As she twirled around the room, frock swinging out, luminous, she tried to spot him. Where was he? Why so late? Charles Rushmore was a pleasant man; he wore a closed pink rose in his buttonhole and seemed not to notice that she was distracted, trying hard to make conversation. He asked her if she went to the theatre often, and talked about a play he’d seen recently.

‘The Blackest Night, frightfully good. Reviewers are raving.’

‘I must try and catch it,’ she mumbled, but in an instant she’d forgotten what it was called and knew she’d never bother to see it unless someone else arranged it. All she could think of was Nathaniel. The absence of him.

They danced for a few more minutes in silence. She was content not to have to speak, but Mr Rushmore looked anxious, frantic.

‘I’ve taken dance lessons, you know. For tonight,’ he confessed in a rush.

‘I supposed you must have.’ She smiled vaguely and tried to bring herself to care about his effort. There was evidence of lessons. ‘You’re rather good.’

‘Oh, do you think so?’ He looked delighted. He was accomplished, certainly. So many young men stumbled over their own big feet and seemed confounded by their overgrown limbs. Needless to say, he was not as good as Nathaniel, who danced as he did everything else – extremely well. He spun, stepped, stopped and side-slipped then started the routine all over again with absolute precision, not a step out of place. He didn’t reveal whether he was counting or concentrating, his expression declaring that he took it all in his stride. Where was he? Where?

Oh, there!

She spotted him and quivered. ‘There he is,’ she gasped.

‘Who?’ Mr Rushmore tried to turn to see who had caught her attention. She shouldn’t have cried out. It wasn’t polite. She followed Nathaniel’s broad back and slim hips as he bobbed through the party. Who was he dancing with? Lady Feversham. Well, that was fine. She was married. Old. Must be at least twenty-six.

‘I just noticed Nathaniel Thorpe.’ Vivian couldn’t resist saying his name aloud, even though she saw that doing so caused Mr Rushmore to look queerly; something between irritated and disappointed. ‘He’s so nimble,’ she gushed.

‘Yes. Assured,’ replied Rushmore. It didn’t sound like praise.

In her opinion, cutting in was the height of bad manners. Dances so carefully secured, so often longed for, could sometimes be ruined just because a chap could say, ‘May I?’ and your partner had no choice but to agree. Twice, when she’d been dancing with Nathaniel, this awful thing had happened. His friends had cut in. Carried her off. How rude. But now she just wished a woman had the right. She would waltz up to Lady Feversham and say, ‘May I?’, bow her head a little, drift into his arms. Impossible, though. Women didn’t have the right.

Knowing he was in the room was some sort of comfort. Now the party could become everything she needed it to be. It wouldn’t be long before he found her. Singled her out. Talked to her. She could enjoy her dances with the other boys, whilst savouring what the night would bring. He would ask her for the eighth, she was sure of it.