Queen of Diamonds by Bárbara Metzger

she said, “Hellen is…young.”
    â€œSurely she is only a year or two younger than you.”
    â€œWe have lived different lives, and I feel ages older. I want to help Hellen make the best choices for herself.”
    Harry knew nothing about Madame Denise Lescartes’s life, but everyone knew that Miss Pettigrew was the natural child of a lord and his long-time mistress. From the looks of the chit, she was bound to follow in her mother’s footsteps. “I should think Miss Pettigrew’s path has been long determined.”
    Queenie frowned. “People can change. Or do you believe that our lives are set forever at the moment of our birth?”
    In a way, Harry believed precisely that. He was born to be a viscount, with the privileges and responsibilities such a position entailed. He had no choice, no more than Hellen Pettigrew had chosen to be a baron’s bastard daughter. They were what they were. On the other hand, he had spent his life trying to break his parents’ mold. And what of the supposed Frenchwoman? Her accent varied from colloquial French to carefully educated English. Her manners and bearing were those of a lady, but she was going into trade, with pride. She was friends with a demi-mondaine, yet obviously disapproved of that life for herself and for Hellen. She dressed to stir a man’s senses, yet spoke of becoming a school teacher.
    Who was she, and what was her background? Harry wondered. What class had she sprung from, and was she following her natural-born destiny…or forging a new path of her own? Harry would love to know what lay behind the shadows in her blue eyes, and what brought the smile to her rosy lips. He could never ask. He knew without trying that such personal questions would be as offensive to the woman as physical overtures. And intimacy, of any kind, was not part of their agreement.
    â€œThis is far too serious a discussion for such a night,” he said. “Come,
chérie
, let us leave philosophy to the old men while we enjoy ourselves. Tomorrow you shall have to sew that little widgeon a new gown, and I shall have to look elsewhere for my brother-in-law. Tonight there is music and champagne and love in the air. Temporary infatuation, at any rate, if at a price. But I see that Hellen and Browne are taking the floor, so perhaps they will make choices of their own.”
    The orchestra struck up a waltz, Harry took Madame Lescartes in his arms, and they danced.
    Or they floated. Harry forgot his questions. Queenie forgot Ize. They both forgot they were not very good dancers.
    Tonight they were.
    Harry had never enjoyed a dance more. Queenie had never felt so at home in a man’s arms.
    The doyennes of Almack’s had never seen the waltz conducted this way. At the Cyprian’s Ball, partners held each other far closer than permitted in the sacred halls of polite society. Their hands wandered places the lady patronesses preferred not to name. Eyes were joined, as well as thighs, and sighs.
    The way Harry and Queenie danced was like making love to music.
    Smitten, the wiser women at the ball said to each other, shaking their heads. A clever girl kept her heart out of the business.
    Smitten, the men cursed. Now they had no chance.

Chapter Seven
    Breathless, Queenie declared she needed to repair to the ladies’ withdrawing room. What she needed was to reorder her thoughts. She had never felt like a wanton before. She certainly had never acted like one! But that dance…
    Perhaps it was the champagne. Or the music, the night, the wearing a gown meant for seduction. Or the man. Heavens, never let her be so taken with a gentleman that she forgot her principles more than she already had!
    As it was, she was more forward than Hellen, letting a man hold her so closely and moving closer herself. Had she actually let her fingers roam to Lord Harking’s neck instead of sitting demurely on his shoulder? Had she truly pressed against him