Indiscretion is the new novel from award-winning romance novelist
Hannah Fielding. Written in Fielding’s signature style, infused with an
old-school Hollywood glamour, Indiscretion
evokes the drama and passion of 1950s post-war Spain.
1950’s London. Alexandra, a young writer is bored of her suffocating
but privileged life amongst the gilded balls and parties of Chelsea. Keen for
an adventure, Alexandra travels to Spain to be reunited with her estranged
Spanish family on a huge estate in Andalucía.
Arriving in sun-drenched southern Spain for the first time, Alexandra
is soon caught up in the wild customs of the region. From bull fighting
matadors and the mysterious Gypsy encampments in the grounds of the family’s
estate, to the passionate dances of the region and the incredible horsemanship
of the local caballeros, Alexandra is instantly seduced by the drama and
passion of her new home.
When Alexandra inevitably falls for Salvador, the mercurial heir to her
family’s estate and the region’s most eligible man, she finds herself entangled
in a web of secrets, lies and indiscretion. Alexandra soon falls prey to
scheming members of her own family, the jealousy of a beautiful marquésa and the
predatory charms of a toreador, all intent on keeping the two lovers apart.
But nothing can prepare Alexandra for Salvador’s own dangerous liaisons
with a dark-eyed Gypsy.
Can Alexandra trust that love will triumph, or will Salvador’s
indiscretion be their undoing?
Excerpt
For the week leading up to the
masked ball, confusion had reigned on the ground floor at El Pavón. Servants
had shifted out furniture, rolled up carpets, prepared tables for the buffet in
the dining room, and chandeliers, wall sconces, columns and cornices had been
decorated with garlands of bright roses interspersed with jasmine and orange
blossom from the garden. As the evening began, and the sweeping strings of
ballroom music filled the hacienda, El Pavón seemed transformed into a magical
palace.
Although the ball was in full
swing as dusk gave way to night, cars were still arriving. They stopped at the
foot of the stairs with a rasp of gravel and young drivers in dark-grey suits
and caps leapt out to open the doors.
In the garden, an array of
colourful lanterns hung from arbours, dangled between fruit trees, encircling
the fountains and pools, twinkling with light. While in the great ballroom,
overlooking the east-facing gardens, Doña María Dolores’ guests, attired in all
sorts of disguises, drank, joked and glided happily on the polished oak
dancefloor.
The ballroom was long and
rectangular, taking up the entire length of the house. At each end, French
doors opened out on to terraces stocked with exotic plants. Down one side, more
windows led to the wide green lawn at the side of the hacienda. High mirrors
hung between the windows, framed with gilded beading. Supported on marble
columns was a gallery with a wrought-iron balustrade where musicians in evening
dress were playing romantic dance melodies from tangos to Viennese waltzes.
Alexandra paused on the threshold
of the vast room, a trifle overwhelmed by the grand spectacle. All the guests
wore masks of velvet, satin or lace, giving them a mysterious air. She watched
for a moment as Ondine, Goddess of the Northern Seas, leant against a column,
lost in a dream, her head slightly tilted to one side. In her long tunic of
turquoise silk sprinkled with iridescent sequins, she appeared to have just
risen from the depths of the ocean, her beautiful golden hair draped gracefully
about her bare shoulders. A torero in black silk breeches, drawn in at the
hips, with a waistcoat brocaded with silk, knee-length stockings and shiny flat
shoes, gazed at her. Just as he had decided to approach, another gallant
figure, Oreste, bearing his father’s sword in his belt, swooped in first and,
bowing deeply before her, drew her on to the dancefloor. They passed a maharani
wearing a magnificent sari of dark gold brocade, who was walking towards the
veranda arm-in-arm with a American Indian in a headdress of multi-coloured
feathers and a jacket of brown suede.
A hand tapped Alexandra’s
shoulder. Startled, she turned, almost bumping into a couple of waiters
carrying trays laden with appetizing tapas and small glasses of fino sherry.
The intruder was a musketeer in a wide soft hat, loose breeches and a leather
doublet. A black mask hid his twinkling eyes but she recognized the beaming
smile.
‘Well, Cousin,’ he said
cheerfully, ‘I didn’t have to search very long to find the most beautiful girl
at the ball. I told you I could spot you under any disguise.’
She smiled at Ramón, happy to
find a friend in this sea of masked strangers, but it was difficult to
concentrate on what he was saying. Her eyes were scouring the dancefloor,
eagerly scrutinizing the whirling couples from behind her velvet mask. What, or
more precisely who, was she looking for, exactly? After all, she knew nothing
of the mysterious Conde, except that he had a deep and seductive voice.
Recalling it made her pulse run faster and her knees slightly weak. Could the
peculiar episode at Mascaradas have been merely a foolish jest designed to
mystify her? Surely Old Jaime would not have taken part in a practical joke?
She started with indignation at the idea she might be the victim of some prank.
Yet, the more she thought about it, the more that seemed improbable. It would
be an expensive joke to play, after all. No, the sheer cost of her beautiful
costume had to be proof of the generosity and admiration of her romantic
stranger.
As the evening progressed and
there was still no sign of the mysterious Conde, Alexandra was forced to admit
that she must have been the victim of a practical joke. It was gone eleven
o’clock, surely he would have shown up by now if he was going to? Putting aside
her disappointment, she told herself it had all been merely a captivating
puzzle, one that had fired her romantic imagination and aroused her yearning
for adventure, nothing more. At least she had some ideas for her new hero, she
reminded herself, and decided to enter fully into the festive spirit, now that
she had given up on her elusive stranger.
She didn’t notice the oriental
prince, wearing a costume similar in style and colour to her own, observing her
quizzically from a far-off corner of the room.
A pierrot in a black-and-white
silk suit with a collar of pleated tulle and a bonnet decorated with black
pompons asked Alexandra for a dance. She allowed him to move her around the
dancefloor, with only half an ear on the eager conversation he was making as
she took in the sea of colourful guests. It was almost midnight. Don Felipe was
paying court to a shepherdess in a crinoline gown. Further along the room
Mercedes, disguised as a bluebell, wearing a crown of tiny blue flowers and a
dress with a bodice of green velvet and an organdie skirt, with petals of
periwinkle blue, was squabbling with Electra, who was sulking in a corner. Isis
and Osiris were discussing something with a pretty redhead in Savoy costume.
Alexandra was once again aware of
the pierrot, who drew her closer to him. ‘Soon it will be midnight,’ he
whispered into her ear, ‘and the lights will go out—’
‘Excuse me señor, I’ve come to
collect my wife,’ interrupted a deep, warm voice. Alexandra smothered a gasp.
Her heart gave such a jolt she thought it might leap out of her mouth.
The first notes of a Strauss
waltz began. Before she could recover, the stranger swung Alexandra into his
arms, holding her so tightly to him she was unable to lift her head to see his
face. The blood pounded in her veins. She was conscious of his strong, sinuous
length against her and the turmoil of her own body as his warmth soaked into
her, adding to the heat welling up inside her like a furnace. Her temple
brushed against his jaw; his skin was smooth. He smelled of soap, mint and
tobacco, indefinably masculine. As they twirled around the dancefloor,
Alexandra was carried away by an overpowering tide that left her light-headed,
almost breathless. It was as though she were under a spell, a bewitching charm
of the mind and senses that had no place in the dictionary of her experience.
Eventually, the giddy whirlwind
ended and they found themselves on the terrace. In contrast to the brightly lit
ballroom they had left, it was bathed in an almost unreal, diaphanous light
from the moon and the glowing lanterns in the trees. They waltzed in silence
for a few more minutes, taking in the melancholy softness of the night.
‘I owe you an apology for
stepping in just now but I could see no other way of tearing you away from the
arms of your too-forward partner,’ he said, in those same ardent, deep tones
that had so haunted Alexandra over the past few days.
She caught her breath, unable to
reply immediately and all the while hoping he wasn’t aware of the urgent
beating of her heart. He still held on to her firmly and she could only look up
at him with a smile. The moon disappeared behind a cloud, shadowing his
features.
The stranger was almost a head
taller than Alexandra. Under his light cloak she could see that his costume was
very much like hers. It was in a similar cloth of pure, ivory-coloured silk,
yet less decorated. His head was clad in a plain turban, which entirely
concealed his hair. In the wide faja, the silk band that clasped his waist, he
had placed a navaja, much like the ones Alexandra had noticed at the station in
Puerto de Santa María on the day of her arrival, the difference being his was
set with genuine precious stones. His shoulders were broad; his embrace firm
and close.
As a shaft of moonlight fell
briefly on his face, Alexandra’s heart missed a beat. In spite of the
half-shadow and the narrow mask shielding his tanned features, she recognized
the stranger she had seen on the seafront and then in the Church of Santa
María: the man on the prayer stool who had so deeply disturbed her. So it was
the same man after all. One man who now made something inside her thrill
deliciously at his nearness.
Somewhere far off, a clock struck
midnight. An owl hooted, as if in response. The air was fragrant with the sweet
smell of jasmine and orange blossom. Masks fell and shouts of joy burst from
all sides under a shower of confetti.
The oriental prince leaned his
head forward towards his sultana.
‘Will you allow me, señorita?’ he
whispered, his lean fingers with infinite gentleness removing her velvet mask.
His gaze delved deeply into her large, glowing green irises, reading the
emotion in her upturned face as her body yielded helplessly to his touch. A
rush of blood coursed wildly through Alexandra’s veins as his hand once more
slipped about her waist, pausing before pulling her against him.
Hannah Fielding bio
Hannah Fielding is an incurable
romantic. The seeds for her writing career were sown in early childhood, spent
in Egypt, when she came to an agreement with her governess Zula: for each fairy
story Zula told, Hannah would invent and relate one of her own. Years later –
following a degree in French literature, several years of travelling in Europe,
falling in love with an Englishman, the arrival of two beautiful children and a
career in property development – Hannah decided after so many years of yearning
to write that the time was now. Today, she lives the dream: writing full time
at her homes in Kent, England, and the South of France, where she dreams up
romances overlooking breath-taking views of the Mediterranean.
To date, Hannah has published three
novels: Burning Embers, ‘romance like
Hollywood used to make’, set in Kenya, 1970; the award-winning Echoes of Love, ‘an epic love story that
is beautifully told’ set in turn-of-the-millennium Italy; and Indiscretion, her fieriest novel yet,
set in 1950s Spain.
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