Before the ball there was a formal dinner party at which her mother's friends, not hers, were the guests. Among them was Margot Asquith, now in her late sixties and as caustic-tongued as ever. The former Duchess of Marlborough, now Madame Jacques Balsan, had journeyed all the way from her home on the French Riviera. Thirteen years younger than Margot, she was still sixteen years her mother's senior, and not for the first time Petra marveled at the way her mother had always welcomed her father's friends, even though they were nearly all a generation older than she was.
Petra wondered if her mother had found it tedious and if that was the reason, with her father away, that Delia had begun spending so much time with the Prince of Wales and his friends—all of whom were her age, and many of whom were American. Was her mother taking advantage of the fact that her father wasn't around? And was that why she was so careful never to refer to the Prince of Wales as “David” when in Gwen's company?
It was an interesting thought, as was the realization that so
many of the people who had played a large part in her mother's life were now dead.
“No George Curzon and no Herbert Henry,” her mother said sadly, making sure that all the name cards were in the right position on the dinner table. “Which is a great loss. They always made every party a special occasion.”
Petra had never met either Lord Curzon or the Earl of Oxford and Asquith. Not wanting her mother to become gloomy, she said brightly, “But you are good friends with one of Lord Curzon's daughters. You see an awful lot of Baba, don't you?”
“Yes.” Her mother straightened Winston Churchill's place-setting card. “And if it wasn't for Tom Mosley being such a political wild card I'd probably see far more of Cimmie, as well.”
During the dinner Petra was seated between her uncle Pugh and Winston Churchill. On any other occasion she would probably have enjoyed Winston's rumbustious conversation, but she was too keyed up to appreciate it.
At ten o' clock, the dinner over, guests began to pour into the house. Magda and Suzi, who were staying with Annabel, were among the first to arrive, but there was a seemingly endless stream of other debutantes and she was staggered to realize how many of them she now counted as close friends. The point her mother had made when discussing why it was she wanted Davina to be presented was obviously a valid one. It did provide a girl with as wide a circle of suitable friends as possible. And though she wasn't interested in any of the “eligibles”—the veritable army of upper-crust young men who had been invited—it was great fun to recognize nearly all of them from previous parties and to be, for one evening at least, the absolute center of attention.
She knew she looked sensational. Her mahogany-red hair
was just as thick and naturally wavy as her mother's and she wore it fashionably short, with deep waves framing her face and a cluster of curls at the nape of her neck. Unlike many other debutantes, she'd elected not to wear virginal white. She had wanted to wear a long and slinky dress in bias-cut gold satin, with a halter neck and a plunging neckline.
Her mother had vetoed it. “Land's sakes, Petra!” she had said, appalled. “It looks like one of Thelma Furness's gowns! Wear that and you will be labeled ‘fast.’”
“So what can I wear?” she had said exasperatedly, knowing full well that Magda's gown would be virtually backless and would cling to every voluptuous curve.
“Chiffon would be a good choice. Perhaps floral chiffon. Or floral chiffon and tulle.”
Petra shook her head. It was Lucille, her mother's favorite dressmaker, who had come to her rescue, designing a starkly simple, foot-skimming gown in mint-green taffeta. It was arrow-straight with a wide, slashed neckline and huge puffed sleeves. It crackled as she moved and amid a sea of pale-pastel and floral gowns she stood out in just the way she had wanted. Her only ornament was a huge white rose pinned in her hair.
Her mother had looked at it with an odd expression, as if she was remembering something. Then she had given herself a little shake and said, “Unusual, honey. But it certainly works.”
Catching sight of herself in one of the giant mirrors lining the walls, Petra was happy with her choice of dress.
Everything else was working, too. The orchestra her mother had hired was terrific. Gunter's had done the catering and the menu for supper included quail, lobster, chicken in aspic, and asparagus, followed with Charlotte Russe, traditional English trifle, and strawberries and cream.
Jerome did an exquisite job waltzing her around. Annabel clung to Fedya Tukhachevsky's side and Suzi hadn't sat out one
dance. All her partners not only were startlingly handsome but were heirs to vast estates. Petra hadn't seen her dance with a younger son even once. It was as if she could sniff them out at a glance.
Magda's partners, on the other hand, were all distinguished older men. Winston was quite obviously utterly bewitched by her. Sir John Simon couldn't take his eyes off her golden hair and silver lame dress. Neither, though, were bachelors. And Petra was sure that only a very distinguished, exceedingly rich bachelor was going to seriously engage Magda's attention.
Despite having met and bowled over more eligible young men than the average girl would in a lifetime, Petra knew that none of her highly agreeable partners would ever seriously engage her attention. Only Jack was capable of doing that.
And Jack was hundreds of miles away.
Wishing that he could have seen how she looked, Petra lifted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. Jerome, an excellent dancer despite his barely noticeable limp, was performing some very nifty Argentinean footwork with Magda. It wasn't a performance any of Magda's previous partners would have been able to give. At the thought of Winston executing a tango, Petra giggled.
“Rupert Pytchley is searching for you,” her mother said, looking oddly out of sorts as Jerome and Magda caught her attention. “And don't giggle when you're not in conversation with anyone. It looks as if you've had too much champagne— and you haven't, Petra, have you?”
Petra rather thought that she had, but just said, “I'm going to stand outside the room for five minutes and get a little air. Jerome doesn't seem at all put out about Aunt Sylvia wanting a divorce, does he? News that they've separated has already begun to spread. Aunt Gwen told me about it ‘in confidence’ an hour ago.”
Her mother said nothing, but as she looked across the dance
floor to where Jerome and Magda were continuing with their cabaret-worthy performance, her generously curved mouth showed signs of strain.
As Petra walked from the ballroom she knew she shouldn't have brought up a subject that would cause her mother distress. Divorce in their social circle was not to be undertaken lightly and there was no telling what the effects of it would be on Jerome's career. It was reason enough for her usually carefree mother to look concerned.
Outside the ballroom the air was refreshingly cool. The muted strains of the tango came to an end and the orchestra began playing “Love Is the Sweetest Thing.” Just then, the front doorbell rang.
From where she was standing, Petra saw Bellingham cross the marble-floored hall. Idly she wondered who the late arrival would prove to be. It was close to one o'clock and nearly time for supper. Certain it was going to be a friend of her mother's—none of her fellow debutantes would be arriving at such a late hour—she turned away to enter the ballroom again.
As she did so, she heard the sound of the door opening. And then the voice she'd been longing to hear for months.
“Good to see you again, Bellingham,” Jack said cheerily. “I'm a bit late, but better late than never. I've come from Lisbon via Paris and the boat train was delayed.”
Petra spun around, her heart beating so hard that for a second she had to rest her hand on the balustrade to steady herself.
As Bellingham closed the door behind him, Jack looked upward.
Their eyes met.
His face broke into a broad grin.
“Sorry I didn't make it for your presentation, but the good news is that I'm not here on leave. I'm back in England for good.”
She gasped and then, as he took the stairs two at a time, she began to run down them. They met on the broad first half-landing and as he opened his arms she hurled herself into them, dizzy with joy.
His arms closed around her and she knew, even before he spoke, that things were going to be different between them.
“I've missed you,” he said, and the expression in his gold-flecked eyes sent her pulse racing.
Still in the circle of his arms, she said, her voice thick with emotion, “All my life I've missed you when you're not with me—but I've never felt able to tell you so before.”
“And for the last two years, there have been things I've never been able to tell you.”
The throb in his voice told her she didn't have to ask what those things were.
For a long, long moment their eyes held and then, as the strains of “Love Is the Sweetest Thing” drifted down the stairs toward them, he lowered his head to hers and his mouth was hot and sweet on hers.
It was the most transfiguring moment of Petra's life. She knew, deep in her bones, that what was happening between them wouldn't be a transient romance. This was love. Just as she had known ever since she was sixteen that Jack was the only man in the world for her, she now knew that he had felt the same. Her age had been the only barrier to his telling her so.
As he lifted his head she said, “I wish you'd told me you were only waiting until I was eighteen before letting me know that you loved me. Your father kept telling me how you were seeing the Marquis de Fontalba's daughter. He thought you were about to become engaged.”
Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You're quite right in that I love you—though it would have been more usual for you to wait until I'd told you so. As for Beatriz …” He paused teasingly and, seeing the apprehension in her eyes, said gently, “Beatriz de Fontalba is an absolutely stunning girl and desperately in love with an Argentinean to whom, being neither titled nor wealthy, her father violently objects. She asked me if I would act as a cover for the two of them.”
“That's all right, then,” she said, her relief vast. “And now I want you to waltz me round the ballroom. Your father kindly stood in for mine at the first dance, but if you whirl me round the floor I shall remember it to my dying day.”
“Best not to walk in there in such an intimate fashion,” he said as, arms around each other's waist, they walked up the stairs toward the ballroom. “Not until we've put your parents wise to the situation.”
She missed her footing and his arm tightened around her, steadying her.
“There's something you should know,” she said. “My mother isn't going to be as happy as you might expect. And it's only fair to tell you that she rather thinks I'm interested in Darius.”
He came to a halt outside the ballroom doors. “Darius?” he said, staring down at her in baffled astonishment.
“Darius
?”
Giggles fizzed in her throat. “I found it useful as it threw her off the scent where my feelings for you were concerned.”
“But why the devil did she need to be thrown off the scent? I would have thought she'd be over the moon if we married. Our parents have always been so close. I always regarded your mother and father as family. The blunt truth is, I spent more time as a child with your mother than I did with my own.”
He ran a hand distractedly through his curls. “I think you've got this all wrong, Petra. I reckon your mother was just concerned about you falling in love at such a young age. I don't think she will mind having me as a son-in-law.”
Understanding flooded through her. Jack's explanation was entirely logical.
“Then we'll simply tell her that as long as we have her permission to become engaged, we're quite happy to wait until I'm twenty-one before we get married.”
“I've missed something here. Was there a proposal of marriage?”
She blushed furiously, and then, as the orchestra in the ballroom began playing a popular fox-trot, he lowered his head to hers and kissed her. “Will you,” he said softly, “please marry me, Petra?”
“Oh yes,” she said, her face radiant. “I've
always
wanted to marry you. I just thought that you were never going to ask!”
The ballroom doors burst open and a laughing group of guests spilled out, almost knocking them off their feet.
“It's Jack Bazeljette!” a friend of his shouted. “What ho, Jack! Typical of you to get here just in time for supper!”
As the news that Jack had arrived spread Petra saw her mother turn and look in their direction. And she saw her instant reaction. It was one of such pleasure and welcome she didn't have a single remaining doubt that Jack had been right.
Certain of all the happiness the future held for her, she walked into the ballroom at his side and five minutes later was waltzing with him to the unforgettably romantic strains of a Strauss waltz.
For the remainder of her party they behaved as if nothing exceptional had happened between them. Jack danced with several of her friends. She danced with several of the eligibles. Annabel whispered to her that she thought Jack was “absolutely brill”—and wanted to know what his prospects were. Fedya Tukhachevsky asked if he was Italian. Occasionally their eyes met and her heart leaped with such violent desire she thought she would die.
As dawn broke, Jack, who was dancing with Boudicca, worked his way over to her. “How about us all scarpering off for breakfast?” he said, speaking to both of them. “Fedya has his car with him and I picked up mine en route from the station. We could be in Brighton by six thirty.”
“Spiffing idea.” Rupert was always up for a bit of fun. “There's nothing like an early-morning swim after too much champagne. See if you can rope Archie Somerset in. He's somewhere in the garden with Boo and Petra's French friend, doing his best to cement Anglo-French relations.”
“And don't let's forget Magda,” Petra said. “She'll never forgive me if we go without her.”
“Don't invite her besotted dance partner!” Rupert called.