He could see her hands shaking and her eyes darting into every corner of the Grand. He wanted to be delicate with her. He wanted to help. It was just that she made it so damn difficult.

‘What does it matter anyway?’ Vivienne groaned. ‘I could be the most talented dancer in the hotel and they wouldn’t welcome me here! Not to dance. Not as anything more than a . . . a curiosity! I could surpass Hélène Marchmont. I could go to Paris and eclipse them all in the Parisian tango. I could create new pivots and spins, dances the world has never seen – but I wouldn’t be able to do anything with them, and all because of who I am. Or who he is.’ She spat the word as if it was a curse. ‘Lord Edgerton. My stepfather. I’d bring shame on him, on his whole damn dynasty. Can you imagine – me, Vivienne Edgerton, telling him I’d no interest in inheriting and being married off . . . because all I wanted was to tango?’

Raymond was silent. Then, with a deep breath, he uttered words he hoped he would not regret. ‘Miss Edgerton. Vivienne,’ he corrected himself. ‘I’ve only one thing to say to that.’ Then, with a wolfish grin, he added, ‘That’s absolute rot.’

Her cat-like eyes glared.

‘Do you know who taught me to dance? Georges de la Motte. Perhaps you’ve heard the name? I won’t bore you with the details. The story is long and I’ve told it often enough. Georges belonged to a barony, down in the very heart of France. If there were still kings and queens on the continent, why, his father would have been in line – distantly, perhaps, but still with the blood coursing through his veins. Georges might have grown up to inherit one of the barony’s estates. But instead I met him at a ballroom in Brighton, where he became champion. He was grander than you or I, grander than anyone in the Buckingham Hotel, and yet he danced among us. And . . .’ Raymond was hitting his stride now. He took Vivienne by the hand, raised her back to her feet. ‘There is an old friend of mine, from my dance hall days. Mr Warren Sykes. I’m certain you’ve heard of him! Born in a Bristol slum, and now the reigning champion of England. He’s danced with princesses, Miss Edgerton. His father was a fishmonger.’