by Robert Thier
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.
Good God! Is she possessed or something?
‘Of course we haven’t started yet, Mr Ambrose. You’ve come just at the right time. May I introduce you to my family?’
‘You may,’ Mr Ambrose granted with infinite generosity.
The raven-haired beauty stepped up beside him.
No… not raven-haired. Crow-haired! She’s a crow! She’s just the sort to pick at rotting carcasses. She’s probably just waiting to sink her beak into Mr Ambrose.
She smiled. And it was an artificial smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I knew it! I knew she couldn’t be trusted. You could never trust females - they were so bloody conniving! Apart from unfortunate young secretaries and other kinds of feminists, of course.
She directed her smile at him, and he, although he didn’t smile, nodded graciously. More graciously than he had ever nodded at me.
A thousand questions buzzed through my head. Who was she? Why was she here? Why had he brought her? Was she rich? Was he in love with her? Were they engaged? And most important of all, why the blazes were all of my questions about her?
I forced my eyes back to Mr Ambrose. It was him I should be concerned about.
Should be.
But wasn’t.
I was concerned about her. Or, more specifically, her and him in combination.
My eyes snapped back to her. Heat welled up inside me. The heat of some dark unnamed emotion. Was it possible to want to claw a stranger’s eyes out? Well, people said there was such a thing as love at first sight. Why not hate at first sight, then?
‘Um, Miss Linton? My hand, if you please?’
Blinking in surprise, so suddenly ripped from my thoughts, I looked up at Lord Dalgliesh, then down at his hand, which I was clenching so tightly that it was white from lack of blood. I let go as if I had burned myself. ‘Oh, excuse me!’
‘No matter,’ he said, took his other hand off my arm and stepped back from me. His attention seemed to be on something else. He was looking towards the two newcomers.
Well, if he wasn’t interested in me any longer, all the better. Quickly, I stepped back and ducked into the crowd.
Just in time: Mr Ambrose had spotted Lord Dalgliesh.
There was a moment suspended in time. T
he two men’s eyes met, and it was as if they were two lions meeting at a Sahara watering hole. They were the kings, the rest of us were just so many zebras and antelopes.
Mr Ambrose prowled forward. Lord Dalgliesh, ignoring Lady Metcalf, who was still trying to engage the newcomers’ attention, shook out his mane of golden hair and started to advance as well. People in their way stood aside hastily, as if they felt the tension in the air. I certainly did.
Finally, they stood facing each other. I watched from behind the shoulder of a bulky military gentleman who didn’t realise he was being used as cover.
The two of them stared at one another, waiting for the other to bow first. After seemingly endless seconds, they both inclined their heads about half an inch, at the same instant.
‘Lord Dalgliesh,’ Mr Ambrose said.
‘Lord Ambrose,’ Lord Dalgliesh said.
A shiver went down my back? Lord Ambrose? What the…!
‘Mister Ambrose, your Lordship.’ Mr Ambrose’s tone was arctic, but Lord Dalgliesh didn’t flinch. He just smiled a friendly smile. A fake friendly smile. ‘Of course. My mistake.’
There was a spell of silence so intense it pressed against my eardrums.
‘It has been long,’ Mr Ambrose said.
‘Yes, it has,’ Lord Dalgliesh said. ‘Quite some time since last we met.’
The air between them seemed to crackle. Lord Dalgliesh started to say something else, but I didn’t catch it because at that very moment the evil crow descended on Mr Ambrose, grabbing his arm again.
‘Come, my dear Rikkard,’ she said with the broadest of smiles. ‘I wish to dance a reel or two.’
Rikkard? Rikkard? She was allowed to call him by his first name? Who was this creature? The writer of the pink letters?
Well, if so, he seemed to pay a lot more attention to her in person than he did to her correspondence. With a last dark look at Lord Dalgliesh, he took her by the hand and led her onto the dance floor.
‘What was that?’ I heard some lady whisper beside me. ‘Between Mr Ambrose and His Lordship, I mean. I’ve seen a lot of important people taking the measure of each other, but that…’
‘That was eerie,’ agreed another in whispered tones. I was inclined to agree.
Lord Dalgliesh still followed Mr Ambrose with his eyes. He had his back turned to me, so I couldn’t see his expression. But I didn’t really want to.
Then suddenly he turned, again with his charming smile on his face. ‘Miss Linton,’ he began. ‘I apologize for the interruption. Shall we finish our…’
His smile flickered and went out when he saw that I was no longer there beside him. I didn’t wait to see what he would do next. By the time the music had started up again, I was already halfway across the room, trying to locate my little sister Ella.
I had to find Ella! It was essential that I found her again and helped her through the evening as well as I could. It was also essential that I occupied myself with something, anything which could keep my mind off the fact that Mr Rikkard bloody Ambrose was dancing in this bloody ballroom, probably only a few yards away from me, with some bloody female I had never seen in my life!
I felt like hitting something. Preferably Mr Ambrose. Or her. Oh yes, he could snap at me and even continue to deny the fact that I was a girl, but present him with a girl with long lashes, a demure smile and a pretty dress, and he was suddenly dancing and going to balls and whatnot. Typical man!
Or is he? whispered that tiny voice inside me. You heard Dalgliesh call him Lord. It’s not every man who has a noble ancestry but chooses to deny the fact. Why do it?
No matter. Nobleman or common man, he was still a man! Self-centred, arrogant, infuriating!
I should just ignore his antics the way I had learned to ignore most men’s chauvinist behaviour over the years. But… but… there was this possessive way in which the black-haired girl had linked arms with him. For some reason I could not ignore that.
I spotted them in the distance, twirling over the dance floor, and a stab of envy shot through me. No, I could not ignore that at all.
But why?
Fuming, I whirled around and left in search of Ella.
Bloody hell, why?
*~*~**~*~*
‘There you are!’
I swooped down on my prey like a hawk on an unsuspecting field mouse. Well, maybe not quite. For one thing, I didn’t grab Sir Philip Wilkins by the neck, but by the hand. For another, I didn’t carry him off to my nest on a distant, rocky crag to devour him, but simply dragged him over to a chair next to the closest refreshment table, away from an exhausted-looking Ella.
‘I have been looking for you,’ I said with a reproachful little smile and more or less forced the lanky, long-nosed lord into a chair beside me. Ella, an expression of sublime relief on her face, dropped into a chair on my other side, out of range of his romantic attentions.
‘All this dancing can be so exhausting, can’t it?’ I asked cheerfully as the first notes for the next dance sounded. ‘I’m sure you’ve been longing for a break.’
‘Well, actually I was rather enjoying-’ Wilkins began, his gaze wandering with dreamy longing between Ella and the dance floor.
‘So terribly exhausting!’ I cut him off. This was the perfect time to test a very handy technique for talking with men I had recently discovered: if they were gentlemen, and a lady intimated there was something she might like them to do, they were usually too polite to refuse. Of course, nobody ever used this technique because it was ruthlessly impolite. But then, nobody had ever accused me of politeness. ‘I’m sure you would love a little conversation for a change, wouldn’t you?’
He hesitated. ‘Um… well, yes, if you think so, but…’
It works! It works, it works!
‘I must admit I found our discussion of your house in town extraordinary,’ I cut him off again with a bright smile. ‘So exciting, in fact, that I was wondering: Do you have any estates in the country, too?’
‘Well, yes…’
That was all I needed. I let him have it - a full broadside of verbal cannonballs!
‘Wonderful! That is so interesting. How many manors are in your possession? Are they large? Is there good hunting there? Not that I myself hunt, of course, but I find the noise of guns so soothing. Reminds me of good old English traditions, and that an excellent supper will soon be on the table, don't you know? Do you yourself hunt? Oh, forgive me for even asking! You are a true gentleman, of course you hunt! I’m sure you’re an excellent sportsman, and that is so important in a man, especially an Englishman, since it’s really so central to our national character. I mean, if a German or a Frenchman don't know how to shoot, that’s all right, they can drink beer or think up poems and philosophy and everybody will say “Here we have a true example of our Nation”, but with us English, and the British in general, hunting and sportsmanship are so important. Rather demanding, don't you think? But then, our nation is the greatest in the world, I suppose that it is allowed to make demands of its subjects. What were we talking of again? Now I forgot. Oh yes, your family estates! I must ask you, do you have a library? For I am very interested in…’
And so I went on, and on, and on, until Wilkins' eyes became glassy, and Ella had settled into a comfortable nap. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy to come up with boring subject after boring subject. Dull things to talk of aren’t as common as you might think.
Why don’t you talk about flowers and greenhouses, or romantic love? He’ll probably be happy to talk to you for hours then!
I snorted. But that was just it: I didn’t want him to be happy. I wanted him to finally see what a horrible family he intended to marry into, and run away screaming. So far, though, from the looks he gave me, the only result I seemed to be getting for my efforts was that he intended to marry Ella as quickly as possible and remove her to one of these country estates of his, as far away as possible from her deranged sister.
‘Of course,’ I said brightly, ‘Ella and I are insepa
rable. Wherever she goes, I go. Isn’t that so, Ella?’
I elbowed her in the ribs as discreetly as possible. Abruptly awakening from her nap, she mumbled: ‘What…? Oh yes. Inseparable, yes, of course.’
‘I believe that even were one of us to marry,’ I said poignantly, ‘the other could not survive without her sister. We would always have to be together.’
Horror washed over Wilkins' face. Like a drowning man stretching out of the water to grasp a cliff, he jumped from his chair and tapped a passing gentleman in a black tailcoat on the shoulder. In the background, the music of the last dance faded as it came to an end.
‘Excuse me, my friend.’ The words tumbled out of Wilkins' mouth into the sudden silence. He couldn’t get them out fast enough. ‘The next dance will be starting soon, and this lady here has held me captive… um, I mean, has had to sit down for several dances, lacking a partner. Would you be so kind as to oblige?’
‘If you wish it, Wilkins,’ said a horribly familiar, cold, curt voice. ‘You were most obliging in our recent dealings, I owe you a favour.’
‘It is too kind of you to say so,’ Wilkins sighed, relief breaking out all over his face.
‘No. I’m never too kind.’ Turning, Mr Ambrose nodded to Sir Philip. ‘Now, where is this lady of yours?’
Then he saw me.
Slowly his eyes wandered up and down my figure, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. He opened his mouth a fraction of an inch. I swear he was about to make a cutting remark about me wearing no trousers! Then his eyes met mine, and he remembered who and where we were.
‘Ambrose, may I introduce Miss Lilly Linton.’ Wilkins' voice was a distant buzz in the background, his gestures meaningless. ‘Miss Lilly Linton, this is Mr Rikkard-’
‘We know each other,’ Mr Ambrose cut him off. His dark eyes didn’t leave my face, boring into me with searing intensity.
The music had started playing. Around us, people were busy chattering. Nevertheless, in our small portion of the ballroom you could have heard a pin drop.
