Violet almost choked on her salmon. ‘Surely not to my lowly deb dance.’
‘He probably wants to discuss plans with Aidan about the St Petersburg journey. But it hardly matters why they’re here, their approval will be your making forever. Suitors will be lined up, yours for the choosing, Vi! Oh, no, no, those strawberry cakes must go here...’
As Rose went to straighten the cake mishap and Lily talked to Lady Ambleby, Violet was left alone for a moment next to the windows.
She studied the guests carefully over the gilded edge of her wine goblet, which was rough-hewn and medieval in style, just like all the uniquely artistic objects Rose and Jamie collected around themselves. They always declared they were just simple scholars, but their house, their clothes, everything around them was full of artistic beauty, only theirs and impossible to replicate. Violet hated to admit it, but she did rather envy them. They had created their own world, their own sort of marriage. If only she could find something, someone, like that!
As a footman handed her a fresh glass, she watched the colourful crowd, dancing, munching on lobster patties, laughing, chatting, a glamorous, carefree evening. A violet-scented chilly breeze stirred at the half-open window, puffing out the embroidered silk curtains, revealing and concealing a few people strolling on the terrace under the light of painted paper lanterns. It really was an enchanted night, filled with flowers and wine and laughter, the kind of night her sisters were so good at creating.
Violet ached to be a part of it all, really a part. But so often in the centre of a merry crowd, she felt she was watching from above, not really there, not really belonging. She only belonged when she looked at things through a camera. And she had no camera now.
She glanced at a group on the other side of the room and wondered how she would arrange them for a portrait, the ladies’ skirts swagged and draped with flower wreaths and tulle, the men so dark, their faces lit with laughter. They made the perfect society tableau, like the scenes that sold in stationers’ windows. And there was that girl from the palace, Thelma Parker-Parks, like a silver-and-white doll in a rose-pink gauze gown, her fairy floss curls bound by a wreath of diamonds and rubies made to look like carnations. All an illusion. Though she giggled with her tall, blond, sunburned companion—was he that tennis player everyone was reading about?—she kept watching the door.
Violet turned away to see Lily dancing a Viennese waltz with Aidan, the two of them spinning in slow, lazy circles, watching only each other. It wasn’t the ‘done’ thing for spouses only to dance with each other, but the two of them never cared.
The drawing room doors opened, and everything seemed to swirl to a stop, mid-dance-step, mid-word. Violet turned herself to see Rose hurrying to greet Prince Bertie and Princess Alexandra. For an instant, even Violet was frozen in astonishment. The royal couple had really come to her ball? And with quite a crowd to accompany them! She could scarcely believe it.
She set down her nearly empty glass on a footman’s tray and drifted in a haze towards the door where Rose, Lily and Aidan were with the royal newcomers. Jamie was still nowhere to be seen, no doubt losing track of time in his books.
Princess Alexandra was just as lovely as she’d been at the palace and seemed even taller, even more slender, in a beaded gown of guinea-gold satin and tissue, the low-cut bodice draped in pearls, diamonds and topazes, her famous high pearl collar at her throat. Her dark hair was piled high beneath a diamond fringe tiara, long chandelier earrings catching in her curls, and she nodded and smiled prettily at Violet’s curtsy.
Unlike his wife, Prince Bertie was no fairy-tale idea of royalty, but he was presentable and amiable enough, his portly figure encased in a perfectly cut evening suit and sumptuous gold brocade waistcoat. His sparse, pale hair and copious reddish beard gleamed on his egg-shaped head, his strangely baby-like red lips pursed as he surveyed the company, his icy blue eyes narrowed. A cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth.
‘Lovely, lovely indeed,’ he said in his slight German accent, patting Violet’s hand as he drew her up from her curtsy. ‘Always do love a party at Rose’s, y’know. She’s one of the best hostesses in London! And one of the prettiest. Grantley was wise to snap her up. Now, who will snap you up, Miss Violet? Who do you have your pretty eye on?’
‘No one at all, Your Highness. I confess I’m more interested in photography at the moment.’
‘Photography, eh?’ His pale brows arched. ‘You don’t say. Affie here is most interested in that, as well. Got it from our father. Didn’t you, Affie?’ Bertie waved forward his younger brother, Prince Alfred, the Duke of Edinburgh and soon-to-be bridegroom. Like his brother, Prince Alfred was stocky and solid, brown-bearded, his cheeks sunburned from all his years aboard ships. His pale eyes sparkled with bluff humour, putting Violet at ease.
‘Didn’t I what, Bertie?’ he said merrily. He seemed to have been imbibing a bit before the ball, but he also seemed friendly and eager to join in the conversation. The happy almost married.
‘Have an interest in photography, Affie. Just as this young lady is. Miss Violet Wilkins, this is His Royal Highness Prince Alfred, my most unfortunate younger brother.’
‘Indeed I am, Miss Wilkins, though I do consider myself most fortunate now!’ Prince Alfred offered his gloved hand to Violet. ‘And photography is quite astonishing, don’t you think? A most wondrous blending of art and science, the present and the future.’
‘That is exactly what I feel, Your Highness,’ Violet said eagerly, feeling a strange warmth towards this weather-beaten, bluff Royal Navy man.
‘Oh, Affie,’ said one of the silk-draped women, a lady Violet recognised as one of his sisters. Princess Helena? She took her brother’s arm with a careless smile. ‘You can bore this poor girl all about it on the long journey to Russia! Now, I want a dance, and you are my chosen partner.’
‘It is indeed a long journey.’ One of the ladies-in-waiting sighed. ‘I’m not sure why we all must go. The Queen is staying comfortably at home. All that way just to freeze in the ice and snow!’
‘Because, Lady Morris, Grand Duchess Maria is the Tsar’s only daughter and respect must be paid! You’re marrying above yourself, eh, Affie?’ Bertie said, heartily clapping his brother’s shoulder. ‘And Alex here wants to see her sister, the Tsarevna, don’t you, my dear?’
‘Oh, indeed,’ the Princess said, waving her painted silk fan lazily as she studied the party. ‘It’s been an age since I’ve seen my darling Minnie.’
‘Russian hospitality is most lavish, I hear. Second to none, I dare say. The best food and wine, the biggest ballrooms, the prettiest ladies in the grandest gowns and jewels,’ Bertie said, taking his cigar out of his mouth and popping it back in. ‘And you’ll have Charteris for company, eh? Gracing us with your presence for once, Duke?’
The Prince drew forward a gentleman from the back of the crowd and Violet was startled to see it was the man who had torn her train at the Drawing Room. The too-handsome, too-cool-eyed Duke of Charteris. And he was just as handsome and cold this evening, his dark hair combed back from the sharp angles of his face in glossy waves, his eyes seeming to see everything around him despite his not moving. ‘Your Highness?’ he said, in that echoing, low, rich voice.
‘Charteris, the Princess has said she never sees you dancing at parties and it distresses her. Why don’t you dance with the lady of the hour here? She’s most pretty, quite the prettiest of the Drawing Room, what?’ Bertie said. ‘I see a tray of mushroom vol-au-vents over there, so delicious, my favourites, Lady James, as I am sure you knew.’
‘And the music is a mazurka, Duke! It’s always a favourite of mine,’ Princess Alexandra said, clapping her gloved hands.
Violet realised she had no choice. She had to dance with the lead-footed Duke by royal command. And a mazurka, too! So complicated and quick. Why couldn’t it have been a sedate waltz?
He didn’t look much
happier than she was at the order, his eyes darkening. ‘Of course. Would you do me the honour, Miss Wilkins?’
‘Yes, thank you, Your Grace.’ Violet curtsied and took Charteris’s hand under Bertie’s beaming blue gaze, letting him lead her to the floor. His hand did feel strong and warm under hers, steady, and he smelled wonderfully of sandalwood soap, like a winter English forest. Why did he have to be so very tall?
They took their places in the forming figures of the dance, waiting for the music to begin in earnest. Violet felt herself fidgeting most ridiculously under his steady watch and she glanced down the rows of dancers to distract herself. Thelma Parker-Parks was at the far end of the line with an officer in a dashing red coat, but she did not seem happy. Indeed, she stared at the Duke with burning eyes as her handsome partner tried to converse with her. And Jamie had appeared at last from his library, talking with Rose by the open window, but neither of them looked very happy.
Oh, dear, Violet thought ruefully. Was her ball cursed?
‘You don’t have to see out the whole dance set with me, Your Grace,’ she offered to her quiet partner. ‘We could easily tiptoe towards those terrace doors and you could slip outside.’
His lips quirked in an amused expression, a dimple set deep in his cheek flashing in and out. Against her will, Violet found herself rather fascinated by that smile that wasn’t quite a smile. ‘And what would you do then, Miss Wilkins?’
‘Go upstairs to look at my photo albums until supper, perhaps. My sisters wouldn’t miss me until then.’ She laughed as he spun her around, his strong arms holding her above the tug of gravity, keeping her safe and free. It was an amazing sensation and she suspected she could never have such a thing with any dance partner but him.
‘You really are interested in photography, then?’ he asked curiously.
‘Oh, yes, it is quite fascinating!’ The music blasted out again, loud and quick and merry, and she took his outstretched hand. ‘I could happily work in my darkroom all day! What are your interests, then, Your Grace? For I know we should converse during the dance.’
He looked a bit surprised, as if no one had asked him that before. But surely he must have interests? ‘I’m too busy with my estate and work to think about hobbies.’
He spun her around, lighter and more graceful than she would have expected after the train-stepping incident. ‘I like to think of my photographs as more than a mere hobby. I’d like to be just as—as recognised as Julia Margaret Cameron, or Clementina Hawarden, and join the Photographic Society to show my work, when it’s good enough.’
He looked down at her, his arched dark brow making him look curious. ‘You don’t think it’s yet good enough?’
Violet shrugged and turned a double twirl in the dance, his hands gently leading, letting her fly while he held her steady. She almost laughed at the delightful feeling. ‘My range of subjects is limited and I could use a real teacher, I think.’ She thought of the trip to St Petersburg, her hope in finding new inspiration there. He would make a gorgeous model, too, with those elegantly carved angles to his face, those deep, glowing eyes. If she could ever persuade him, which she probably couldn’t, as he was so busy with important work. Glancing up into those eyes, that unbearably handsome face, she feared he never would and perhaps she did not have the skill to capture him properly.
The music came to an end and she curtsied to him, strangely reluctant to let go of his hand, to spin free again.
‘Violet! Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I fear I must steal my sister away for a moment,’ Rose said with a laugh. ‘There is someone she simply must meet.’
Violet dropped another quick curtsy to the Duke, still feeling a bit shaken by the way his touch made her feel. ‘Thank you. For the dance.’
‘You are quite welcome, Miss Wilkins,’ he said. As Rose led her away, she couldn’t help but glance back, only to find him watching her. As if he were trying to read her, see her, deep inside. It was most disconcerting.
‘What other important personages have you lured here tonight, Rose?’ she whispered, resolutely looking forward again. ‘The Queen herself? The Pasha of Turkey? I was just dancing with a duke, you see.’
Rose laughed. ‘Better! It is Mrs Prinsep of Little Holland House, where I have been a guest often lately. And she has brought her sister, Mrs Cameron.’
‘Julia Cameron?’ Violet gasped.
‘Yes, that is her over there, see?’ She gestured to a lady Violet probably would not have noticed. She looked so different from any image she might have had of a famous photographer. Violet had thought she would be stately, elegant, but Mrs Cameron was small, weather-beaten and dressed in a careless old brown wool gown, an old-fashioned lace cap on her greying hair. Violet thought her quite marvellous.
‘She’s asked if we will be at the Photographic Society exhibit,’ Rose said. ‘Jamie has procured us tickets.’
‘No!’ Violet gasped. ‘Has he really? I’ve been longing to see it.’
Rose laughed. ‘Truly. He is useful sometimes. I do hope you’ll enjoy it.’
Violet sighed happily. ‘I’m sure I can hardly fail to.’
‘Wonderful! Now, do come meet Mrs Cameron.’
* * *
Violet fairly floated out on to the terrace, still giddy from meeting Mrs Cameron and hearing her speak of her own photographic techniques, and then there was the prospect of seeing the exhibit still to come. There she might meet other people who could teach and encourage—or discourage—her in her work. It was quiet outside after the clamour of the dance, Rose’s small garden lit with Chinese lanterns strung through the trees, small moonlit bowers arranged with cushioned, wrought-iron chairs and sofas. The evening breeze, cold and crisp, was scented with vases of greenery and violets.
She wrapped her arms around herself and twirled down the shallow stone steps on to the grass. If she could meet real photographers, and then take some splendid, unique images in Russia, surely her hopes had a chance of coming true? Surely she would have an opportunity to do what she wanted?
She hummed along with the echo of the dance music and swirled on to one of the seats near a tiny summer house. She could see the silhouettes of the partygoers through the windows, dancing and laughing, the ladies’ gowns like teacakes, and it all looked like a dream. Her sisters’ lives were lovely; London was lovely and she had enjoyed every minute of her time here. Yet still she longed for something more, something just out of sight, out of reach.
She sat back on the striped cushions and smoothed out her satin-and-tulle skirt, thinking of museums and paintings and photos, thinking of what she wanted to achieve with her own art. Prince Alfred was quite right; it was a moment of the present that could be carried, perfectly whole, into the future. And she wanted to be a part of that.
Suddenly, there was a rustle and a burst of giggles from the summer house, which Violet had thought was empty. She drew in a deep breath and slid down low in her seat, not yet ready to make conversation again. Surely whoever it was would soon go back inside.
‘Charteris is in fine looks tonight,’ one lady giggled. Violet smelled a whiff of cigar smoke, like that which had hung around Prince Bertie. Were the ladies hiding in the summer house to smoke? She rather wished they had invited her, even if they were talking about the Boring Duke. The Duke of Bore.
The man whose looks, whose hidden thoughts behind Those Eyes, were not really entirely boring.
‘Indeed,’ said another, and her silvery voice told Violet it was Thelma. She sounded terribly smug about something. ‘He always is.’
‘You will look very nice together, I’m sure,’ the first lady said.
‘And I shall teach him charming manners! A man with political ambitions should draw everyone close to him, shouldn’t he?’
The first lady giggled again. So maybe Violet wouldn’t wish to join them after all, if all they were going to do was giggle
incessantly and talk about the Duke. ‘Just as you do. No one can resist you, Thelma.’
‘My mother always did say I was born to be a duchess.’ The ladies laughed merrily.
Were they planning to catch themselves a duke in a trap? Or maybe Charteris was actually courting one of them. Violet felt a strange, cold pang at the thought. She would ask her sisters; they always knew the gossip.
But the party had grown so crowded when she slipped back inside and she couldn’t see Lily or Rose anywhere. The laughter and music was louder, the smell of flowery perfumes thick in the air. She didn’t see the Duke anywhere, either, and she hoped he was well away from Thelma Parker-Parks.
Mr Hamilton, one of Violet’s casual suitors, a handsome but silly young man, grabbed her hand as she hurried past. Tucked under his other arm was one of Rose’s large silver tea trays, and she noticed several giggling people clustered nearby on the stairs, calling out to Hamilton to hurry.
‘Come along, Miss Wilkins!’ he said merrily. ‘We’re going to go sledding.’
‘Sledding!’ she cried with a laugh. ‘What, are you making a blizzard now?’
‘Harry over there said he used to do it all the time in his nursery! Sliding down the stairs on a tray. He says it’s dashing great fun.’
Violet suspected Harry and Hamilton and their friends were rather cup-shot on the champagne and on Rose’s planters’ punch, but she had to admit it did sound rather fun. She glanced around but still couldn’t see her sisters. But she did see Charteris, standing in the drawing room door, watching them in silence. Did he disapprove, then, the Duke of Bore?
She lifted her chin, reacting as she always seemed to when someone disapproved—she wanted to do the forbidden thing even more. Show them she did not care, even when she did. ‘Certainly, Mr Hamilton! It does sound like good fun.’
They climbed to the top of the narrow, polished staircase and lined up three to a tea tray on the last landing. Hamilton pressed cheekily close to Violet’s back as she tucked in her skirts, making her giggle—she must have too much champagne bubbling in her veins, too. Rose had appeared on the landing, as if she had been in one of the chambers there, and cried out that she would join them.
Playing the Duke's Fiancée--A Victorian Historical Romance Page 6