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.’
