Secrets 0f A Wallflower (Debutantes In Paris Book 1) Read online

  William gave Chris one light push back and Chris toppled into the water. William laughed and his face, all sharp, elegant angles, like a classical statue when it was still and watchful, glowed.

  Diana reached for her sketchbook and quickly drew in the lines of his face. She couldn’t seem to stop herself from trying to capture it; he was so fascinating with his elegant looks, that smile that transformed him into something younger, glowing like the sun. She had never seen anyone quite like him.

  She hadn’t got as far as she would have liked on the sketch when the bell rang for tea. The men glanced up and she flattened herself on the grass, afraid to be seen. There was a burst of more laughter, rippling splashes as they climbed out of the water. She knew she had to get back to the school before she was missed. She quickly closed the book and leaped up.

  She had to glance back one more time before she left, to take in the sunlit scene. William Blakely seemed to be looking in her direction, a small frown creasing his handsome face, and she gasped and broke into a run, not stopping until she tumbled back on to the lawn behind the school.

  The bell rang from the school’s main building again, a deep, brassy gong that signalled the end of the picnics and that precious, golden day. The end of her small fantasy of William Blakely. The tennis players gathered up their rackets and flocked inside, and Diana and her friends stood up to pack away their glasses and plates. Diana shook the bits of grass from her ruffled blue skirts, relishing the last vestiges of the flower-scented spring air. The last dream of school and of a handsome man who seemed like a fantasy.

  ‘No matter what happens, all will be well,’ she said to her friends, trying to reassure herself. ‘Because we will always have each other.’

  Chapter One

  Spring 1889—Duchess of Waverton’s ball, London

  ‘What are your plans now, William, since you have returned from India?’ Harold Blakely, William’s father, asked from the head of the dining room table. ‘They must be glad to have your expertise once more at the London office, but surely they won’t want you to stay behind a desk there for long. I was always eager to be on to the next task myself, when I was at work there.’

  William’s mother didn’t even look up from the plate she was listlessly picking at. ‘I’m sure we all well remember those days,’ Beatrice Blakely muttered. ‘William has plenty of time to decide what to do next. At least he has returned from that pestilential India.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ Harold said with a scowl. He gestured to the footman for more wine. ‘You’ve certainly worked hard enough of late, William. That’s a great deal more than can be said for that useless Christopher. Takes after his mother, does that one. No direction at all.’

  Beatrice didn’t even answer, merely sighed and studied the curtained windows across the room as if she was in her own little world. She had been that way for as long as Will could remember and he was appalled to find nothing had changed in the Blakely house while he’d been abroad.

  Ever since he and Chris were children, their parents had alternated between quarrels and icy silences. The only respite was in the long periods when their father was gone for his mysterious work and Beatrice would laugh a bit again. But her pale, fragile beauty had faded and her laughter was rare, and some times, as her sons grew older, she would complain to them of her loneliness. Her wasted youth.

  She pushed her food from one side of the Wedgwood plate to the other, as Harold drained his wineglass. William longed to take his mother’s hand, to give her a reassuring smile, but he knew from experience it would be like touching a ghost.

  ‘Where is Christopher?’ Harold demanded of no one in particular.

  ‘He’s here somewhere,’ Beatrice answered vaguely. ‘Aren’t you meant to go to my sister’s ball with him, William?’

  ‘Yes,’ Will said. ‘He was meant to meet me for dinner and we would go to the Wavertons’ after.’ He did wonder where Chris had vanished to and meant to scold his brother for leaving him alone with their parents for a whole meal, but he found he couldn’t entirely blame Chris for disappearing again.

  ‘No use at all,’ Harold grumbled. ‘Can’t even get himself to a duke’s party and he’s related to them. Some people would give their eye teeth for an invitation like that. The boy’s been given everything and he’s throwing it away.’

  William ignored him and smiled at Beatrice. ‘Why don’t you come with us, Mother? I’m sure Aunt Waverton would love to see you. Alex was saying you hadn’t called on them since the beginning of the Season.’

  Beatrice gave him a startled glance. ‘A ball? Oh, no. It will be so very crowded. I couldn’t. My nerves.’

  ‘This family,’ Harold snorted. ‘Weak blood. Except for you, I hope, William. What are you going to do now you’re in England again?’

  William took a long drink of his own wine, gathering his usual quiet control. He needed it when it came to dealing with his parents. ‘I haven’t decided yet. The office will decide where I’m ultimately needed.’

  ‘Of course they will. And I’m sure you’ll do us proud. I do miss those days of work.’ Harold sighed. ‘Perhaps you’ll use this time to find a proper wife, set up a house where you can entertain. That’s the best way to make contacts for the long run.’

  Beatrice perked up a bit at those words. ‘Oh, yes, William. A marriage would be lovely. There are so many pretty girls out this Season, or so I hear. I’m sure my sister would be happy to introduce any of them to you in a trice.’

  William glanced around the gloomy dining room, the burgundy-red silk walls, the gold curtains muffling everything from the outside world, the dark portraits and still lifes staring down at them. The very cushions of the dark, carved furniture seemed seeped with years of loneliness and unhappiness. So filled with bitterness. He certainly had no desire to replicate such a life, to make a lady miserable as his mother had been.

  ‘I’m not ready for such a step,’ he said. ‘But as soon as I am, Mother, you and Aunt Waverton will be the first to know.’

  Before his parents could answer, the dining room door opened and Chris staggered in. His blond hair was rumpled, his cravat half-tied, and he gave them all a crooked grin.

  ‘Good evening, Blakelys all!’ he said, waving his arm. He grabbed his mother’s still-full wineglass and drained it. ‘Well, Will, are we going to this ball or not?’

  * * *

  Lady S-T was wearing a gown of yellow...

  No. No, marigold.

  ...marigold silk taffeta and velvet, with rust, olive-green, and beige lily bouquets of satin, with a floral pattern of pearl and gold beads on the hem.

  Diana studied the lady’s gown again, jotting down one last detail in her little notebook.

  Smaller bustle at the back, falling in beaded pleats, according to the new fashion for narrower skirts.

  Lady Smythe-Tomas, a young, wealthy widow, was widely known as one of the most fashionable women in London and tonight, at the most fashionable ball of the Season, she didn’t disappoint. Was it from the House of Worth? It had to be, Diana decided, with that wonderfully intricate beadwork and unusual colour combination in the bouquet trim.

  She glanced down at her own gown, a debutante’s pale pink organza, with only the tiniest edge of white-lace frill along the short, puffed sleeves. Her pearl necklace was fine enough, but she knew the wreath of pink rosebuds in her hair was wrong for her red tresses. How dull it all was! Surely if she could visit Monsieur Worth in Paris, look at his sketches, feel the fine lengths of fabrics, cool satins and rich velvets, choose some daring design of her own...

  She sighed. It would be heaven. And if she could get these descriptions just right, get them to sound perfect, it could all come true.

  In the meantime, she had the next best thing. She could sit here in the corner at one of the most fashionable events of the London Season and observe everything going on around her. All the ladies vying with each other to have the finest, most unique, most up-to-the-minute gowns, and the most glittering jewels.

  She could do it—if only her mother didn’t catch her. Diana peeked carefully around the gardenia-and-white-rose-draped trellis she was hiding behind and studied the ballroom. The Duke and Duchess of Waverton, Alexandra’s parents, had one of the largest ballrooms in London and the Duchess never spared any expense in her party arrangements. Tonight was no exception.

  The ballroom, a glittering jewel case of 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 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.’