Once again he discreetly fielded a titbit beneath the table.

With the laughter now thick in her voice, she said: ‘And is that where your small friend comes from? North Germany?’

‘But, yes.’ There was answering amusement in Berthold’s voice. ‘My friend, as you call him, is a little Dackel. A typical north German dog. His name is Wastl.’

‘Perhaps I could tempt Wastl with something?’

In utter complicity their eyes met.

‘There will be chocolate finger biscuits with the dessert, Fräulein Hudson. I think you will find Wastl very fond of them.’

As their eyes held, Vicky forgot about the dachshund at their feet. Behind his spectacles Berthold’s eyes were smoke-grey marked with gold flecks. They were the nicest eyes she had ever seen. They were the eyes of a man who could be trusted. The eyes of a man who, unlike his father, had not a shred of pomposity about him. A man who was decent and kind. Beneath his trimly clipped moustache his mouth was just as pleasing, firm and well shaped.

A distant part of her brain registered that the conversation at the table had now turned to culture. Opera was being discussed, or was it ballet? She didn’t know and didn’t care. As Berthold asked her if she had a dog of her own, the most extraordinary things began happening inside her tummy.

‘My father has three,’ she said, aware that, close to, his hair wasn’t mousy at all. Beneath the lights of the chandeliers it was almost blond.

‘And what kind of dogs are they? Are they like Wastl, small and friendly, or are they big and fierce?’

The smile in his eyes sent excitement spiralling in her tummy as if she were on a roller-coaster. ‘Harry is a Yorkshire terrier and is as small as Wastl,’ she said, knowing he was teasing her, but not minding because it was teasing in the nicest possible way. ‘I’m not sure if he is as friendly, though. He’s full of what Zelda calls “pep”. The other two dogs are spaniels and are wonderfully affectionate.’

Dimly, she was aware that the conversation on the other side of the dinner table was again about royalty. ‘I thought the King of England looked quite splendid in German military uniform when he visited Berlin in February,’ Zelda was saying, trying to lure Harald Remer into speaking of the Kaiser again. ‘Being American I tend to forget how close the relationship between Germany and Britain is, but then I also tend to forget that King Edward and Kaiser Wilhelm are uncle and nephew.’

What Harald Remer’s response to Zelda’s last remark was, Vicky didn’t know. All her attention was focused on Berthold—on how much she liked him and on the extraordinary effects his gold-flecked eyes and sweet smile had on her. She’d never been in love, but she wondered if she was falling in love now. Could it happen so suddenly? And with someone so unlikely?

As the dessert was served with accompanying chocolate finger biscuits, Berthold quirked an eyebrow inquiringly in her direction and Vicky decided that it could—and that it had.