Diamonds & Deceit (5 page)

Rose looked out of the window of Lord Westlake’s motorcar as the chauffeur brought them to a halt before the entrance to Buckingham Palace. Liveried footmen as tall and solid as British oaks framed the grand doors. One of them, gold buttons glinting, stepped forward smartly to open the motorcar door. Rose gathered her skirts, and with a nervous glance at Ada, who sat beside her, stepped out. At once she was glad of her fur-lined opera cloak’s soft hug. Even though it was a pleasant May evening, her ball dress was so delicate that the slightest breeze made her feel as if she were naked.

“I don’t want to be covered in jewels as if I were a table at Garrard,” she had begged Céline a week ago. “Please, find me something simple to wear.”

“My lady, it is a state ball.” Céline looked worried.

“And everyone there will know that I was once a housemaid. I don’t want to give them more reason to mock.” She had smiled at Céline in the mirror. “I place myself in your hands.”

As she stepped from the motorcar, she hoped she had been right to trust her. She clutched the cloak around her, her heart sinking as she thought of the moment she would have to remove it. No matter how Céline had tried to convince her that the sapphire-blue silk was
meant to
hug and reveal her curves, that it was the fashion to have nothing but velvet ribbons skimming her bare shoulders, she couldn’t help imagining her mother’s face if she saw her in such a dress. Ugly as they were, at this moment Rose would far rather have been wearing a maid’s uniform. It was as good as a cloak of invisibility.

She followed her father and the countess up the stairs to the palace. A blaze of electric light and the more muted, subtle tones of candles seemed to unroll a glowing carpet of gold for them to walk on. Ladies in their shimmering ball gowns, light turning their diamonds to fire, and gentlemen in top hats and tails as glossy black as their ebony canes were walking up the stairs, chatting and laughing. Rose thought it looked like the fairy tales she had been told as a child, the enchanted world under the mountain that enticed in travelers to dance and dance…and then wake in the cold dawn to a world changed beyond belief. She shivered, and quickly followed her family into the entrance hall. She swept into her curtsy to Queen Mary as elegantly as she knew how, and allowed the tide to pull her on into the ballroom.

Ahead of her, Lord Westlake said to his wife in an undertone, “I hope to see Rose dancing tonight, my dear.”

Rose knew that the polite words masked a bitter conflict. The countess resented having to accompany her husband’s illegitimate daughter, child of his housekeeper.

“Of course,” the countess replied, raising her eyebrows as if surprised at the comment. “If anyone asks her, she is welcome to dance.”

Rose knew that was the end of it. The countess always made sure to keep her out of the way of any dance partners. She sighed as the countess led them toward the chairs where Lady Gertrude and Lady Cynthia were already sitting with their chaperones. The orchestra was in full swing, but it was hard to enjoy the music, knowing that she wouldn’t be dancing.

Ada slipped a hand under her arm as they went. “You must promise me you won’t hang back tonight, Rose,” Ada said softly. “You have as much right as anyone to be here. You are an Averley.”

Rose smiled back, thinking how beautiful her sister looked. Her dress was shell-pink net over cloudy-gray silk, and pink pearls edged the neckline and the hem giving it a languorous, sensual weight. A diamond star nestled in her hair.

“I will try,” she replied. Ahead of them the crowd parted to reveal the glistening sweep of the dance floor, couples moving back and forth across it like blossoms swaying in the wind.

Before Ada could answer, Fintan came up to them, smiling, and Rose knew that was the end of their private conversation for the evening.

“Will you dance, Ada?” he said.

Ada glanced at Rose, who quickly said, “Please do, I will be quite safe here.”

“I—” Ada hesitated.

Rose mustered up her brightest smile and urged Ada toward Fintan. “Please, I wouldn’t be happy if you sat out on my behalf,” she said firmly, and turned away to join Charlotte, Gertrude, and Cynthia on the chairs.

Ada gave Rose a reassuring smile as they moved away, elegantly gliding as if on water.

Rose sat down, aware that the women were staring at her.

“Such an interesting dress,” Lady Gertrude remarked, addressing her directly for the first time. Rose knew that
interesting
was no compliment. She glanced surreptitiously around, noting the other debutantes’ dresses. Her heart sank. All were in pastels, soft and muted. The blue she had thought so beautiful in the haberdasher’s, the shade of a painting of the Mediterranean sea she had once seen hanging on the drawing room wall at Somerton—and, according to Céline, the precise shade of her eyes—seemed to glow in contrast.

Rose felt the color flow into her cheeks.

“Yes, quite unconventional.” Lady Cynthia covered a smile with her fan.

Rose tried to twitch the opera cloak over the velvet ribbons that were all that covered her shoulders. Others around them were staring and whispering. How could Céline have let her pick out that color? She should have realized there was a way to do things, and that to be different would only result in more ridicule.

“Rose
is
, though, isn’t she?” Charlotte yawned.

Lady Emily twitched her fan like a cat twitching its tail. “I think it’s delightfully daring,” she murmured. Rose gave her a grateful glance, but Emily was looking over her shoulder, toward the crowd.

A moment later Lady Cynthia hissed, “There he is!”

Rose didn’t have to look around to know who she was talking about. There was only one man who could make Lady Cynthia sound quite so much like an excitable viper. Charlotte snapped open her Spanish fan, and held it before her face, eyes moving above it to follow the Duke of Huntleigh as he crossed the room—mothers sticking to him like burrs to a jacket.

“Oh, do look, how unfair, Ethel Berridge is practically glued to his arm,” whispered Lady Gertrude to Lady Cynthia.

“It’s simply exasperating—oh, there goes the countess. She’ll shake her off.”

“And bring him over here, I hope.”

Indeed, Rose saw that the countess had managed to detach the tenacious Ethel Berridge and was coming toward them with the force and determination of a jockey heading for the Grand National finish. The duke, though a head taller than she was, had no chance of resisting. He looked thoroughly annoyed. Suddenly Rose found herself in his gaze, and, taken by surprise, did not instantly look away. It could only have been a second in which their eyes met, but she felt heat touch her cheeks as if as if tinder had met flint.

Rose looked away swiftly. She hadn’t meant to draw his attention, and she was annoyed that she had done so. Now the story of the housemaid turned lady would scamper around the ballroom once again—only this time it would be of the housemaid turned fortune hunter.

“Charlotte!” the countess announced as she reached them. She was glowing with sapphires and self-satisfaction. “Alexander left our little party so quickly that I hadn’t the chance to bring you together. But of course you remember each other. Alexander, I’m sure you know Lady Gertrude, Lady Emily, Lady Cynthia—and this is Lady Rose.”

Rose looked down with a wry smile while Lady Gertrude and Lady Cynthia twittered greetings. The countess might as well have inserted the word
unfortunately
in front of her name. She looked up and was disconcerted to see that he was still looking at her and would have seen her smile. He, on the other hand, looked as likely to smile as Buckingham Palace itself. She quickly glanced down again, playing with the tassel on her fan. A man with no sense of humor, how dull, she thought. But his eyes were deep green, dappled with gold like a sunlit forest.

“I must congratulate you on your recent marriage, Lady Westlake,” the duke said. His voice was low and serious. His eyes fell on Charlotte, and his momentary look of confusion was quickly replaced by composure. “And of course I remember Charlotte very well.”

“Yes, our first season was delightful, wasn’t it?” Charlotte’s eyes sparkled from behind her fan. “I particularly remember that Saturday-to-Monday at Gravelley Park—they have such a fine collection of Oriental vases. I did enjoy sketching them.”

Rose was startled enough to look up from her fan. Charlotte, she was sure, would not notice an Oriental vase unless one hit her on the head. But Charlotte looked perfectly innocent, smiling sweetly at the duke.

“They certainly do,” he replied with an answering smile. “Lord Fintan’s home is delightful.”

“It’s such a pity he doesn’t invite you more frequently. But then Laurence is a peacock who likes the stage to himself.”

“Do you think we are rivals?” He glanced back at the floor where Fintan and Ada danced, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“I think you were once.” Charlotte’s tone was almost flirtatious. Lady Gertrude and Lady Cynthia exchanged glances.

The duke looked at her blankly, then, with a hint of embarrassment, said: “I must admit that my last London season is a…little hazy in my memory.”

“Oh, I remember it very well.” Charlotte smiled behind her fan, her eyes sparkling.

“Indeed?”

Rose was amused to hear the duke sounding quite nervous. He looked over Charlotte’s shoulder, directly at Rose. Before she could do anything but blush and wish she were elsewhere, he said, “Lady Rose, are you engaged for this dance?”

There was an outraged rustle as all the women swung to face Rose. Rose found herself speared on at least three fierce gazes.

“Oh,
Lady
Rose doesn’t
dance
,” Lady Gertrude said with a high-pitched giggle.

“No?” The duke did not look away from Rose’s face.

“No indeed. She has rather more practical accomplishments.” Lady Cynthia fluttered her fan.

For the first time Rose had seen him, the duke looked intrigued. “I see. Are you political, Lady Rose? Is this a protest against the patriarchy of ballroom conventions? I’ll agree it’s unfair that the ladies have to wait to be picked.”

The countess placed a hand on his arm. “Alexander,” she said softly, “it would be kinder not to tease her. You can see how embarrassed she is by your attention—”

Rose found herself furious. She did not want to dance with the duke. It would only draw eyes to her. But she most certainly would not be told by the countess who she was allowed to dance with. Besides, hadn’t Ada said it? She was as good as anyone there. She could dance with anyone who asked her. She clutched Ada’s words to her like a lucky charm.

“Lady Gertrude is sadly misinformed,” she said shortly. “I should be delighted to dance with you.” She could feel the furious gazes of every woman upon her, cold and hard as diamonds.
You expect me to try to snare him,
she thought.
Well, I’ll show you that even though I’m a housemaid, I have pride.
No one will be able to call me a fortune hunter. I shall dance with him, but I shan’t speak to him, let alone flirt. But I shall have one dance, at least, this season.

She caught up her train and took the hand the duke extended. He raised one dark eyebrow, an ironic humor in his eyes, and swept Rose onto the dance floor.

Ada allowed Laurence to steer her across the dance floor. He was an assertive partner, and if only she could conquer the slight irritation she always felt at being led, it would have been delightful to dance with him.

“Happy, darling?” He broke the silence, looking keenly into her face.

Ada was slightly taken aback. It was not often that he enquired about her feelings, and she hesitated. Was she happy? Not without Ravi—not with an ocean separating them—but she had known right from the beginning that all that was impossible. She remembered the first night they had met, their first kiss. It had been on the boat back from India, the stars had been sharp and clear overhead as he drew her close. She had been so full of grand ideas, so naïve and innocent. Ravi had destroyed her illusions about India, but he had replaced them with something better—truth. He was the only man she had ever known who had treated her not as a lady, nor as a woman, but as an equal. In the few months they spent together, he had rewritten her heart. Even though she had neither seen nor heard from him for months, if she closed her eyes she could still imagine herself in his arms, not Laurence’s.

“You certainly look happy,” said Laurence. She opened her eyes with a start. Laurence was looking down at her, smiling. “Indeed,” he went on, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you more beautiful than in this moment.”

She blushed under his gaze, startled to realize that her heart was beating faster. She scolded herself for thinking of Ravi. She had told herself a long time ago that it was useless to think of him: too painful to remember the times they had kissed, the way he had made her feel. It was best to put those feelings away, to think instead of things that were in her power to do, things that could make a difference to her family and her country. Things like marrying Laurence.

Hastily she said, “What a crush tonight. I should think the whole of London is here.”

“And they are all looking at us,” he replied.

“Are they?”

“Of course.” He reversed, smoothly gliding her past the orchestra. “They’re saying what a well-matched couple we are.”

“I suppose they are.” She smiled at him.

“Do you agree with them?” His gaze did not leave her face, and she had a slight, uncomfortable desire to blink.

Dear Laurence, she thought. He wants me to love him so much. The thought twisted a guilty knife in her heart. No matter what she felt for Ravi, it would be inexcusable to allow Laurence to suspect that she might have cared for someone other than him. He did not deserve that.

“Of course,” she said, and her voice was warm, and she drew closer to him. She breathed in the scent of his cologne and clean muslin. He smiled. There was no denying that he was very handsome. And he was in high spirits tonight. Maybe now was a good time to ask a question that had been nagging at her for some time. “Laurence,” she began. “I’ve been wondering where exactly you stand on the Irish question. Your speeches—”

“Ada, please.” His voice was pained. “Not tonight. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, shall we? Like any other couple in love.”

Abruptly he stopped dancing and drew her after him, off the dance floor, toward the open French windows that looked out over the gardens of St. James’. She followed him, but hesitated when he stepped outside into the warm night.

He turned back to smile at her.

“We
are
engaged,” he said teasingly, stretching out an inviting hand.

Ada followed him out into the gardens. She crossed her arms, though it was not cold; the thin fabric of her ball gown shuddered in the breeze. Laurence led her out into the darkness, his shirtfront and cuffs shining white in the light from the ballroom.

When we’re married, she thought, we’ll be alone like this together all the time. Forever.

“We should go back,” she said. “Rose—”

“Rose can take care of herself.” His voice was low and seductive. He took her in, his gaze raking over her low neckline and the glittering diamonds at her throat. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her close to him. “I want tonight to be about us and us only.”

Gently he took her face between his hands and kissed her. Aware that no one could see them in the shadows, she pressed closer, melting into him. The kiss deepened, and she felt his hands upon her waist, with nothing but the thin silk of her gown between them. She had never been kissed with such desperation. His kisses moved across her cheek, down her neck—and she pulled away, breathing fast, trembling.

“Engaged, Laurence, not married,” she said, with an unsteady laugh. But her heart was beating fast, her face was flushed, and she had to admit that even though he was not Ravi…

“In love,” he said, pulling her back to him. This time she met his lips boldly and as they kissed, she felt herself weaken and soften, whirled away like a leaf on a wild river.

“You mustn’t keep me waiting.” His voice was rough and tender at the same time, as he murmured in her ear. “When shall we be married?”

She felt a catch in her throat, and suddenly the passion was gone. This was too real.

“It depends upon my father,” she said, drawing away.

“I’m not marrying
him
. Ada, when? Let’s set a date. We can announce it tonight—”

“No,” she said hastily. “That is, I—it’s so soon. It feels as if we’re moving so fast.” Her voice shook. She rambled on. “It’s Rose’s first season. I want to be there for her. There are so many considerations—I don’t think—I can’t be sure.”

She pulled away from him and walked back to the ballroom, sparing a single glance back at her betrothed. His face was obscured by the shadows, and she could not read his emotions. She wished she could at least read her own.