this time. ‘Oh, but you are mistaken, my lord. No scar honourably earned in battle would deter any woman of virtue.’