Mistress Below Deck. Helen Dickson
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Did you follow me?’
‘No, I did not, but I did see you leave.’
Rowena studied him thoughtfully. ‘You are unfamiliar to me, and I know most people hereabouts.’
His lips, well cut and firm, lifted at the corners with a hint of humour. ‘That’s because I’m not from—hereabouts. My home is in Bristol.’
‘Then that explains why I’ve never see you before. I trust you were invited to Lord Tennant’s ball?’
‘Actually I wasn’t. I am in the area for a short time and thought to sample some of the town’s novelties. When I was told about the masquerade ball, I thought, why, what a pleasant way to pass an evening. Behind a mask one loses one’s identity, so who would know I was not invited? The amusement would help me spend my time until I have to leave.’
‘And you are amused?’
He chuckled low in his throat. ‘I have heard Lord Tennant’s masquerade balls are informal, but this is informality with a vengeance. I also heard that his parties are famous for their diversions—which appears to be correct, for it seems that the accepted way of sitting out a dance is to crawl into the undergrowth with one’s partner to indulge in pleasures other than dancing. Like you, after partaking of the revelries I sought a solitary place, wishing to take respite.’
‘Then I would be obliged if you would seek another arbour in which to be solitary and leave me to mine.’ She frowned at his attire. This man intrigued her. He interested her, and so she satisfied that interest in the only way she knew how—by asking questions. ‘Forgive me, but who or what are you supposed to be? It’s bad manners not to come in fancy dress to the masquerade.’
His smile deepened into an amiable grin, showing strong white teeth. ‘My face is covered, but I am not given to dressing myself up and looking like a complete idiot. I have my reputation and my dignity to uphold.’
‘But if no one knows who you are, it doesn’t really matter, does it?’
‘Not to you, perhaps, but it does to me.’
Rowena regarded him with interest, responding to his completely easy and natural manner. His eyes twinkled wickedly through the slits in his mask, making her wish she could see the man and his expression behind it, suspecting he was grinning wolfishly. ‘But if your costume was clever and original, you wouldn’t look like a total idiot.’
He laughed, then said, ‘You look extremely elegant—and exceedingly provocative. It is clear you have put much thought into your costume—and succeeded in not looking like an idiot.’
‘You know who I am supposed to be?’
‘How could I not? You have enough kohl painted around your eyes to supply half the ladies in Egypt. Cleopatra would be envious. But I am curious as to the identity of the real you.’
‘It is no secret. Even though I wear a mask, everyone knows who I am. My name is Rowena Golding—and there isn’t a man or woman in Devon or Cornwall who doesn’t know my father, Sir Matthew Golding.’
He stared at her quite openly, behind his mask his eyes narrowing. ‘Miss Rowena Golding?’ He should have known, of course, for who else could it be? This was the girl whom the whole of Falmouth gossiped about, the whispers rustling like wind through the bracken on the land, whispers of how Matthew Golding’s daughter rode her fleet-heeled mare with all the wildness that was in her, and by God, he could see why. She was undeniably magnificent.
The gentle curves of her body all rippled beneath the fine material of her gown. Any female dressed in such revealing garments was bound to attract attention, but it was not just her lack of clothing that drew every male eye at the ball to her—it was her defiant, direct stare, the way she tossed her imperious head, the challenging set to her shoulders, and the way she moved with a sensual arrogance. But the most interesting—and more than a little surprising—thing of all was that she was Matthew Golding’s daughter.
Becoming thoughtful, he considered her apace, then, recollecting himself, took a step back and said abruptly, ‘Don’t you think you should return to your chaperon, Miss Golding, before she comes looking for you?’
They were the exact words needed to release her from the strange spell his voice and presence had cast upon her. ‘I need no one to tell me what to do, sir,’ she uttered sharply. ‘But it is time I returned to my sister, since it is almost time for us to leave.’
Rowena turned in the entrance to the arbour and looked back. The impact of his gaze was no less potent for the distance now placed between them. As if moved by forces beyond her control, she inclined her head in recognition of the strange contract conjured up between them.
Her companion of a moment before merely smiled intimately and watched her go, with a promise in his eyes that said he would see her again.
Mellin House was set in a sheltered fold surrounded by well-tended, spacious gardens and with a fine view of Falmouth and Flushing across the Haven. It had been built by Matthew Golding’s grandfather, the man who had purchased a modest sailing vessel, trading between Bristol and the Channel ports, buying warehouses to store his goods, and expanding to make his business a thriving concern.
He would have been proud of his grandson’s exploits. Matthew had become the owner of two trading vessels—the Rowena Jane and the Dolphin, trading between Cornwall, Gibraltar and the Mediterranean ports, where, taking on cargoes such as wine, lace and polished marble, they would sail on to the West Indies, the ships returning to Cornwall heavily laden with highly profitable cargoes of sugar, tobacco and possibly rum.
Today, however, Matthew Golding was facing bankruptcy. He was also crippled, having been shot in dubious circumstances four years ago on Antigua. Rowena had not been made privy to the details, but she remembered well the time he had been brought home on the Rowena Jane. The Dolphin, in command of its captain, Jack Mason, had sailed away from Antigua and nothing had been heard of the ship, its cargo or its captain since.
Matthew had expelled a great deal of hot air and vows of revenge against Tobias Searle, the man who had shot him, and Jack Mason, the scoundrel who had stolen his ship.
And now, seated at the table in his downstairs room where he conducted his beleaguered business affairs, he was awaiting the arrival of yet another suitor for his eldest daughter. Rowena had never met Phineas Whelan. He was more than twice her age, but many a lass would be honoured to have attracted the attention of such a man.
Having no need for another’s wealth, owning land and property in Cornwall and beyond, he was willing to overlook Rowena’s lack of dowry. Matthew hoped she would look on him with more favour than the others she had rejected outright, but she was proving stubborn.
Though Rowena was tempted to ride out of Falmouth to avoid meeting Mr Whelan, she resisted the temptation and instructed Annie, the housekeeper of many years, to have a fire lit and refreshments served in the drawing room. Her lovely face was composed as her mind became locked in bitter conflict with her conscience. Their situation was dire indeed. She felt compassion for her father, a person who by her action to defy him in this marriage to Mr Whelan would be wounded. She must put his wishes and the needs of her family before her own, to curb the wilful need to escape the restrictions marriage to any man would bring.
In the next halting moment, doom descended when a loud knock sounded on the door.
Her mind flew ahead with her nerves. Annie must not have heard because the knocking came again. In frantic haste she went into the hall, meeting Jane as she emerged from the kitchen to answer the door herself.
‘It must be Mr Whelan,’ Jane said, whipping the apron from round her waist as she crossed to the door.
With calm deliberation Rowena smoothed her troublesome hair from her brow and tried to soothe her anxieties as she watched Jane raise the latch and open the door. The space seemed entirely filled with a tall dark figure.
‘Please come in,’ Jane said to their father’s visitor,