So Flicka laid her white-gloved fingers in Pierre’s large hand and waltzed with him.
After that, Josephine did lend Cyprien to Flicka for a foxtrot, and she whirled around the floor in his arms.
If Dieter wasn’t going to dance with her, she was still going todance.
After that, Maxence Grimaldi appeared, younger and somehow more handsome than his older brother Pierre, and they swung around the dance floor for another waltz.
More of the most eligible bachelors in the world asked Flicka for a dance, and she accepted them all. Of course, she did. She was young, ostensibly single, and becoming a power player in high society.
An hour later, Pierre was back, and she danced in his arms again.
This time, the photographers noticed. Their cameras fluttered in a flurry of clicks from the balconies and edges of the room where the security guys were keeping them.
Flicka didn’t sit down the rest of the night. Every man in the room, from the debutantes’ older brothers who had been forced to attend, to the debs’ widowed or divorced fathers, to the cousins who had been pressed into service as “dates” for the debs, every single one wanted to form a connection withHer Serene Highness Friederike Augusta of Hannover, whether romantic or political.
It was becoming increasingly evident as each crop of debutantes moved on to graduate schools and careers, that Flicka kneweveryone.
She danced withValerian Mirabaud, one of the partners of the private Swiss bank Geneva Trust, who attended because his niece, Anaïs, was one of Flicka’s debutantes. Anaïs’s father had been called away on business at the last minute, so her uncle had stepped in. Valerian often stepped in for social functions, as he was the oldest brother of his generation and because he was good at it. Even though he was in his late sixties, he was so very tall and agile. His sharp, gray eyes roamed the crowd, missing nothing.
Flicka had met several of the Mirabaud girls through friends, though the Mirabauds did not send their next generation away to boarding schools like Le Rosey, preferring one of the private day schools in Geneva. Valerian’s French was rounded with a Swiss accent, as his family had owned Geneva Trust for generations. Flicka’s father and brother had worked with the Mirabaud family’s bank during several projects, utilizing its variable and relaxed reporting rules. One paid dearly for private banking, but private banking often had an excellent return on that investment.
Anaïs was Flicka’s special project, not that Flicka had told Anaïs’s uncle about that. Flicka had chosen Anaïs as a deb because she was an ugly duckling, studious, serious, and hampered by thick, chunky glasses. Her project had been to raise money and materials for orphanages in Eritrea, Africa, and she had done splendidly in only six months. A fire had lit in the girl’s gray eyes, and Flicka knew that Anaïs had great things in her future. Instead of working at her family’s bank that summer, Anaïs was planning to apply to intern at UNICEF in New York.
Flicka was very pleased with the prospect of another contact at the United Nations.
Maxence Grimaldi also claimed a second dance, saying that his older brother shouldn’t get to have all the fun. When she asked him why he was at the cotillion at all, he laughed out loud, his dark eyes sparking like fire. “I’ve promised my aunt that I will attend at least five events a year where I may meet ‘a suitable young woman’ because, her words, she hasn’t given up on me yet. I’m doing all five this week, and I’ve got a flight to South America next Tuesday.”
Flicka teased him, “Am I a ‘suitable young woman?’”
He smiled down at her, his dark eyes half-hooded, and his hand firmed on her back through the thin silk of her dress. “Of course, you are. You’re a Hannover princess, the only one of your generation. My uncle would do anything to bring you into the family, and you might be the only woman on Earth who could tempt me to marry and have a family instead of, well, you know.” He bent as they danced, his full, lush lips nearing hers. “The only real question would be, could you be ‘a suitable woman’ for me?”
Flicka couldn’t quite breathe. Warmth rolled off Maxence’s body, brushing her bare arms and shoulders, and the way his mouth moved near hers fascinated her.
She stepped back as they waltzed, increasing the space between them. Her voice choked in her throat. “I don’t think so, Maxence.”
He chuckled. “A man has to try. It’s probably better that we just continue to coordinate our charities, right?”
“Right.”
His smile turned a little sad. “Sometimes, I regret proposing to you a few years ago. I blew my one chance with you.”
“You shouldn’t,” she said. “I was honored. I considered it. But I was only seventeen.”
“You’re twenty-one now.”
“It’s just awesome how you can do math like that. So clever of you.”
He pressed her waist, bringing her a little closer to his chest. His move felt more like affection than whatever it was he radiated when he turned it on, so Flicka moved farther into his arms.
Maxence said, “You’re the only person I can talk to here, or ever at these things.”
“So let’s talk more often.”
“I’ll come watch you in The Leeds in September, just as friends.”
“I’d love that. Text me when you get back to Colombia, and send me some pictures of Pontifical Javeriana University.”
When Maxence kissed her goodbye on her cheek, the sadness in his eyes almost broke her heart, but they both knew that she wasn’t a suitable woman for him. He needed someone . . . different.
