Rowena (Regency Belles Series Book 1) by Caroline Ashton

you’ll do me the honour.’
    A giggling Araminta linked arms with Harriette and whispered something Rowena could not quite catch, apart from the words
new
Mama
. They progressed in stately paces to the small dining room.
    Small was a relative term. Rowena doubted if there was anything small anywhere in Darnebrook Abbey. At least not any part of it her aunt would frequent. A maid’s room perhaps. Or a cupboard.
    As they passed the footman holding the door open, the full magnificence of the small dining room came into view. Its coffered ceiling was only marginally less lofty than that of the large dining room. Pale green silk panels covered walls grandly delineated with plaster mouldings picked out in white. Toning damask with heavy green fringing draped the full-height windows. Admittedly there were only three, all looking onto the rain-refreshed grounds instead of five but even so there was plenty of room for the mahogany table to seat ten, plus a lengthy serving buffet, laden with silver candelabra and statuettes ranged against the wall opposite. A tremendous Venetian chandelier hung overhead. The light from its candles glittered off cut glass goblets and silver cutlery lining the table. A magnificent silver epergne depicting a Hussar slaughtering a pair of lions graced the centre.
    The liveried footmen by the doors might have been made of marble for all the expression on their faces. One of their colleagues stood behind the single chair at each end of the table. Four maids in black gowns and white aprons hovered beside the buffet. His announcement delivered, Garton took station beyond the buffet. His eyes examined each member of staff lest they had committed some reprehensible act in his brief absence.
    Intensely aware of the muscles moving under Lord Conniston’s taut tailoring in front of her, Rowena still hoped she would be spared his company. And that of Mr Neave. But there were only three gentlemen. With an increasing sense doom she knew she was bound to be seated near one of them. Her aunt had decreed it would be Conniston. He was holding Miss Wexley’s chair, handing her into her place. Watching him, Rowena was unable to decide if he was the lesser of two evils. The glowing face and scent of the pomade issuing from Mr Neave beside her threatened to eliminate what little appetite she had left.
    ‘Rowena,’ her aunt pointed to the head of the table. ‘Take the left-hand place by your uncle. You can tell him all about your father and his horse.’ Rowena breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Mr Neave, you take the next place. I’ve decided Rowena will be delighted to hear about India. She was always an inquisitive girl.’
    A wide grin split Mr Neave’s face. ‘Excellent, Lady T. I shall certainly enjoy telling her.’
    ‘Conniston,’ Lady Tiverton continued without commenting. ‘Sit between the girls.’ She indicated the opposite side of the table. ‘They can entertain you, assuming they can find a sensible topic in all their chatter.’ She lowered herself into the chair facing her husband’s along the length of the polished wood and peered at her guests over the multitude of dishes. When Miss Neave had slipped into the chair opposite her father, her ladyship nodded at Garton. He flicked an eyebrow at the maids. They collected even more trays of food and advanced towards the table.
    Afterwards Rowena could scarcely remember what she had eaten. She could remember the overpowering scent of Mr Neave’s pomade while he regaled her with descriptions of his many ships, warehouses and successes in the steaming, or possibly dry, Indian heat. Worse, she remembered the delight on Conniston’s face as he shared reminiscences with Miss Neave about life in India. Worse still, she suspected that not all of his delight was due to Miss Neave’s entertaining company. Some of it, she was sure, came from overhearing her own futile attempts to stem Mr Neave’s description of his position and fortune.

Chapter Twelve
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