Excerpt from The Mitford Affair by Marie Benedict, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

In my darker moments, I wonder whether I shouldn't have accepted Sir Hugh Smiley's proposal instead; banal though he may be, our union would have saved me from my current financial worries. And I'd have spared myself the constant muttering by Muv that it was time for me to stop my unseemly roaming around society, as I'm nearing thirty and still unmarried.

Evelyn glances in my direction, and I raise my hand in greeting, eager to have him join the gaggle of friends assembled at my side. These men—­of which the poet John Betjeman and the photographer Cecil Beaton are but two—­are my chosen family. Why shouldn't they be? The qualities that Muv and Farve disdain in me, along with most men of my acquaintance, are adored by these fellows, who revel in my well-­read, quick-­witted observations, particularly if they aren't appropriate. They are the only group to which I've ever felt I belong, and so, of course, Farve despises these "dandies." Even amid my five sisters, I've always been something of the outsider. With each sister usually paired off or teamed up—­in childhood, Jessica with Unity, Pamela with Deborah, and Diana with Tom, like golden twins—­I've often been alone.

Before I fix a bright smile of greeting on my lips for Evelyn, I run my tongue across my teeth to ensure that no slick of deep-­red lipstick stains them. I smooth my gown, and then rehearse a few of the witticisms I've collected for him since we last met. Everything must be just so; none of us wish to risk Evelyn's humorous but biting censure. It's hilarious if wielded against those outside our circle, less so within.

But Evelyn comes no closer. In fact, he's changed course altogether, as if he's being pulled magnetically in the direction of Diana. A sinking feeling overtakes me, and I know this is my fault. Once, Evelyn had been my friend alone. When he was researching a book on high-­society hijinks and asked to meet Diana, whose beauty and charisma had made her the star of her debutante season and catnip for the journalists, I made the introduction at a tropical party she hosted with her husband on board a riverboat called the Friendship.

I hadn't been worried; I knew that Evelyn planned on disliking the young couple and making them the frivolous protagonists of his novel Vile Bodies. But all that changed when Evelyn came under Diana's spell. Now, he's so bloody mesmerized that I catch him wincing when I refer to my sister by the naughty nickname I've called her since infancy—­Bodley, a play on the name of the publishing firm Bodley Head, because her head has always been too large for her body. This small imperfection is nearly imperceptible to others because her beauty is so overwhelming.

I glance away quickly, not wanting Evelyn or the others to catch me staring. Gawking simply isn't done; it reveals an unacceptable weakness. To hide my misstep, I say, "Looks as though Lady Tennant's trip to Baden did not provide the 'cure' the spa so widely advertises."

Even though this provokes the snickers I expect, I loathe myself for stooping low to achieve it. How I sometimes wish I had more weapons at my disposal than my barbed tongue and pen. But then my friends pile on with their own observations, each cattier than the last, until I cry with laughter. Only when I dab my eyes dry do I first notice it.

Diana stands at the center of a group of men, a common enough occurrence. But her gaze isn't upon a single one of them. It's not even on her doting, wildly wealthy husband. Those silvery blue, incandescent eyes of hers are fixed across the crowded dance floor at the last person I'd expect.

Chapter Two
Diana

July 7, 1932
London, England

Diana steps back, away from those eyes and into the crowd. Her guests part as she passes through, and some of the revelers reach out to shake her hand or kiss her cheek. Fingertips graze her shimmering silver dress. If she believed in false modesty, she could tell herself she's sought after only because she's the hostess of this lavish affair, where a grand mix of her family and society friends gather alongside other Bright Young Things. But she has never any use for such untruths; she is Diana Mitford Guinness and the world just makes itself available to her. It always has.

Excerpted from The Mitford Affair by Marie Benedict. Copyright © 2023 by Marie Benedict. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.