A man who was a member of the aristocracy could and did expect his mistress to be invited to the social events he might be attending and as his partner, provided her pedigree made her socially acceptable to his hostess. They could even be invited to house parties together, but must always be given separate, but conveniently close, rooms. The Prince of Wales when conducting an affair always chose to surround his mistress with a handful of his close friends, sometimes including her husband.
Then there was the other kind of mistress, the ones that men set up in discreet expensive houses in St John’s Wood where they visited them. These mistresses were often show-girls of one sort or another. They could accompany their aristocratic lovers to Cannes or Monte Carlo; attend the Grand Prix, and louche parties with them, but they could not accompany their lovers to the kind of formal society events to which a man could take his aristocratic mistress.
There were aristocratic wives who had originally been on the stage, but they were few and far between.
One thing that was non-negotiable, though, was that a young woman who was not married had to preserve her reputation at all costs.
Amber was very close to tears and she was terribly afraid of disgracing herself. She mustn’t embarrass Lord Robert by creating a silly scene. She’d miss him so much – he had been so very kind to her – but she was just a young inexperienced girl and he was worldly and so handsome that he could have any girl his heart desired. She couldn’t possibly expect him to fall for her, she thought miserably as the dusk started to gather over Oxford Street. That would be the stuff of fairy tales, and she was far too sensible to allow herself to believe in those.
Louise shivered as she waited in the doorway of Harvey Nichols, as much with excitement as impatience. They had chosen this rendezvous because, as George had said, if anyone was to see them Louise could simply claim that she had been shopping and that they had bumped into one another.
She had known from the minute he had looked at her in that meaningful way at the Guinness ball that she would have to see him again. If he hadn’t suggested it himself then she would somehow have found a way to make sure that their paths had crossed again.
Louise shivered once more, this time only with excitement. It had made her feel so important when George had singled her out for attention. She knew all about his reputation, of course, but that had only made him seem all the more attractive.
He thought that he could seduce her, but instead she intended to make him fall in love with her. Louise had discovered at a young age how easy it was to manipulate men, and how exciting. There was something in her that craved excitement.
Louise longed for the day when she would be one of those fêted beautiful women whose lives were spent in luxury, their every whim indulged. The life Louise longed for wasn’t the one her mother planned for her: a dull boring life of wifely duty to some equally dull and boring man of equal social status to her own to whom she would be expected to be grateful for marrying her, despite the fact that she did not have a dowry. No, what excited Louise was the kind of life she had seen lived by the beautiful young women escorted and indulged by their rich, often much older, lovers; a life that would allow her to dress in beautiful clothes and jewellery and to be part of the fast set that spent their lives in a social whirl of pleasurable activity, that took them from the casinos of the French coast to the louche nightclubs of London, travelling in fast cars and sleek yachts, sleeping in the most luxurious hotel beds, eating the most delicious food and always being on show so that she could be admired; desired by men and envied by her own sex, but always the sparkling glittering centre of the ‘in’ crowd.
Her lover would adore her and lavish her with gifts – a racehorse or two; jewellery, of course; a pretty town house, and a villa in the South of France. Nothing would be too much, her every wish would be granted. And of course there would be other men, young, deliciously handsome men who would also lust after her and adore her.
She wanted it all. She would have it all, Louise promised herself fiercely.
Her relationship with George Ponsonby was simply the place where she would start.
She couldn’t marry George, of course. She didn’t want to. He wasn’t rich enough, for one thing, but it would be a triumph to be able to claim him as her conquest, especially when he had such a bad reputation. She’d be hailed as the woman who’d finally tamed him.
A taxi was pulling up; George got out and smiled at her. Louise didn’t smile back.
‘You’re late,’ she told him petulantly. ‘I was just about to go home.’
His mocking ‘Liar’ brought a flash of temper to Louise’s eyes.
‘You and I, my dear, are two of a kind. We know what we want and we don’t let it go when we’ve found it. Now, do you really want to go into Harvey Nichols or shall we find somewhere more private? There’s a club I know not very far away where they make the most wicked cocktails.’
‘That’s silly,’ Louise told him, refusing to give in to the intoxicating sensation she could feel inside herself. This was so very exciting, because it was so very dangerous. She was playing with fire and she knew it.
George smelled of the sandalwood cologne he always wore, stronger than was considered ‘British and gentlemanly’. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a pink chalk-stripe, over a white shirt and with a maroon silk tie. He looked, Louise knew very well, just that little bit too smart, his clothes just that little bit too well fitting, his hat tilted just so at a slightly rakish angle and his confidence very evident in the swagger with which he walked.
‘How can a cocktail be wicked?’ she responded.
‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
‘But you can’t have been as terrified as I was; I promise I was literally frozen and unable to move …’
‘I was frightful …’
‘Well, you were lucky. I was shaking all over and I was sure that my combs would come out and my headdress fall off.’
‘I can’t even remember if I did curtsy, I was so scared …’
The ordeal of their presentation was finally over. Amber, Beth and Louise, along with their fellow debs, had had their names called in stentorian tones by a liveried member of the royal household and had made their formal curtsies to the King and the Queen, the photographs had been posed for and taken, and their relief now scented the air as intoxicatingly as a heady wine.
Their voices high-pitched with relief and excitement, the girls all vied with one another with their tales of how terrified they had been.
Amber felt almost light-headed with a relief that she knew went deeper for her than it did for the other girls. They had grown up knowing the role they were to play and that their formal presentation would be part of that role. For her it was different. She had felt awkward and ill at ease, intimidated sometimes by the other girls, especially in the early days, and afraid of what her grandmother’s ambitions would mean for her. Afraid too of letting her grandmother down. But now at least that hurdle had been overcome, and she need not fear her grandmother’s anger on that account.
She had no idea what the future held, but at least the ordeal of her unwanted presentation was now behind her, Amber acknowledged. She hardly dared let herself think too much about the future and her own hopes. They made her feel too vulnerable and afraid, knowing what her grandmother wanted for her. It would take a miracle to give her the future she wanted, woven with the kind of love her parents had shared, and her own passion for silk, into its every weft and warp.
Tired chaperones were chivvying their charges towards waiting cars, wishing they might return home to bed instead of having to go on to one of the evening’s many balls, but only one ball could be the highlight of the