Secrets Of A Wallflower. Amanda McCabe

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