Page 1 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)

April 19, 1873

Dahlia Lancaster took a small step away from her cluster of friends and lowered her shoulders slightly to elongate her neck. She knew every person at the Marchioness of Molyneaux’s ball was watching her. Of course they were. The shade and cut of her gown would be on request from London dressmakers tomorrow morning, her likeness drawn in the society columns. This night was the most important of her life, and she could feel the eyes upon her—some appraising, some jealous, some simply curious.

She cast her own gaze around the ballroom, appreciating the globe chandeliers with their warm yellow light and the stained glass ceilings. One day she would be responsible for hosting this Easter ball, and she had specific improvements in mind—not only to the guest list but to the refreshment table as well—and she would most certainly insist upon dance cards. The Marchioness was decidedly old fashioned in her omission of them.

On the far side of the room, Mother and Dahlia’s cousin, Elizabeth, were speaking with Lord Tynsdale. Dahlia squinted. She could not make out what they were talking about, but the conversation seemed cordial enough, which was good, considering Elizabeth’s tendency toward argument with members of a particular political inclination.

Dahlia continued to watch the room. She moved again, just a slight twist of her hips to rustle her skirts and make her pose more interesting. She knew all the tricks, had perfected them over the past few years—a tip of the chin to cast her face in a more flattering light, a flick of an elegant wrist to accentuate an outstretched arm. She was used to the attention her appearance garnered. Since she was a child, she’d been aware of the admiration brought on by her dark curls and large blue eyes. And now that her father had declared her the sole inheritor of the Paragon Line, his ocean liner company, she was one of the most sought-after women in London, and for more than her beauty. The envy she felt around her would only grow once the marquess announced his son, Lord Ruben’s, engagement at midnight. It would come as no surprise to anyone when Dahlia was revealed as the future marchioness. Lord Ruben’s attentions to her had been noted in all the society columns. He had confessed his love, and they had discussed their future together. The pair of them were considered to be the most famous couple in the country.

She looked toward where she’d last seen Lord Ruben, spotting him easily at the center of a group of men who wore ruby pins in their cravats—his idea, naturally. Lord Ruben was always at the center of a group. And here he was with his closest friends, the West End Casanovas, as they called themselves. But unusually, tonight Ruben was not entertaining the crowd. He frowned, scratching his neck, and didn’t appear to be listening to the conversation around him.

After a moment he looked toward her, but his gaze slid across Dahlia as if he didn’t notice her at all.

His lack of acknowledgment surprised her. Dahlia had expected some sort of understanding to pass between them, shared nervousness or excitement as their relationship became a matter of public record and transformed into an official connection. Perhaps the significance of the moment was simply pressing on his mind, and he was contemplating.

Dahlia returned her attention to her clique of young ladies, noting that they all mimicked her bearing on some level, whether consciously or not. Lorene alone was not standing in any kind of pose. She clasped a gloved hand around her wrist in a manner that looked neither elegant nor comfortable and peered distractedly toward the dais, where the orchestra played. Did her arm hurt?

Just as Dahlia had the thought, Charlotte Grey frowned, poking Lorene with her elbow. “You look ill,” she said in a low voice. “Correct your face.”

Lorene scoffed a puff of air from her nose and looked in the other direction, away from her friends.

The dancing had paused, and the edges of the crowded room grew even more crowded. Dahlia and her group stood near an open window, and she was grateful for the breeze as they gossiped. Even in the early spring, the ballroom was unpleasantly warm.

“How could you not have noticed Mrs. Fortescue’s gown?” Lady Priscilla Bremerton was saying with an exaggerated look of horror on her face. “She must know that peach color makes her skin look sickly.”

“She wore the same dress to Lady Robinson’s garden party last year,” Charlotte added. “Surely you saw it, Dahlia.”

“I did.” Dahlia nodded, although she could not fully bring her mind to the conversation. Truth be told, she was becoming a bit nervous. A glance at the clock showed another half hour until midnight.

“I wonder if the Fortescues are having financial difficulties,” Priscilla said. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Not with the way—”

The sound of shattering crystal silenced the crowd for just a moment. A dropped glass, Dahlia supposed. Servants rushed in the direction of the sound.

She looked back toward Ruben, but instead of catching the eye of her soon-to-be fiancé, her gaze met that of Ruben’s closest friend, Lord Meredith. His face lit up, and Dahlia couldn’t help but smile back at him.

Lord Meredith left the group and came toward the women, bowing when he reached them. He was a head taller than any of them, with a broad chest and deep-brown eyes. “Good evening, ladies. How are the Darling Debutantes tonight?” He spoke the appellation with a small smirk and a wink. The Illustrated London News society column had given the name to Dahlia and her friends, and the moniker had caught on.

The ladies greeted Meredith with smiles and curtsies. His Lordship was a favorite among their group—among every group. He was an easy person to like. A “gentle giant,” people said, with a warm smile and a genuinely good-hearted nature. Dahlia considered him to be one of her very dearest friends.

“Miss Lancaster,” he said, blowing out a breath. “I wondered if I might—”

She pulled the folding fan from her reticule and handed it to him before he finished the question.

Meredith gave a grateful smile as he opened it and waved it vigorously in front of his face. The wind lifted his dark curls from his forehead. He was one of the few men she knew who did not have a mustache. He wore side-whiskers instead, trimmed, no doubt, by a fastidious valet. Dahlia liked the look. It emphasized his square jaw and drew attention to his open face and the small cleft in his chin.

He leaned his head back and to either side to fan his neck.

The other ladies stepped back, apparently fearful that their coiffures would be disheveled by the gusts he was causing.

“How is it you never have a folding fan?” Dahlia asked him, shaking her head as if she were scolding. “Didn’t I give you a perfectly good one just last year for your birthday?”

He made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a chuckle. He shrugged. “I forget.”

“Perhaps you need a larger one so you don’t,” Dahlia said. “You could wear it in your belt like a saber.”

“I’d much rather borrow yours,” he said, tipping his head forward to fan the back of his neck. “How would I look with an enormous fan hanging from my belt?”

“Like a man who grows tired of always being hot,” Dahlia said. “And perhaps the trend will catch on. Maybe everyone would wear large fans in their belts—you could be famous.”

He tapped the fan to his palm, closing it and handed it back to her. He frowned but couldn’t fully hide the smile in his eyes. “That is not how I wish to become famous, Dahlia Lancaster, thank you very much.”

“A pity,” she said, returning the fan to her reticule. “You are missing out on a lucrative business opportunity.”

He tugged on his shirtfront, pulling it away from his chest to make a breeze. “Pure torture, that’s what this is,” he said.

One of his curls was askew. Dahlia reached up and flicked it so that it fell back onto his forehead with the others.

Meredith’s make-believe frown dissolved and his face softened. He took Dahlia’s hand and opened his mouth as if he would say something. But he closed it directly and shook his head the slightest bit before resuming his usual smile. “Shall we?” He tipped his head toward the dance floor.

The first strains of a waltz had started.

The pair walked together to the floor and took their positions. And as they spun through the other couples, Dahlia realized she was no longer nervous. She was grateful to have a friend such as Meredith, someone she was truly comfortable with, who could make her laugh and whose strong arms made her feel safe.

The rubies in her bracelet glittered where her arm rested on his shoulder, reminding her that the time was drawing close for the marquess’s announcement. A part of her wished she and Meredith could just continue dancing. But that was silly. She was to be the future marchioness. How could she not be happy?

She looked at her partner and saw Lord Meredith was watching her with a strange expression that both unsettled and comforted her. Seeing it, she missed her footing.

Meredith’s arms tightened around her, keeping her from falling. “Steady on,” he said.

Dahlia startled, concentrating on her feet until she fell back into the rhythm of the dance. When she looked back at his face, the expression was gone, and she was left wondering if she’d imagined it. The state of her nerves led her to believe that she had.

The dance ended, and the music stopped completely. A feeling of anticipation charged the air. The time had come.

Meredith returned Dahlia to her friends, and the young ladies moved with the crowd to the raised dais at the end of the ballroom, where the musicians were vacating their seats for a well-earned recess. The chimes of the grand clock echoed through the space. Midnight exactly. Their host was nothing if not punctual.

The marquess stepped onto the platform, and his son, Lord Ruben, joined him. Dahlia had never seen him looking so nervous. His face was red and sweat gleamed on his forehead.

Dahlia’s mother came through the crowd to join her daughter. From the bleary look in her eyes, she had already had far too much to drink. A common occurrence since Dahlia’s father’s diagnosis of tuberculosis. She smiled up at her daughter, and her proud expression made Dahlia’s heart ache. If only her father could be here.

“I am very happy for you, my dear,” her mother said a bit too loudly. “You have been so favored, both with beauty and circumstance. And Lord Ruben is fortunate to have you.”

Dahlia linked arms with her mother and gave a smile, hoping to quiet her. She looked at Ruben, but his gaze was firmly averted from catching anyone’s eye. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his hair was becoming damp with the sweat.

The marquess helped his wife step onto the dais with them. Her Ladyship looked over the crowd with a gaze that held all the condescension her title demanded and more. Her eyes lit on Dahlia and her mother, and the corners of her mouth tightened. She had never acted warmly toward Dahlia, but perhaps that would all change after tonight.

“As you all know,” Lord Molyneaux began, “my family has a very important announcement this evening.” He looked at his son, but Ruben did not turn his head. “There have been some, myself among them, who have wondered if this day would ever come, if the lad would ever settle down and accept his duties as the future marquess.” He clapped his son on his shoulder.

Ruben’s face color deepened to crimson.

“It has finally come about,” Lord Molyneaux continued as servers with trays moved through the crowd, distributing sparkling wine. “My son has chosen a companion to share his life and home with, as well as further the interest of our legacy and bear an heir worthy of the title of the Marquess of Molyneaux. And I could not be more pleased with his choice.”

He took a glass, as did the others on the platform. “Tonight is one of utmost importance for my family personally, as well as for the kingdom. The young lady proceeds from a noble family, one of excellent standing. Her pedigree is impeccable.”

Dahlia considered her parents and felt a surge of warmth for the marquess at the compliment he paid them.

The marquess and his wife raised their glasses. “I am very pleased to announce the forthcoming marriage of Lord Ruben and Lady Lorene Stanhope.”

Gasps sounded throughout the room, the loudest coming from Dahlia’s mother.

Dahlia stared at the marquess, certain she had misunderstood. Had he made a mistake? Was somebody playing a joke?

Ruben reached out his hand to assist Lorene as she stepped up next to him. Red rubies sparkled around her wrist as the light caught the bracelet she wore. It was an exact match to the one he’d given Dahlia.

The room went entirely silent for a moment of shock, and then the whispers began.

“Ruben?” Dahlia said aloud. Her thoughts were sluggish, like they had grown thick and heavy, and she was unable to make sense of what was happening.

“This can’t be,” her mother said. “Dahlia, you...” Her words trailed off as she motioned toward the stage with her glass.

Ruben kissed Lorene’s cheek, and the company followed the marquess in raising their glasses and drinking a toast in tribute to the couple. But the action was halfhearted. None were looking at the dais. The entire room stared at Dahlia. All but Ruben, who still would not meet her eye.

Dahlia looked instead at Lorene, her closest friend. Surely she would correct this. But when Lorene looked back, her expression was one of triumph, a brow raised and her lips pulled into a smirk.

The reality of the situation sank slowly over Dahlia, and her muddled thoughts grasped the truth.

It wasn’t a mistake.

Her legs trembled and her face heated as panic set in. It couldn’t be true.

Movements at the corner of her eye drew her gaze, and she saw her friends moving away, making space between themselves and her. Only her mother remained close.

Dahlia heard a snicker, then another. Voices started, some containing laughter, all animated by scandal.

Her stomach clenched, and she feared she would be ill. She thrust her glass at her mother and started toward the exit on the far side of the large room, walking as she always did, back straight, eyes ahead, attempting to act as if she were not in the least upset.

“Dahlia, my dear,” her mother began, but Dahlia didn’t stop.

The crowd parted around her, and the voices grew louder, as did the laughter.

Lord Meredith was hurrying toward her. “Miss Lancaster.”

Dahlia continued. She veered away from him. Lord Meredith’s pity would make her break down entirely. Tears started to prickle at her eyes, and sobs were making her chest heave. She hurried her stride, determined not to cry in front of the haut ton .

Only once she reached the main hall did she allow herself a choking breath. Sobs tore from her throat, echoing up the grand staircase. She rushed past it, throwing decorum to the wind and grasping her skirts to keep from tripping. Her thoughts were unfocused, and she ran without direction down a corridor. All she could think of was getting away from the ballroom and finding where Elizabeth had gone. Her cousin was the only person she could think of who would offer understanding at her situation, rather than pity or judgment. At the very least she hoped to find a place to weep alone.

A light shone beneath the library door. Dahlia was certain the room would be empty since all of the guests were gathered in the ballroom to hear the marquess’s announcement. She opened the door and slipped inside.