We danced another turn.
‘Why on earth should I have a special reason?’ he enquired as we passed again. ‘Is not the pleasure of your company enough?’
‘Not really, no.’ And he actually gave a little laugh. It rang like bells, pleasant to the ear.
‘You do not think much of yourself?’
It’s not that. It’s just that I think you think a lot more of yourself than you do of me.
‘Oh please.’ I looked down, demurely. Tonight was play-acting night, after all. ‘I am only a simple gentry[37] girl, not such an exalted personage such as yourself, My Lord.’
He flashed his brilliant smile again and began pelting me with a hundred little compliments, all perfectly arranged to melt the heart of any maiden. The compliments themselves did not get to me. The skill which with they were delivered, on the other hand, did.
What does this bloody fellow want with me? He could have dozens of women mooning at his feet!
Of course, there was always the possibility that he had fallen madly in love with me at first sight. But that was the kind of thing Ella might have believed, not I. And even if he had, he’d better fall out of love again right speedily!
Slowly, the flow of niceties ebbed. We continued to dance, and I had to admit he was an excellent dancer. Lord Dalgliesh led in a way that made me not even feel I was being led: it was effortless, graceful, and enthralling. And that was exactly why I hated it. He didn’t make me feel like being led - but in fact I was, very skilfully. And I didn’t take kindly to people trying to fool me.
Oh really? a tiny voice inside me asked. Not even when it’s done as magnificently as this?
Finally, after three more turns and several more compliments, he got to the point. As we passed each other, he whispered:
‘I must make a confession, Miss Linton.’
‘Oh?’
He turned on the spot in a perfect pirouette. Grabbing my hand, he pulled me towards him, past him, and launched me into the movement alongside the other ladies. When I returned, he said in a low voice:
‘Yes. I did have a motive to dance with you, other than your charms. Although I assure you,’ he added, smiling again, ‘that no other motive would have been needed.’
I faked a smile back at him. Now we were talking business! ‘But there was one?’
Taking hold of my arm, he led me into another smooth turn.
‘Yes. I was curious. When we first met, you looked at me rather strangely. As if you expected to see somebody else. I am used to how people react around me, and your reaction was startlingly different. So, as I said, I am curious. What was going through your mind when you saw me?’
Hm… How about ‘Thank God, it’s not him!’?
I hesitated. But I had already fulfilled my quota of lies for the day. And anyway, why shouldn’t he know?
Fixing my gaze on his mesmerizing steel-blue eyes as the ballroom turned around us in a blur, I said:
‘Sir Philip hinted to us that we were going to meet a person of great importance at the ball. From what he said…I was expecting somebody else.’
‘Oh?’ One of his brows rose in interest. ‘Whom, if I may ask?’
I opened my mouth to speak.
At that precise moment, three heavy, loud knocks came from the large door leading into the ballroom. The music stopped. The dancers stopped. Everything stopped. I nearly stumbled over Lord Dalgliesh’s feet, and only grabbing onto his shoulder kept me from falling. Quickly, I steadied myself again, letting go of his shoulder.
I looked around. I could see the same question on every face: Who on earth would be daring, impatient, bad-mannered and arrogant enough to interrupt a ball in the middle of a dance?
Oh no…
The doors swung open and, as I knew he would, in strode Mr Rikkard Ambrose, his face harder and more stunning than ever.
Everybody stared at him as he stood there, facing the motionless dancers. Everybody except me, that is. I was too busy staring at the tall, ravishingly beautiful woman who had entered the room on his arm.
Duelling on the Dance Floor
She was slim and fair with delicately curved lips, deep green eyes, and black hair that tumbled in rich curls down her back. She held herself regally, and it was clear that, unlike me, she felt perfectly at home in a ballroom. Her luxurious green and black ball gown, perfectly complementing her eyes and hair, fell down in elaborate folds over an elegantly sweeping crinoline. In short, she was very beautiful, and obviously knew just how to accentuate that beauty to attract a man’s attention.
I hated her at first sight.
Well, what do you expect? I am a proud fighter for women’s rights and independence. Of course I instantly despised somebody who conformed so absolutely to the female stereotype of the damsel in distress that I was trying to fight.
You despise her for being unfeminist, do you?
Yes, of course I did.
And the two hundred and fifty other women in the room, who are just the same kind of unfeminist, lily-livered cowards? You don’t despise them, do you?
Well…
Might the intense loathing that you feel specifically for her have something to do with the fact that she is clinging to Mr Ambrose’s arm like a limpet?
Sometimes I really wished that inner voice of mine would shut up!
My eyes flicked from her to Mr Ambrose and back again. Could he… could they be…? No. They couldn’t be, could they?
Mr Ambrose strode over to Lady Metcalf, who stood at the edge of the crowd, gaping at him in a rather unladylike manner. In this, I noticed, she was mimicked by almost every female in the room. Blast! Why did that annoy me so much?
He made a quick, curt bow.
‘Please forgive this intrusion, My Lady. I changed my mind about not accepting your most recent invitation. I hope I’m not too late and that the ball hasn't already started?’
Since the floor full of frozen dancers around him made it quite blatantly obvious that the dance had indeed started, this remark was rather redundant. It was also as impolite as one could get. Colour rose to Lady Metcalf’s cheeks. Her mouth closed. And opened. And closed again.
Was she thinking of letting her servants chase him out with hunting crops? That’s what she would have done if I or anyone else had pulled off something like this. But Mr Rikkard Ambrose wasn’t just anyone.
‘N-no, of course not, Mr Ambrose.’
My mouth dropped open. The voice coming out of Lady Metcalf’s mouth wasn’t the usual vulture’s croak. It was soft, uncertain, almost demure. Under Mr Ambrose’s cold gaze, she lowered her eyes.