By the time Lord Henfield had recovered his equilibrium, Lord Martley and Miss Gaydon had left the floor at the end of the dance, and it took some time to locate her again. She was talking to a man he recognised, although he did not know him well. Robert Newbold was some years Lord Henfield’s senior, and had been one of the set of ‘men of the world’ to which he and his peers had aspired, on coming to London, although he himself had ceased to be awestruck after seeing the man treat several luckless ‘average’ ingenues with crushing disdain. He must be five and thirty or thereabouts, and was still unmarried. Perhaps Henry ought to be warned about him. It was with no small degree of displeasure that Lord Henfield watched him offer her his arm, and realised that it was he who had the honour of leading her into supper. What was more, Henry appeared delighted with the arrangement, for all that she had declared herself disappointed but a quarter hour previously.

It was an unsmiling Lord Henfield who led Henrietta onto the dance floor for their waltz, later in the evening. As he placed his hand lightly at her waist and looked down at her, he felt very confused. There was the trust in her eyes, but she seemed so much more grown-up in the six weeks since he had seen her last. He did not think it was simply her appearance.

‘You do not seem very happy dancing with me, Charles,’ she admonished him. ‘I am accounted quite good, you know, so you could at least pretend.’

‘I am sorry. It is just … I do not want you hurt.’

‘By your treading on my toes? Oh no, I do not fear it, for you are able to waltz, sir, and very tidily.’ She smiled up at him from under her lashes coquettishly.

‘No. I meant by someone treading on your heart. Newbold is … has …’

‘Warning me, Charles? I would rather you did not. You see, I am not quite as green as you imagine, and my Aunt Elstead has already informed me that I must not take the gentleman to heart, at least not yet.’

‘Not yet?’ Lord Henfield’s voice rose, and the neighbouring couple glanced at them in surprise.

‘Ssssh, Charles, please. You will have us stared at.’ Henrietta frowned. ‘I do hope you have not come to London just to be disapproving and cast a wet blanket over everything. Papa did not send you to do that, did he?’

‘No. It is …’

‘Then please, let us dance and be friends.’

‘When have I not been your friend?’ he asked, rather too earnestly.

‘Oh,’ laughed Henrietta, wishing he would be less serious, ‘when you told me that new gown, the gown I had laboured over to make for myself, had too many knots of ribbon, and did not fit properly at the back. I was mortified.’