Chapter Ten
That evening, Rose moved through the entrance of the grand dining room with the practiced grace expected of a hostess, her gloved fingers resting lightly on her father’s offered arm as the guests took their places.
Prudence had dressed her well. She wore a soft ivory silk gown with delicate gold embroidery along the hem and sleeves.
The bodice was modestly cut, adorned with pearl detailing, and a matching gold sash that cinched at the waist. Her dark hair was styled in a classic chignon, accented with a few loose curls framing her face.
A simple pair of pearl earrings and a matching necklace exuded understated elegance.
If only she had a reason to care what she looked like.
As was tradition, Lord Wentworth took his place at the head of the table, while Rose settled at the opposite end, ready to orchestrate the evening. Footmen, dressed in crisp livery, stood by in silent readiness as the guests arranged themselves.
Rose must be sure to thank Mrs. Blythe for tending to every detail.
A crisp white damask tablecloth covered the long surface, set with delicate porcelain plates edged in gold, fine crystal goblets for wine and water, and polished silver cutlery.
In the center, a floral arrangement of pale roses and greenery ran the length of the table, interspersed with flickering tapers in ornate candelabras.
Rose could not help but think of Sebastian cutting the roses for her table, his long, capable fingers plucking the thorns from the stems and making sure to pick only the very best blooms.
Gilded sconces cast a warm glow along the deep mahogany-paneled walls, where portraits of Wentworth ancestors looked down with solemn expressions.
A massive chandelier of cut crystal hung above the long dining table, its candlelight reflecting in the polished silver and glassware.
Heavy velvet drapes, drawn back to reveal the twilight sky, framed the tall windows.
An array of silver serving platters were lined up on the sideboard.
She had inked place cards for each guest earlier with her tidy script. With the assistance of Mrs. Blythe, she’d arranged the table with care, ensuring that the evening’s delicate maneuvering of potential matches was well supported by seating arrangements, proximity, and conversation.
She’d set Arabella and Philip next to each other, with Lydia, Edmund, and Mr. Whitby and Colonel Barrington taking up the rest of that side of the table.
Honoria and Baron White were seated on her father’s end of the table, as far from herself as possible.
Daphne and Jonathan were in the middle of the side of the table, with Reverend Oakwood.
Rose had taken pity on poor Violet and placed her next to her, assuming it would be a relief for Honoria’s cousin to have distance between them.
The more Rose observed Violet, the more she felt sorry for her.
Like Rose, she was being pressured to marry sooner rather than later.
At seventeen, Violet seemed so young and vulnerable, which had wakened Rose’s maternal instincts.
That said, Violet seemed to be coming out of her shell here in the country.
She’d confessed to Rose earlier that she would stay forever if she could.
The quiet suited her, she’d said. In addition, like Rose, she enjoyed being outside, reading, or strolling among the flowers.
In Rose’s opinion, Violet needed a gentle, thoughtful type of man who would spoil her with a life in the country air where she could shine.
Tonight, she looked lovely indeed, in a soft lavender gown made from fine muslin, with a delicate silver sash at the waist. Her hair was pinned in a simple twist, accented with a few small pearl hairpins.
Still, she seemed too young for marriage. Rose wished they both could be left alone.
The footmen served with precision, moving soundlessly to refresh wine glasses and replace plates between courses.
The first, a white soup with a delicate broth made from almonds, cream, and veal stock, was delicious but somehow tasted bitter in Rose’s mouth.
Even the freshly baked rolls tasted dry.
It was the company, not the meal, Rose decided.
However, the guests seemed to be enjoying the first course more than Rose, as the gentle clink of silver spoons against china mixed with the low hum of conversation.
As the fish course arrived—salmon in a white wine sauce—Rose glanced up to see Honoria staring at her. Probably imagining the day when she would sit where Rose sat now. There was something much like a satisfied cat about the woman.
“Lady Rose,” Baron White said from the other end of the table. “I must commend you on the evening’s arrangements. It is clear you take great care in your role as hostess.”
Rose turned toward him, keeping her expression coolly polite as she placed her hands under the table to hide how they trembled.
“Sadly, I’ve had much practice. Evenings such as this remind me of how much I long for my mother’s presence.
” She would not let her father force her into marriage with an old, disgusting man, for example.
“A skill that will serve you well in your own household.” Baron White lifted his wineglass in a silent toast to what he clearly saw as an inevitability.
“Speaking of which, I’ve been discussing with your father the matter of expediting our union.
There seems little point in delaying what is already decided. ”
Rose’s fork clattered against her plate. The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence that fell over their end of the table. “Expediting?”
“Indeed. I see no reason to wait until spring when we could be wed within the fortnight. My estate requires attention, and I’m eager to return with my new bride.” His pale eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Your father has agreed it would be… practical.”
Lord Wentworth nodded approvingly from his end of the table. “Baron White makes excellent points. No need for excessive ceremony when the matter is settled.”
Rose felt the walls of the dining room closing in around her. Two weeks. The blood rushed from her face so quickly she feared she might faint. “I… that is quite sudden.”
“Here, here,” Honoria said. She wore a ruby red satin dress that was as loud and gaudy as its owner.
The gown had a fitted bodice with intricate black lace detailing, and the sleeves draped elegantly off the shoulder, revealing far too much décolletage.
Her dark hair was styled in a series of polished curls, pinned with a garnet-studded comb.
“If you wait much longer, you’ll be put on the shelf, dear.
You really must take care not to become a spinster. ”
Violet stiffened beside her and then, to Rose’s surprise, reached for her hand under the table, giving it a slight squeeze.
“I’ve been training for it all since I was eight years old,” Rose said, with a quick glance at her father. “’Twould be a pity for all my obedience to go to waste.”
Lord Wentworth watched her with a bland expression, as if he thought she were harmless. She was. Or perhaps powerless was the better way to describe it.
Baron White chuckled, a sound like grinding stone. “Your obedience will be quite appreciated, my dear. As will your other wifely duties.”
The implication in his tone made Rose’s stomach lurch. She gripped Violet’s hand beneath the table, drawing strength from the girl’s quiet support.
To distract herself from her dark thoughts, she glanced around the table to see how her matchmaking was playing out.
Jonathan leaned slightly toward Daphne as they spoke quietly to each other. Dressed in a pale blue muslin gown with delicate lace trim at the sleeves and neckline, she looked exquisite. Her red curls, pinned up with tiny silk flowers, bounced slightly as she laughed at something he’d said.
Across the table, Lydia and Edmund also seemed to be enjoying each other’s company.
She, too, looked lovely in a sage green gown made of soft, flowing cotton muslin.
The sleeves were short, with sheer overlay fabric.
Her blond hair was neatly braided and twisted into a bun, with a simple silver comb for decoration.
Arabella was engaged in animated conversation with Mr. Whitby about some philosophical matter, her intelligence clearly impressing the young gentleman.
The second course arrived—a beautifully roasted pheasant, golden and crisp, served alongside honey-glazed carrots and green beans.
Lord Wentworth, ever the composed host, gestured to Colonel Barrington. “You must tell us, Colonel, how fares the regiment? Are the younger officers any better than those of our youth?”
The colonel gave a gruff chuckle, carving neatly into his pheasant. “They are younger, certainly. Whether they are better remains to be seen.”
Honoria arched a brow. “And what, Colonel, would you say marks a true officer?”
The colonel considered for a moment. “Discipline. Resolve. A sense of duty that does not waver.”
Rose found herself thinking of Sebastian’s hands as he’d touched her cheek that morning, the way he’d spoken to her.
Lord Wentworth nodded approvingly at the colonel’s words. “Well said.”
Rose forced herself to focus on her guests, trying to push away thoughts of her rapidly approaching fate. Two weeks. She’d spent the day reeling over Sebastian’s confession about Mr. Hale and the private detective, but now that seemed like her only hope. Would it be enough time?
She shuddered at the thought.
“Are you quite well, Rose?” Violet whispered.
Rose glanced at the girl beside her, touched by her obvious concern. “I’m fine,” Rose whispered back. “Just contemplating my future.”
“Perhaps we might speak later,” Violet said quietly. “After the gentlemen retire for their port.”