“Perhaps,” Amala said, feeling a little awkward in spite of his kindness. She noted that he was tall and as well built as he was well dressed. His hair was dark blond with a distinct wave to it that she suspected would be curlier if it hadn’t been forced into submission for an event such as this.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. I am Henry Beckenridge. And you are?”

“Amala,” she said and laughed softly to cover feelings of mild embarrassment, as she usually did when people asked her name. “I won’t bother telling you the rest because you won’t be able to pronounce it and you won’t remember it. Unofficially I belong to the Hepworth family, but I was never actually adopted. I have always been considered a companion to their daughter Katarina. We are near the same age, and very close in every way. It works out nicely at home, but on occasions such as this, I . . .” Amala stopped herself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. We’re complete strangers, Mr. Beckenridge.”

“We’re becoming acquainted . . . Amala. And I know of the Hepworth family—of Willenbrock House—even though I confess I am barely acquainted. Dare I guess you were going to say that on such occasions you don’t really feel like you fit in?”

“It’s not a matter of what I feel, sir; it is a fact. I have lived in England since I was a child. Although it’s impossible for me to speak—as much as I’ve tried—without betraying a hint in my accent that I am not English. I will never be able to look English, or sound English, and therefore I will never be English.”

“And so you sit here and watch everyone else dancing and having a good time? Is this how you generally handle social events?”

“If you must know, yes.”

He set his punch down on a little table and stood up. “Then you must dance with me.”

Amala felt astonished. She could count on her fingers the number of times she’d actually been asked to dance, and never by a man so handsome. It was generally the homely men who felt out of place themselves who behaved as if they were doing her a great favor to dance with her. But this man genuinely seemed to want to dance with her.

Amala had to admit. “Truthfully, my feet are killing me, and . . .”

“Slip off your shoes,” he whispered. “Push them under the chair and no one will ever notice. Come along. Dance with me.”

“I must warn you,” Amala said, liking this man more by the minute, “dancing with me could create a scandal. Consorting with a woman like me is not looked upon favorably.”