Thomas Ashton, Marquess of Newbury
Rose pressed a finger hard against her upper lip, but the tears eked out of her stinging eyes anyway, streaming down her cheeks.
“You were right, my girl. He does have a silver tongue, even with a rather straightforward request.”
She nodded, unable to speak, still struggling to make out the words as her vision blurred.
“I have no doubt he has charmed his way into your heart with those letters the two of you have been bouncing back and forth.”
Rose looked up at him, swallowing hard. “You knew?”
Edmund sighed. “How long have you been in this family? I knew when you went after that cane—because you could—that you opened a door and if he were smart—which apparently he is—he would walk right through. The entire household knows about those letters. Your mother is mortified, mumbling how improper it is. Cecily is constantly trying to sneak into your office when you are not looking, and the servants are teasing Sarah mercilessly about becoming the lady’s maid to a duchess.”
Rose coughed a laugh. “Not a duchess yet.”
“Do you want to be?”
She looked at the letter again. And nodded.
Edmund leaned forward and plucked the paper from her hands. “It’s too late to respond today, but we will all be at the Blackmore Ball tonight. I will talk to him there, then ask him to pay a call tomorrow afternoon.”
Rose’s eyes widened, and Edmund gave her a wistful smile. “Yes, I’m going with you tonight. Lady Dorothea convinced me since this will be the last ball you’ll attend as an unmarried lady and one of Cecily’s last before her wedding, that I should be in attendance. Although I can’t see those as good reasons.”
Rose swallowed the clog in her throat. “Maybe she likes being in your company?”
His eyebrows arched. “Maybe she likes being on the arm of an earl since my daughters will mostly be otherwise occupied?”
“Maybe the two of you are not as socially proper as you would like to pretend?”
“You should know when to stop talking.”
“Never have before.”
“Go get ready. And don’t gloat.”
Rose left, her steps light as she headed upstairs. A special gown waited—her mother had finally let her choose her own design at the modiste’s shop. Madame Adrienne had assured her it was in the latest design, with the bodice in a blouse style, with sleevesen gigot.Rose had chosen a bold indigo moire silk for the bodice, sleeves, and skirt, which had a sleek, narrow profile in front and pinched gathers in the back that allowed the skirt to ebb and flow as she walked.
The accents on the dress, however, made it truly spectacular. The modest round neckline was trimmed with a sleek band of metallic gold lace, decorated at intervals with miniature crimson rosettes. The same rosettes trailed in a line down each sleeve, from elbow to cuff, then bordered her wrists. A crimson sash circled her waist, forming a substantial rose-shaped clasp in the back. Around the base of the skirt were two wide bands of metallic gold lace, each secured to the gown with crimson embroidery.
The ensemble was made complete by a matching woolen indigo cloak, trimmed around the hood and front with the metallic gold lace dotted with rosettes.
It was a dress she would love forever. And not just because it would be her last ball of her last season.
It was the start of something entirely new.
Chapter Nineteen
The Blackmore Ballwas one of the brightest of the season, literally as well as figuratively, and Rose could not help staring as she and her family passed beyond the reception line. The expansive ballroom, which stretched along the back of Seven Arches—named for the house’s most distinctive features—rose for a full three stories and was topped by six hundred-candle chandeliers. Sconces along the front and side walls held multiple candles each, all reflecting their flames off thousands of crystal droplets and accent mirrors.
The room glowed with light, illuminating the startling array of artworks on display throughout the room. Lady Blackmore, settling on the theme of “Our Finest Masters,” had borrowed—or purchased—some of the finest paintings ever done by British artists. They occupied easels scattered around the edges of the dance floor and soared toward the ceiling in galleries on the walls. Footmen stood guard near each display, liveried in the Blackmore’s colors of gold, royal blue, and green. Tables laden with food, drink, and floral arrangements were discreetly placed far from the art. And in the center of the polished ballroom floor, a chalk reproduction of John Constable’sThe Hay Wainlay waiting to be destroyed by dozens of dancing slippers.
Near the wall of glass that overlooked the home’s verandah and terraced gardens, a massive table held parallel champagne fountains. In between them, an ice sculpture of a swan about to take flight sat in an oversized bowl of punch that had a variety of fruits floating on the surface. Rose had heard the rumors that the Blackmores had installed an icehouse at the rear of their property, and that Lord Blackmore had started to invest in the ice trade. Rose decided this was a rather elegant way to put truth to the rumors as well as provide her guests with a folly to sigh over.
As Rose skirted the room—everyone was trying to avoid the chalk painting until the dancing started—it felt as if all of Society were present. The crush of people meant finding anyone in particular almost impossible, and she almost longed for the raised tiers of the Higginbotham ballroom, where the spinsters could watch the action throughout the room without hindrance. Tonight she could not evenfinda Spinster’s Row.
Quickly separated from her family, Rose snagged a cup of lemonade and found a spot near an easel holding a J. M. W. Turner painting, as the orchestra, tucked away in the corner nearest the ice sculpture, began the first strains of Handel’sWater Music—not for dancing, just for an elegant background as the last of the arrivals moved through the receiving line. She hoped to find and rejoin her family, but they had all but disappeared.
She finally spotted her friend Ann—barely—near one of the champagne fountains and on the arm of Lord Ramsbury. As expected, his suit had turned serious, and he had made an offer the week before, which Ann’s father had accepted on her behalf. Rose could not be more thrilled for her friend, but it did feel like a reminder that Rose’s own time with the London season was about to change rather dramatically.
