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.’ She felt a sudden burst of courage and added, ‘You should be kind to her. She seemed very upset.’
He gave her a small, startled quirk of a smile. ‘I dare say she will soon get over it.’
Diana doubted it.
To her surprise, he held out his hand as if to shake hers, quite as if she was his peer and they were sealing a bargain. She rather liked that small gesture, as she was so tired of being dismissed as just a silly deb. She wanted to do a job and be taken seriously at it, just as he was.
She laid her gloved palm against his and for an instant, their fingers tightened around each other. His grasp was strong and gentle, warm, and she found she wanted to hold on to him just a bit longer. Just a bit closer. It was just like their first, fleeting meeting at Miss Grantley’s, she felt so flustered, so silly. She didn’t want to look away.
‘Thank you,’ he said, letting her go.
Diana nodded and turned towards the door. As she reached for the handle, she glanced back at Sir William to find he watched her. His face was mostly in shadow, his hands clasped behind him, and she couldn’t read his expression.
‘Perhaps you really are being a little unfair to her,’ she said impulsively. ‘She does seem to care for you.’
A frown flickered over his brow again. ‘Care for me? Miss Martin, I fear you mistake the situation.’
‘Do I? I am young and haven’t seen the world as you have, but I’m not entirely ignorant.’
His brow arched as if he was surprised. As if she had startled a reaction out of him. ‘I never supposed you were. You went to Miss Grantley’s school with my cousin, didn’t you? Alexandra says you are very clever.’
‘She’s a good friend. I was only clever in French and lawn tennis. But I do read a great deal and Lady Smythe-Tomas does seem—well, very fond of you.’
He laughed and it sounded rusty and sharp-edged, as if he hadn’t used that laugh in a long time. But it sounded so warm and soft, she wanted to hear it again. Make him laugh again.
So that was what Lady Smythe-Tomas saw. Diana could tell he was trouble.
‘Oh, Miss Martin. I suppose that is one way of putting it.’
‘Well,’ Diana said again. Her vocabulary seemed to have shrunk considerably in his presence. ‘Thank you. For not telling on me.’
She hurried through the door and let it close behind her. Only once she was safely away from the library did she let herself stop and take a deep breath of air, or at least as deep as her new corset would let her.
She closed her eyes, and saw him there, his rueful smile, his intriguing eyes. What an unusual man he was indeed. She could really see why even a sophisticate like Lady Smythe-Tomas would be so infatuated with him.
What a very strange girl, William thought as he stared at the closed door of the library where Diana Martin had stood only a moment before. Her hurried patter of heeled shoes had faded, but he thought he could still smell the trace of her sweet lilac perfume, feel the satin of her glove on his palm.
He stared down at his hand, remembering the warmth of her touch, her slender fingers curled around his for the merest instant. He felt something he hadn’t felt in ages. An urge to laugh. For just a moment he had forgotten Laura, forgotten his work, forgotten everything but Miss Martin’s smile. He remembered her from his visit to Alex at Miss Grantley’s. She had been so sweet, a blush on her face, her words stammered a bit, a slightly gawky, charming schoolgirl. Now she seemed to have blossomed into an autumn goddess with her red hair, her bright eyes, her enthusiasm that seemed to make everything turn new again. At least in looks. When she talked, she became that awkward schoolgirl again and he feared for her in the ballroom jungles of London. The poor, sweet girl.
He only wished she hadn’t seen him at his very worst. His country-house party tryst with Laura seemed so long ago now, after India and all that had happened, a memory shrouded in wine and youthful passion. He had almost forgotten about it, until he saw her in the ballroom. To his surprise, she had begged to talk to him in private.
Much to his shock, she wanted to renew their old liaison. She was still beautiful, of course, maybe even more than she had been at that house party. Yet there was something strange about her, about the over-bright glow in her catlike eyes, her desperate grasp on his arm. He wanted to help her, but he knew very well he couldn’t go back to her. He was a much different man now.
The man he had been back then, younger and wilder, just starting his career, probably would have looked at someone like Diana Martin and seen a pretty but shallow deb. Indeed, he had thought that when he and Chris visited Alex at school.
He found he didn’t want to return to the crowd just yet. Didn’t want to lose the fleeting, bright, silly glow Miss Martin had left behind, as sweet and summery as her lilac perfume. He wandered over to the table where the newspapers were displayed and scanned the headlines about the Exposition.
William did see how an eager, enthusiastic young lady like Diana Martin would be fascinated by it all. The whole world gathered in beautiful Paris, the art and fashion, the food and theatre. He hoped she would get to see it.
Then he glimpsed a grainy photograph in one corner of the Mail. A tall, bearded man in a pale tunic and loose trousers, standing on the deck of a ship with three ladies in elaborate embroidered saris.
The Maharajah Singh Lep with his wives, boarding HMS Princess Augusta to make his way to the Paris Exposition, where he will visit the Indian Pavilion and see the wondrous sapphire, the Eastern Star. On display thanks to the generosity of the Duke of Waverton.
The Star was once worn by the Maharajah’s grandmother...
Singh Lep—who was no doubt trailing trouble in his wake, as he had in Bombay with his investment offers, his proffered and then withdrawn friendship. His grandmother had once ruled for him in his kingdom and had sold the Star to William’s uncle and then sold the kingdom. The man was understandably angry at what had happened. But did he blame his grandmother—or someone else?
And now he was going to be in Paris. The article said it was merely a pleasure trip and listed other dignitaries on their way to climb Eiffel’s tower and eat ices at his cafés—including the Prince and Princess of Wales. But William was sure there was more to it than that.
He stared out the window where Diana had been hidden and for a moment he didn’t see the rain-soaked London street. He saw the baking sun of India, smelled the spices and heady perfumes of a world he had left far behind. A world no one could even