‘Oh, say something,’ she spluttered.

‘Like what?’

‘Something nice,’ she pleaded. It was undignified, but she didn’t care. She just wanted him to be kind to her again.

‘I like your dress. You are a wonderful adornment.’ His voice dripped with sarcasm. It wasn’t a compliment; wasn’t intended as one.

‘An adornment? Like a cherry on a cake but not an ingredient to life, you mean.’ Not essential like bridge, hunting, golf.

‘Quite so,’ he said dismissively. Decisively.

She preferred the silence. She must not let him see her pain and confusion. How was this happening? Why were they falling apart so suddenly? He seemed to hate her. She had to do something. Had to. But what? What could she do or say to keep him interested. He was right: all she was was an ornament. She tried to think very hard through the pain and champagne. What did that mean?

It meant she was desirable.

That was no trifling matter.

‘I’ll show you what I am.’ She grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the dance floor; they weaved through the crowds, jostling people’s elbows rudely. Temporarily amused, he didn’t object, but followed her swinging skirt out of the room, down a dimly lit, narrow passage. She led him to the powder room where earlier she’d discarded her lace. The little one, on the second floor. It didn’t have a maid handing out towels or a seamstress poised with a needle ready to help a girl in trouble. She and Emily had commented that that was a poor show, rather cutting corners; now she was glad. She put her head around the door.

‘Hello?’ No one replied. Deserted. She tugged at his cuff.

‘I can’t go in there.’ He followed anyway.

‘Lock the door,’ she instructed.

He did. It felt wonderful to have him do as he was told in that way. Follow her instructions. Without thinking about anything. Best not to think. Not about where they were or what she was doing. What was she doing? She was clawing furiously and desperately at his attention. She knew it. That was all that mattered to her. Gaining his attention once more. All.

She turned to him and took hold of his hands, then deliberately placed them on her breasts. She couldn’t feel his touch through the layers of cotton and silk, but his mercurial face dissolved in an instant; anger, confusion finally became delight. ‘Are you drunk? Are you that sort of drunk?’ he asked. She wasn’t any sort of drunk. Didn’t one have to be frequently drunk to develop some sort of pattern? She smiled. ‘I see.’ He thought he was seeing her properly for the first time. He thought she was game. That sort of girl. It wasn’t true. She’d never done anything like this before. If there had been a horse nearby, she would have just as likely jumped on that and galloped through the ballroom to hold his attention, to prove her bravery, her audacity, her difference. Bringing him here to forge this intimacy was the first thing that had come into her head. She was not even sure how it had. The long bath, the smell of male sweat in the ballroom, Nathaniel’s bulk; all of that combined had somehow brought her here. She had to mark them out. Make them firm. She just had to. And what they were doing wasn’t too bad. They were practically engaged, which was almost married.