‘The orchestra are rather good, aren’t they?’ She enunciated carefully, not wanting to slur her words.

He glanced about him as though noticing for the very first time that there was music, which wasn’t the case: she’d seen him dancing with Lady Feversham and others. ‘Yes, I suppose. Good enough.’

‘I do feel so very energetic tonight.’ Hint, hint. Just ask, why don’t you?

‘Do you?’ He didn’t smile. Where was his dear smile?

‘Yes.’ He didn’t catch on. She couldn’t ask him! It wasn’t done. She opened her dance card as though checking to see who she was committed to next. ‘Matthew Fulham has begged me for the number sixteen. It’s a two-step.’ He nodded absent-mindedly, his eyes scanning the dance floor. Was he looking for someone? Who? Desperately, ‘Do you know, I still have number seventeen free. It’s a waltz.’ It was too, too shaming. Her face was aflame. Number seventeen before he asked her to dance? There were only twenty-four in total. Would that be enough time?

Something had slipped. They weren’t as they had been when he’d visited her home last week. That afternoon had passed so nicely. Simple smiles had fallen readily from his lips; he’d been charming and attentive. Now he seemed distant, distracted, a different man. Officially, of course, he needed her father’s permission, but enough couples reached understandings and then fulfilled the formalities later.

They hadn’t reached an understanding.

Not quite.

He had not made any clear speeches emphatically stating his intentions, although he often whispered with her in the quiet corners of rooms, littering his conversation with insinuation and intimation. He wanted her, he admired her, he couldn’t sleep because of thinking about her. Often he’d wormed his finger inside her glove, caressed her wrist; once he had secretly brushed his lips on her neck. If others knew of his behaviour they would condemn it as too much. It was not enough. Never enough. She wanted so much more. Naturally, she was curious. Actually, she was burning.

How much time did these things take? If he was not going to ask her to dance, then perhaps they could go and get something to eat. Not that she was in the least bit hungry, but they could find somewhere away from the eyes that were boring into her – inquisitive, insensitive, amused.

‘Should we dance?’ She spat out the words, despite her better judgement.

He shrugged. ‘If you like.’

Confident, he took hold of her hand, not her arm as formality ought to decree, and led her on to the dance floor, right in the middle of the number fifteen. She liked the fact that he’d clasped her hand and laced his fingers between hers. It was perfectly wrong of him but it made her feel endorsed, approved of, among and belonging and yet distinct, apart. It was difficult to explain. He gave her a sense that the world was vast and there was so much she didn’t know or understand. It was daunting and exciting. Like boarding a train but not knowing where it was heading. Smoke and noise, a feeling of churned excitement. They forced other couples to make way. Some smiled, others glowered; she didn’t care. His hand was on her waist now and the other one still clasped in hers. At last! Even through gloves her skin scorched.