Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe
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a room in ivory and gilt, crowned with crystal chandeliers and furnished with gilded satin chairs and sofas, sparkled even more when crowded with the satin and gemstone kaleidoscope of dancers on the polished floor. More white roses and wreaths of gardenias were draped everywhere, turning the space into a garden bower.
Oh, that was good. Garden bower, she wrote in her notebook.
The Duchess stood beneath a full-length portrait of herself by Mr Sargent, clad in a gown of midnight-blue velvet and tulle embroidered with a dazzling pattern of stars and crescent moons that matched the famous Eastern Star sapphire from India in her tiara.
The Duchess smiled brightly as she greeted each new guest, even though her husband was probably hiding in the card room, and the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were rumoured to be attending because the Princess was Alexandra’s godmother, had not yet arrived. Alex herself, who the ball was nominally in honour of, was nowhere to be seen. Diana was sure she must be hiding just like her father, maybe still in her chamber or in the ladies’ withdrawing room, as Alex so often was at large balls and soirées.
Luckily, Diana’s mother was also nowhere to be seen. She was safe for the moment.
She glanced at Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown again. The lady was laughing, her golden-blond head thrown back as she languidly waved her rust-red feather fan. She always seemed to be one of those ladies who walked about constantly backlit by an invisible amber sun. She would make a great heroine in a novel—or maybe a villainess.
The heroines of novels, at least novels of the sort she and the other girls at Miss Grantley’s passed around secretly, never realised how beautiful they were. Lady Smythe-Tomas was fully aware of her looks. After all, her photographs were often displayed in shop windows, along with Mrs Langtry and Lady Warwick. All of them always clad in the latest fashions.
‘What is that you’re writing, Diana Martin? It doesn’t look like a dance card,’ a high-pitched voice said behind her, startling her out of her fashion dream.
She gasped and whirled around, her heart pounding. She was sure it was her mother and she did not want another lecture about how she needed to stop writing and find a suitable husband. That her time was running out. She was nineteen! Almost twenty and ancient! And she was wasting her chances.
But it wasn’t her mother. It was Alexandra’s cousin Christopher Blakely, using the falsetto voice that served him so well in amateur theatricals. He burst out laughing at the appalled look on her face and his green eyes sparkled. Or maybe they sparkled from the champagne glass in his hand, which Diana was sure wasn’t his first of the evening. Chris was well known in town for his love of a fun time. Unlike his brother, who was off pursuing some very important career goal far away in India. Though it was William Blakely whose dark eyes were in her dreams.
‘Christopher Blakely, you scared the ghost out of me,’ she hissed. ‘I thought you were my mother.’
‘Fear not, I just saw her in the card room playing a wicked hand of piquet,’ he said, downing the last of his champagne. He leaned out from their hiding place to gesture to one of the liveried footmen carrying silver trays around the ballroom. He took two fresh drinks and handed one to her.
‘Oh,’ she whispered, staring down into the shimmering gold liquid. Maybe champagne was the inspiration for Lady Smythe-Tomas’s gown, with all that iridescent glow. She had to put that in the essay. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ he said, leaning against the flower-covered trellis. ‘My aunt gave me strict instructions I could only have two glasses before the midnight supper.’
Diana smiled as she thought about what happened last time the Duchess had a party, a tea in honour of Princess Alexandra. Chris had stolen the large, elaborate hat off the head of the Princess’s lady-in-waiting and given them a wonderful recital from a music hall selection after sneaking rum into the tea. It had all been very amusing, if not strictly proper for a deb to see. ‘And how many glasses does this make?’
‘Four. But they are very small.’
She laughed and tucked her notebook into her reticule before she sipped at her own drink. Heavenly, so bubbly and sweet on her tongue. ‘The Duke does know how to put together a wine cellar, everyone says so.’
‘And the money he spends on it could support ten families for a year, I’m sure,’ Chris muttered.
Diana studied him over the rim of her glass, a bit worried. There had been rumours that he had lost more than he should on horse races. She had dismissed such things as gossip before, but what if he was in trouble? ‘Chris, if you’re in need of a bit of income...’
‘You would come to my rescue with your dowry?’ he said with a comical leer.
Diana laughed and pretended to study him ostentatiously. He was handsome, of course, with his dark golden cap of hair and green eyes, his ready smile. And very funny and always up for a lark. She could see why so many of the other debs sighed over him. He came from a good family, even if he had no career, and was always house-party-visiting with the Waleses. And he was the nephew of a duchess, the cousin of her good friend. Even Diana’s parents would approve of him.
But she could only see him as a friend, someone who made her laugh, helped her and Alex hide at parties. Brought her champagne when debs were meant to stick with lemon squash. He didn’t make her feel all stammering and blushing, didn’t make her daydream as his brother had.
‘There are plenty with better dowries than me. But surely you don’t have to worry about such things?’ she said.
‘Of course I don’t,’ he said. ‘And what are you writing in that little notebook of yours? Scandalous secrets you overhear from your flowery hidey-holes? Are you a spy?’
Diana laughed and shook her head. ‘Never you mind, Chris. It wouldn’t interest you at all. And shouldn’t you be dancing? I’m sure your aunt expects you to do your duty as a single gentleman?’
He grinned. ‘Why do you think I’m in hiding, too? There’s no one else worth dancing with here yet, except for Emily, and her card is full.’
Diana glanced back to the dance floor and saw Emily waltzing past with a young viscount something or other, her mint-green silk skirts swirling. Usually Emily, the daughter of well-to-do Brighton wine merchant, would never be in the Waverton ballroom. But it was Alex’s party, supposedly, and her best school friends were invited. And Emily had proved to be most popular with the fashionable set, indulging in her love of dancing and music, her open-hearted good humour.
They liked her father’s wine, too. Just look at the Duke’s cellar.
Diana smiled to see her friend having such a good time. She turned back to Christopher and was startled to catch an unguarded look in his eyes as he stared at Emily. A raw, solemn instant of—was it longing?
But it was quickly gone and he laughed, back to his usual careless self. ‘Did you hear? William is back from India for good.’
Diana blinked at the sudden change of subject and remembered the scene of William by the lake, laughing in the golden sun. ‘William—your brother?’
‘Yes, or St William, as my mother would call him if she could, now that he’s been given a knighthood at only twenty-eight. Above and beyond in service to Her Majesty.’ He took another glass of champagne from a passing footman. ‘And he’s returned just in time to be sent off to Paris, the lucky beggar.’
‘Really? Paris?’ All the talk in London for weeks had been of the upcoming Exposition in Paris. Eiffel’s great iron tower, the Turkish villages, the art pavilions, the American Wild West show. Just like everyone else, Diana was wild for stories of the Exposition.
And, if she was very lucky, she might just get to see it, too. She tried not to imagine William Blakely strolling along the river at her side, smiling down at her, his dark eyes glowing. That would surely never happen, not after she had been so stammering and gawky the few times they met before. But it was a lovely