Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe
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 her red hair, which had always been the bane of her life.
Yet then something changed. She didn’t even know what it was, for he was as complimentary as ever. Perhaps it was the way she some times noticed his conversation never included questions to her, only tales of his life, his career hopes. His compliments were all about her hair, her gowns, her way with the piano—which she knew was mediocre at best, despite the best efforts of Miss Grantley’s fine music teachers. He sat closer, his touches lingered. He had even sent her a bouquet before the ball, which she ‘accidentally’ forgot.
She had no time for such things, not with a man who made her feel so strangely—itchy. As if she wanted to jump up and run away.
Just like now. He hadn’t yet seen her. She tried to pull Chris deeper into the crowd of the dancers as she noticed Lord Thursby was scanning the crowd over the Marchioness’s head.
‘Oh, no,’ Diana whispered.
‘What is it?’ Chris asked.
‘Just someone I would rather not talk to at the moment.’
‘An unwanted suitor? That sounds interesting,’ he said, infuriatingly contrary. ‘Which one is it? Should I call him out for pestering you? I will, if he’s not too large and intimidating.’
Diana laughed. ‘It’s that man over there, the one talking to your aunt’s friend, the Marchioness. And no duelling yet. All he’s really done is send flowers and compliment my non-existent musical skills. I just—can’t like him, somehow.’
Chris frowned as he studied the man. ‘Thursby? Really? He has some kind of investment scheme in India he says he can let some of us in on later.’
An Indian investment scheme? Was that why Thursby had started coming to her father’s house so often? That sounded strange to her. Surely such ideas always ended in calamity? ‘Oh, no, Chris. You aren’t thinking of doing that, are you?’
‘It sounds simple enough and Thursby says we’re sure to double our money very quickly.’
‘I don’t think...’
The dance ended and as they swirled to a stop at the edge of the dance floor, they found themselves next to Emily and her partner.
Emily looked quite pretty, with her cheeks pink with enjoyment and laughter, her amber-brown eyes glowing. Diana quite envied her gown, too, for with only a father, Em had far more control over her own wardrobe. Her mint-green gown, trimmed with black-velvet rosettes, with black and green plumes in her hair, made her look far more elegant and sophisticated than other ladies their age.
‘Oh, Di! Isn’t it splendid?’ Emily said. ‘Such a wonderful orchestra.’
‘Only because you’re the best dancer here and could find rhythm in any old tune,’ Christopher said.
Emily laughed. ‘As can you. Shall we, then, Chris? Show them how a schottische is done?’
‘We shall,’ Christopher said and took her arm to swirl her away.
As they disappeared back into the sparkling melee of the dance, Diana looked around. Her mother sat along the row of gilded chaperons’ chairs by the silk-papered wall, gossiping with two of her friends. At the other end of the room, glimpsed between flower arrangements and groups of laughing people, she saw Lord Thursby. She felt suddenly trapped, caught between two forces she didn’t want to face yet.
On impulse, she spun around and dashed out of the ballroom via the nearest side door. She found herself in a small, domed hall, also draped in carpets of flowers but blessedly quiet. There were only a few people there, whispering together, sipping champagne, the music muffled beyond the door.
She hurried down a flight of stairs to the next floor down, where there was the card room, the billiards room, and a large sitting room that had been turned into the ladies’ withdrawing room. She heard a burst of giggles from that chamber and she knew she could easily join them, but she suddenly only wanted to be alone. To hear her own thoughts for a minute.
Unlike most London houses, including her own parents’ narrow dwelling on Cavendish Square, Waverton House was vast, four storeys of chambers like a series of jewel boxes, sparkling with treasures. She went down one more set of stairs and peeked through a half-open doorway to find a library. Perfect.
The silence was heavy, deep and echoing after the hum of the ballroom. She could almost hear