“Well, you wouldn’t let me, in any case. I believe you like to keep your little secrets and you didn’t want me joining your bohemian arty group.”

“Now you’re talking nonsense, Louis. Why don’t you go and find someone to pester for a dance? The orchestra is about to play.”

He clutches dramatically at his heart and reels away. “Ah! You have a cruel streak in you, Lilith Montgomery—to speak to your own fiancé in such a way! But I shall not stay where I am not wanted. When you’ve finished talking about art and genius remember that I have the first waltz and a polka booked on your dance card.” So saying he disappears, grinning, into the crowd.

They watch him go, then Lilith raises her gaze to meet his and gives a faltering smile.

“I am sorry,” she says. “That was … difficult. I should have…”

“Told him? Yes, you should.” The words come out sounding far harsher than he intended.

Lilith frowns and briefly closes her eyes. He opens his mouth to take it back, to say he is sorry, but he is drowned out by the opening bars of a Strauss waltz.

He puts his hand on her arm. “Lilith … I had to come. Mangan wanted me here. And … I wanted to see you so very much. You look exquisite, my love.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but Louis reappears, bounding from the milling crowd.

“Our dance, I believe,” he says, offering Lilith his arm. She lets him lead her away, glancing back at Bram too briefly for him to be able to read her mood.

The music increases in volume. The hosts take to the floor amid much applause, and somehow, in all the excitement, Lilith melts into the crowd and is gone. When Bram sees her next, Viscount Harcourt is holding her tightly to him as they waltz expertly around the ballroom.

*   *   *

From his vantage point in the gallery overlooking the ballroom, Nicholas Stricklend has a useful view of everyone in whom he has an interest. His position also has the advantage of removing him from the hurly-burly of the revelries in which most of the guests are engaged. He does not enjoy social gatherings of any sort, but particularly dislikes those that involve such large numbers of people, all galloping about, quaffing poor champagne, and attempting to outdo one another in the weight of their jewels, the elaborateness of their gowns, and the volume of their laughter. The resulting fug of human heat turns his stomach. That the Anstruthers’ ballroom boasts a minstrel’s gallery is a bonus indeed. Better still, they have seen fit not to fill it with minstrels, but to position the orchestra below. With the dancing underway the gallery has all but emptied, which suits Stricklend very well.