Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe

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      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 image.

      ‘What sort of work does a diplomat do there?’ she asked. ‘Eat at the café atop Monsieur Eiffel’s tower? Deliver letters from the Queen to other visiting monarchs? Ride a horse in the Wild West show?’

      Christopher laughed. ‘I have no idea. Will is infuriatingly tight-lipped about everything. He’s here somewhere, I know, but I doubt dancing or playing cards. Probably working. He’s always working.’

      Diana suddenly glimpsed her mother at the other side of the ballroom. Lavinia Martin was hard to miss, tall and stately, prematurely white-haired, clad in beaded bronze satin. ‘Oh, no. Speaking of cards, I think my mother’s hand of piquet is over.’

      ‘Let’s dance, then. We shall both do our duty and escape a lecture.’

      Diana nodded. She had already been able to hide out much longer than she had expected. She put down her empty glass and took Chris’s hand, letting him lead her out on to the dance floor.

      It was a polka, lively and quick, and he spun her around and around until she was dizzy with laughter. ‘Maybe we could take ourselves to the Exposition and do dance demonstrations!’ he said. ‘The Whirling English Pair.’

      She giggled. ‘I doubt they would pay us for our dance skills. Toss us out and tell us never to darken France’s door again, rather.’

      ‘It’s all in the attitude, my dear. Pretend you know how to dance and you will do it.’

      ‘Excellent advice.’ She would have to remember it. Pretend she knew what she was doing and others would believe it. Eventually she might even believe it herself.

      As they spun around, Diana saw that Alex had appeared at last, standing beside her mother as the Duchess whispered to her through a gritted-teeth smile. Alex wore a beautiful gown of white tulle and pale blue satin, perfect with her angelic looks and spun-gilt hair. A wreath of red roses and pearls was woven through her upswept curls, matching the triple strand of pearls with a large ruby clasp at her throat.

      Yet Diana could tell that her friend was unhappy. Alex bit her lip, her eyes downcast as she nodded to her mother. Her gloved hands twisted at the ivory handle of her fan. Diana wanted to go to her, but Christopher spun her around again and Alex and the Duchess were lost to view. Instead, Diana found herself facing the last person she wanted to see at any party.

      Lord Thursby.

      She hadn’t seen him in a few days, not since a tea her mother had given. She’d hoped he had left town, but there he was, chatting and laughing with one of the Duchess’s friends, a marchioness famed for her dyed red hair and diamonds. The lady’s cheeks were glowing pink as she waved her fan at him.

      Ladies did often seem to like him and Diana could see why. He was handsome, with thick blond hair and bright blue eyes, along with a dashing moustache and perfectly tailored, stylish clothes. He was charming and well connected as a relation to Lord Lansdowne, the Viceroy of India.

      That was how he first appeared at her parents’ dinner table when he returned to London for the Season, with a letter from the Viceroy and questions for her father about his time in India. It was rumoured that Lord Thursby sought a career there himself. Her parents liked him and invited him back. Her mother seemed especially fond of him, laughing at his jokes, watching him carefully.

      And, for some reason, he seemed to have taken a liking to Diana. He made such a point of sitting beside her at tea and at musical evenings, bringing her refreshments at the interval at the theatre. Smiling at her, even touching her hand as he mentioned how very much she looked like a ‘Titian goddess’ with her hair.

      At first, she had been flattered. Who wouldn’t be? A handsome, sought-after man who sought her out and complimented СКАЧАТЬ