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She’d been invited, although naturally she wouldn’t be attending the dinner that would precede the dancing. Judging by Carrie’s obvious embarrassment, it was clear her mother had vetoed any such idea.
Carrie had the world’s loveliest dress, in aquamarine chiffon, and Rhianna couldn’t hope to emulate that. However, a charity shop in Truro had yielded a simple black slip of a dress in a silky fabric, cut on the bias with shoestring straps, nearly new, in her size and affordable. They’d even found her a pair of high-heeled sandals to match—which, the helper had confided, had proved too narrow-fitting for most of their customers.
‘Might have been made for you, my handsome,’ she’d said cheerfully, as she’d wrapped them.
And they did look good, Rhianna thought as she gave herself a last critical once-over before the party. She was just turning from the mirror when her door opened abruptly and her aunt marched in.
‘They’re going to be a waitress short at the dinner tonight,’ she said, her eyes sweeping scornfully over Rhianna’s slim figure. ‘One of the girls is sick, so I told Mrs Seymour you’d take her place.’
Rhianna gasped helplessly. ‘But I can’t do that. Carrie’s invited me to the dancing as a guest,’ she protested. ‘You know that. And I bought this dress specially.’
‘Yes, and a rare waste of money too. Good job you have it to burn.’ Miss Trewint tossed the dark button-through dress and frilled white apron she had over her arm onto Rhianna’s bed. ‘Well, you won’t be parading yourself like a trollop tonight, madam. So get changed and over to the house, and sharp about it. People will be arriving. And tie your hair back.’
The door banged behind her. Throat tight, eyes burning, Rhianna hung the black dress back in the wardrobe and put on the navy uniform. It was a size too big, but she tied the apron more tightly round her waist to give it more shape. She dragged her hair back from her face and plaited it quickly, her fingers shaking, then changed her sandals for the low-heeled pair she wore at the café.
The hired help, she thought bitterly, and looking just as drab as Aunt Kezia could have wished.
Carrie met her with a look of utter consternation. ‘I don’t believe this,’ she said furiously. ‘Your aunt—my mother—what the hell are they playing at?’
‘Teaching me my place, I think.’ Rhianna gave her a swift hug. ‘Don’t worry about it. We can exchange above and below stairs viewpoints afterwards.’ She wanted to add, I really don’t mind, but it wasn’t true. She minded like blazes.
It was a very long evening. Rhianna carried round trays of drinks, platters of canapés, and later stood at the dinner, helping to serve the poached salmon and carve the turkey.
Mrs Seymour, she thought, surreptitiously easing her aching feet as she watched Moira’s lavender-clad figure floating radiantly among the guests, is certainly getting her money’s worth. That is if she actually intends to pay me.
One of the first people she’d seen had naturally been Simon.
‘Good God.’ He’d looked her up and down blankly, then started to grin. ‘If it isn’t the lovely Rhianna. Bloody hell, I didn’t realise this was supposed to be fancy dress.’
The friend accompanying him had roared with laughter, his hot brown eyes assessing Rhianna in a way she didn’t like. She’d cared for him even less when she spotted him later, adding the contents of his hip flask to the non-alcoholic punch.
But the next time she’d seen Simon he’d been dancing with Carrie, his lips close to her ear, whispering things that had her blushing, her face radiant with a delight she couldn’t have concealed if she’d tried.
And she wasn’t trying very hard, Rhianna thought ruefully. So much for moving on.
During the course of the evening she’d also seen Diaz Penvarnon arrive late. She’d assumed he wasn’t coming at all. At the sight of him, she’d longed to fade back into the wall, but he hadn’t appeared to notice her, so perhaps the waitress gear had made her temporarily invisible.
Although there was no reason why he should care if she was there as friend or servant, she reminded herself.
Whenever he visited Penvarnon House he always spoke to her, but as if, she thought sometimes, he was taking care to be pleasant. Yet, while there’d naturally never been any repeat of that wonderful birthday dinner, he’d invariably remembered to send her a card when the anniversary came round.
It was getting on for midnight when Simon approached her again. ‘Going to dance with me?’ he asked, bending towards her, his face flushed.
