Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe

should return to the party,’ the man said, still so calm and steady, so horribly quiet. Diana couldn’t help but wince for the woman. ‘Neither of us wants a scandal.’

      ‘Of course that’s not what I want! Some horrid, shabby court case like Bertie Wales and the Aylesfords. That won’t happen now. We’re both free!’ the woman said sweetly. ‘Oh, my darling Will, don’t you remember what those heavenly days at Beresford Hall were like? It could be that way all the time now.’

      Quite against her will, Diana found herself rather curious. It sounded like one of those delicious French novels they had once passed around at Miss Grantley’s! She cautiously peeked around the edge of the curtain.

      The couple stood near the carved onyx fireplace, the lamplight throwing them into silhouette. The woman was Lady Smythe-Tomas, Diana could tell that from her luminous champagne gown, the golden swirl of jewel-bedecked hair. She reached out with her elegant gloved hands to grasp the man by his lapels, her fingers curling against him sinuously. Diana was quite surprised she would have to beg any man for his attentions; they all seemed to fall right at her feet.

      Who was this man? He surely had to be vastly attractive. Her curiosity growing, she pushed the curtain back just a bit more so she could see his face.

      She gasped and quickly stifled the sound with her satin-covered fingers. It was Sir William Blakely.

      Sir William was handsome, of course, arrestingly so. The perfect counterpoint to Lady Smythe-Tomas’s golden, sunny beauty, with his glossy dark hair and fathomless brown eyes. If Diana was a casting agency for the theatres, she could do no better than those two for looks. But he was so solemn! So dedicated to his career.

      Or maybe he wasn’t always so solemn. She remembered him laughing by the lake, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders, all bright and full of youth in the sunshine. Surely that man could have a passionate affair.

      ‘Laura, this can’t go on,’ he said, still so calm, so cool. Diana wondered why the lady hadn’t slapped him yet, for staying so unruffled about the whole passionate business.

      ‘Why not? Do you not still find me beautiful?’

      ‘Of course you are beautiful. Your photo in every shop window tells you that. And you deserve more than a man buried in his work.’

      ‘But surely I could help you with that, too! Every diplomat needs a hostess.’ She leaned towards him with an enticing smile, her fingers smoothing the satin lapel she had crushed. ‘And there is always this...’

      She went up on her toes and tried to press her lips to his. But the promised kiss didn’t last long at all, the merest brush. He pushed her away, gently but firmly, his hands unwinding her arms from around his neck and holding her away. ‘I need to return to the ballroom.’

      Lady Smythe-Tomas’s pretty face creased in a fierce pout. ‘Why?’ she cried. ‘Because some young, sweet deb is waiting to waltz with you? Or, no—it’s Lady Lammington, isn’t it? She’s always wanted you for herself!’

      ‘Because I will be missed soon and so will you. Please, Laura. Be reasonable.’

      ‘Very well.’ Her tone turned cajoling again. She ran one fingertip up his arm. ‘But only if you agree to have tea with me one day this week.’

      ‘I’ve been quite busy since I returned to London, you know that.’

      ‘Just one tiny little visit. You can even bring your brother Chris if you need a chaperon.’

      ‘No, Laura,’ he said, very firmly. Then he added something too low for Diana to hear. Whatever he said must have pleased Lady Smythe-Tomas, or at least placated her, for Diana heard the library door slam and there was silence again. They were gone.

      Perhaps she had been right in her very first assessment of him on his visit to Miss Grantley’s—he was gloriously handsome but rather chilly, intimidating. Only—only once he must have known passion, if he’d had an affair with a woman like Lady Smythe-Tomas. People were always so strange. It was easier to capture them in fictional stories than in real life.

      She waited for a few more breaths and then slipped out of her hiding place. Only to find she was not quite alone.

      Sir William stood by the fireplace, starring into the empty grate, a frown pressing his handsome lips together, his eyes narrowed as if he was deep in thought. He glanced up, and those dark eyes widened. He seemed as startled to see her as she was to see him. She dropped her reticule, flustered, and quickly scooped it up again. Her heart pounded to see him again, so loud she could barely hear anything else. She feared he could hear it, too, that her chagrin showed on her face.

      ‘Miss Martin,’ he said. She dared to glance up at him and saw that he was just as handsome as he had been at Miss Grantley’s, but he had changed, too. His face was bronzed by the Indian sun, set in harder lines, his eyes shadowed. It only made him even more intriguing, blast him. ‘Whatever are you doing in here?’

      ‘Oh, I—just needed a breath of air. And, um...’ She gestured around the room helplessly. No etiquette class at Miss Grantley’s had ever taught her what to do in such a situation. She was angry at him for brushing off a woman who obviously had deep feelings for him. All the romantic novels she had read told her the heartbreak a woman like Lady Smythe-Tomas must be feeling in the face of such carelessness! She was also burningly embarrassed to have been caught watching the scene. And she wanted to burst into strange, hysterical laughter. All at once.

      Maybe it was because she had seen the effect William had on Lady Smythe-Tomas, on the poor woman’s sad feelings. It was all most confusing.

      ‘I was reading about Paris,’ she said weakly.

      ‘Paris?’ he asked. And she finally saw some emotion in those dark eyes that always seemed to see everything without giving anything away. She saw a flicker of—bafflement.

      ‘Yes. The tower, the art displays, the Turkish souk.’ She remembered that Christopher had said Sir William was soon to be sent to Paris himself. ‘But you must know all about that.’

      ‘Indeed I do. And I can see why that might be more attractive than a crowded ballroom. But why hide here?’

      ‘I just—came across it. I thought it was empty. So it was, for a while.’

      ‘You just came across it?’ he asked doubtfully.

      Diana suddenly wondered if he thought she was there for an assignation, as well. She felt her cheeks burn brighter, one of the banes of her life to blush so fiercely that it clashed with her hair. ‘Yes. Your aunt’s house is a rather confusing place, though you seem to know your way quite well.’

      ‘As you said—some times quiet is what a person needs.’ He stepped closer and Diana noticed his eyes were not entirely brown. They glowed with flecks of green and gold, like a primeval forest. Poor Lady S-T. ‘I suppose your mother must be looking for you, Miss Martin.’

      The room suddenly felt much too warm, too close. Diana looked away, clutching her hands tightly in the folds of her skirt. ‘So she will. I hope—well, perhaps you needn’t mention you saw me here?’

      A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but he seemed unable to quite let it free. Diana wondered what would happen when he did smile. Probably his good looks then reached dangerous levels, so he had to keep it reined in. ‘I suppose I needn’t. But secrets can go both ways.’

      Diana suddenly remembered why he was there—Lady Smythe-Tomas, past love affairs. She blushed even more. ‘I don’t know Lady Smythe-Tomas and have no desire to gossip about her.’

      ‘Thank you. It was an—unfortunate matter that was over a long time ago.’ His words were strong and steady, but he tugged at his tie a bit, as if he was embarrassed by any loss of control.

      She could tell he was not a man accustomed to having to explain himself. He had a reputation for steadiness and discretion in his work and in his family. ‘I’m sure.’