It wasn’t the most complicated move in the ballroom repertoire. It took balance and it took commitment and, if you were going to get it right, it took elegance as well. By rights, Vivienne Edgerton ought to have stepped effortlessly around him so that they might dance back across the ballroom floor. And yet, moments later, her foot entangled with his. She tried to right herself, but it was too late; gravity had taken her. Raymond caught her, lifted her back to his side and, once they had found their rhythm again, he urged her into the movement once more.

This time Vivienne concentrated too hard. She’d let the music carry her along, but now she fought against it. So intently was she staring at her feet, trying to make them do everything she instructed, that she didn’t think about the rhythm of the music at all. Then, everything happened at once. The music seemed to speed up. Raymond shuffled around. Vivienne’s left foot tried to follow, but smashed into her right. Suddenly, all was a chaos of windmilling arms and legs – and Vivienne Edgerton would have crashed into the ballroom floor, if Raymond de Guise hadn’t been there to catch her.

Vivienne let out an exasperated howl.

‘Try it again, Miss Edgerton. There’s no humiliation in not getting it straight away.’ Raymond stopped. Her eyes were downcast, looking anywhere but at him. ‘Miss Edgerton?’

‘For God’s sake, Raymond, would you not call me by that name! I’m Vivienne. Vivienne. The Edgerton came along and replaced a name I was more than happy with and . . .’

Vivienne ripped herself out of Raymond’s hold, clattering across the dance floor to the place where the gramophone sat. In a moment she had silenced it. Then she threw herself, like a toddler in a tantrum, into one of the chairs propped up against the wall. For a moment, she kneaded at her eyes, as if she might cry – but the thought of smearing the Maybelline eyelash darkener she’d painted around her eyes gave her pause. She simply looked up, despairing, at Raymond instead.

‘Why can’t I do it?’

‘Vivienne, you’re too hard on yourself. A ballroom dancer isn’t born overnight – certainly not a great one. And . . . you’re not without talent, Vivienne. You have grace and you have poise and . . . what you lack, you don’t lack in your body. You lack it up here –’ he touched the side of his head – ‘in the mind. You need to calm yourself. You need to breathe. You need to know: it doesn’t matter if you go wrong.’

‘I am calm,’ Vivienne snapped, with rising resentment. Her New York accent became so much more pronounced when she was angry.