“There you are!”
I swooped down on my prey like a hawk on an unsuspecting field mouse. Well, maybe not quite. For one thing, I didn't grab Sir Philip Wilkins by the neck, but by the hand. For another, I didn't carry him off to my nest on a distant, rocky crag to devour him, but simply dragged him over to a chair next to the closest refreshment table, away from an exhausted-looking Ella.
“I have been looking for you,” I said with a reproachful little smile and more or less forced the lanky, long-nosed Lord into a chair beside me. Ella, an expression of sublime relief on her face, dropped into a chair on my other side, out of range of his romantic attentions.
“All this dancing can be so exhausting, can't it?” I asked, cheerfully, as the first notes for the next dance sounded. “I'm sure you've been longing for a break.”
“Well, actually I was rather enjoying...” Wilkins began, his gaze wandering with dreamy longing between Ella and the dance floor.
“So terribly exhausting!” I cut him off. This was the perfect time to test a very handy technique for talking with men I had recently discovered: if they were gentleman, and a lady intimated there was something they might like to do, they were usually too polite to refuse. Of course, nobody ever used this technique because it was ruthlessly impolite. But then, nobody had ever accused me of politeness. “I'm sure you would love a little conversation for a change, wouldn’t you?”
He hesitated. “Um… well, yes, if you think so, but…”
It works! It works, it works!
“I must admit I found our discussion of your house in town extraordinarily,” I cut him off again with a bright smile. “So exciting in fact that I was wondering: do you have any estates in the country, too?”
“Well, yes...”
That was all I needed. I let him have it – a full broadside of verbal cannonballs!
“Wonderful! That is so interesting. How many manors are in your possession? Are they large? Is there good hunting there? Not that I myself hunt, of course, but I find the noise of guns so soothing. Reminds me of good old English traditions, and that an excellent supper will soon be on the table, don't you know? Do you yourself hunt? Oh, forgive me for even asking! You are a true gentleman, of course you hunt! I'm sure you're an excellent sportsman, and that is so important in a man, especially an Englishman, since it's really so central to our national character. I mean, if a German or a Frenchman don't know how to shoot, that's all right, they can drink beer or think up poems and philosophy and everybody will say 'Here we have a true example of our Nation', but with us English, and the British in general, hunting and sportsmanship are so important. Rather demanding, don't you think? But then, our nation is the greatest in the world, I suppose that it is allowed to make demands of its subjects. What were we talking of again? Now I forgot. Oh yes, your family estates! I must ask you, do you have a library? For I am very interested in...”
And so I went on, and on, and on, until Wilkins' eyes became glassy, and Ella had settled into a comfortable nap. Let me tell you, it wasn't easy to come up with boring subject after boring subject. Dull things to talk of aren't as common as you might think.
Why don’t you talk about flowers and greenhouses, or romantic love? He’ll probably be happy to talk to you for hours then!
I snorted. But that was just it: I didn't want him to be happy. I wanted him to finally see what a horrible family he intended to marry into, and run away screaming. So far though, from the looks he gave me, the only result I seemed to be getting for my efforts was that he intended to marry Ella as quickly as possible and remove her to one of these country estates of his, as far away as possible from her deranged sister.
“Of course,” I said brightly, “Ella and I are inseparable. Wherever she goes, I go. Isn't that so, Ella?”
I elbowed her in the ribs as discretely as possible. Abruptly awakening from her nap, she mumbled: “What...? Oh yes. Inseparable, yes, of course.”
“I believe that even were one of us to marry,” I said poignantly, “the other could not survive without her sister. We would always have to be together.”
Horror washed over Wilkins' face. Like a drowning man stretching out of the water to grasp a cliff, he jumped from his chair and tapped a passing gentleman in a black tailcoat on the shoulder. In the background, the music of the last dance faded as it came to an end.
“Excuse me, my friend.” The words tumbled out of Wilkins' mouth into the sudden silence. He couldn't get them out fast enough. “The next dance will be starting soon, and this Lady here has held me captive… um, I mean, has had to sit down for several dances, lacking a partner. Would you be so kind as to oblige?”
“If you wish it, Wilkins,” said a horribly familiar, cold, curt voice. “You were most obliging in our recent dealings, I owe you a favour.”
“It is too kind of you to say so,” Wilkins sighed, relief breaking out all over his face.
“No. I'm never too kind.” Turning, Mr Ambrose nodded to Sir Philip. “Now, where is this lady of yours?”
Then he saw me.
Slowly, his eyes wandered up and down my figure, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. He opened his mouth the fraction of an inch. I swear, he was about to make a cutting remark about me wearing no trousers! Then his eyes met mine, and he remembered who and where we were.
“Ambrose, may I introduce Miss Lilly Linton.” Wilkins' voice was a distant buzz in the background, his gestures meaningless. “Miss Lilly Linton, this is Mr Rikkard....”
“We know each other,” Mr Ambrose cut him off. His dark eyes didn’t leave my face, boring into me with searing intensity.
The music had started playing. Around us, people were busy chattering. Nevertheless, in our small portion of the ballroom, you could have heard a pin drop.
“Y-you do?” Sir Philip looked from me to Mr Ambrose and back again. So did Ella, who was suddenly completely awake again. There was a pause.
“Where from?” Wilkins inquired added in a tone of undisguised curiosity and scepticism. As if I didn't exist on the same level as his Mightiness Mr Rikkard Ambrose!
Well, I didn't, monetarily speaking, but still. It was pretty cheeky coming from a chap who went about London bombarding innocent young ladies with flowers!
“We bumped into one another in the street,” Mr Ambrose explained, still not taking his eyes off me. His gaze wasn't just dark and intense, there was something else in it. A promise…
The Promise of retribution. That’s what’s in his eyes – a threat! Is he afraid I’d give him away? Shame him in front of London Society by revealing I worked for him? Yes, blast him, that’s it!
Well, he'd just have to learn that I could keep my mouth shut!
And he’s supposed to dance with me, is he? To hold me lovingly in his arms and sweep me over the polished floor in a passionate whirl?
To judge by the arctic look on his face, it was obvious that nothing was further from his mind, so I did him a favour. Not acknowledging his presence in any way, not even nodding to him, I rudely turned my head away. Soon enough, the crow in her green dress would probably appear and whisk him off.
There was a heavy silence. No footsteps. He did not move away. He was not whisked off. Blast him, why didn’t he leave already? My rudeness was giving him the perfect excuse!
“Well, Miss Linton?”
Miss! He called you miss! He admitted you’re female!
Well, it was rather hard to ignore, considering the ball gown I was wearing. Still, that little admission tugged at my heart – and my head. Reluctantly, I turned it towards him.
“Well what?” The retort was abominably rude, but that was all right, since it came from me.
Those dark, sea-coloured eyes of his were still fixed on my face. I made the mistake of looking into them, and was caught. Blast!
He held out his hand for me to take. “Miss Lillian Linton, will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
My mouth fell open slightly. Was he joking? But then I remembered who this was. No, he wasn't joking. Dear Lord in heaven, how was I going to get out of this?
And then, something utterly incredible happened – something more horrible than the Napoleonic Wars and the Black Plague put together.
“Yes, thank you,” I heard myself say in a shy, breathy voice.
What? What the heck was the matter with my vocal cords? How could they betray me like this? It wasn’t fair!
A hand closed around mine. It was both lithe and muscular, and the grip it exerted was a little too hard for someone asking you for a dance.
For a dance! Argh, no! Not with him!
There was a slight tug on my hand. Not harsh, but insistent. Dazed, I started to move and followed Mr Rikkard Ambrose as he led me onto the dance floor. In my stunned state, I still noticed he moved very different from Lord Dalgliesh: not like a born dancer, but with a harsh, precise force that went beyond dancing. They were the movements of a born fighter. I almost felt like marching beside an elite soldier on a victory parade.
No! Don’t let this happen! Flee, you fool, before doom is upon you!
My insides were writhing in panic. But before I could turn and run, before I could do anything, we suddenly were in position on the dance floor, and I felt arms around me. Mr Ambrose's arms.
Blast! Why do they have to feel so hard, and firm, and… right? It’s not right!
My heartbeat picked up, and I hardly dared to look up. I felt like an elephant who had been ordered to dance with the ringmaster. Would I squash his feet? Would I fall over? And what would happen when this madness was over, and we returned to our normal routine of work, if that ever happened?
The music began. The four-four time lent itself to Mr Ambrose way of moving. He went towards and away from me as the music required, grasped me when the music demanded, and let go when the music said so. Not once did he look at me, or speak to me.
We turned. And turned again. And again. And again.
Blast, this is maddening! Isn’t he going to say anything at all?
Apparently not. Nobody could be silent like Mr Ambrose. Not even a grave, or a whole graveyard for that matter, could compete with him. And as for looking at me, he didn't seem to have any intention of doing that either. Oh no. He was staring fixedly at something in the distance. When we turned again, in time with the music, I saw where his gaze led.
Of course. Her! He is looking at her!
The crow was standing near a window in the east wall, an infuriating smile on her face, chatting with Lord Dalgliesh, who stood right beside her. Rage, mixed with an infuriating curiosity, rose up in me.
Who the devil is she? The writer of the pink letters?
The possibility gripped my heart like a claw of ice. And Mr Ambrose still wasn’t saying a single word! God, the silence was killing me! Somebody would have to say something. And if it wasn't going to be him, it would have to be me.
“I thought you didn't like social functions,” I blurted out.
There was a momentary pause.
“I don't,” came his curt reply, finally. Still, he was staring into the same darn direction. “But this one was special. I had to come. I needed to spend some time with an old acquaintance whom I had not seen for some time.”
I sniffed. “So you've known the lady long?”
Is it she? Is it she who wrote you these letters? What did she say? What does she mean to him? And why the heck are you asking yourself that question?
“The lady?” His voice was absent, and a little confused. He didn't seem to be paying any attention to me at all. Gritting my teeth, I nodded in her direction.
“What? Oh, Miss Hamilton?”
Hamilton. So finally, I had a name to put to the evil temptress! I relaxed infinitesimally, as I realized that her name was not that of the writer of the pink letters. However, that relaxation vanished the instant I saw again the way he looked at the crow beside Lord Dalgliesh: so intently as if there existed nothing else in the world for him but her.
“Yes,” I nodded. “Miss Hamilton. You've known her long?”
He actually deigned to glance down at me then. If his face hadn’t been carved from stone, I was sure there would have been a frown on it. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “No. Whatever gave you that idea? I've only known her for a couple of days.”
Why the heck did you call her an old acquaintance then?
“Well, she must have made quite an impression on you.” Considering you came out of your fortress for her sake and subjected yourself to the nameless horrors of a ball.
He shrugged and looked away from me again, resuming his staring.
“So,” I continued doggedly, “I assume you'll see more of her in the future, attend more balls than before, now that the situation has changed?”
His left little finger twitched. I had noticed this was his way of demonstrating extreme annoyance – the way someone else might scowl or curse at you. “Hmm. I suppose. It will be unavoidable for what I have in mind.”
Oh yes, I'm sure it's very inconvenient to one as mighty as yourself that you can't just order a woman to marry you. You actually have to spend time with her first! How terrible!
Really, I should be feeling pity for this poor creature who would fall into the trap of marrying this man. A great deal of pity.
So why the bloody hell did I feel so angry instead?
He looked down at me, sharply, the first time during the dance he had given me his full, undivided attention.
“How do you know I will be spending more time at social events?” His finger twitched again. “You cannot have… No, you simply cannot have guessed my plans!”
Oh dear. He was just as self-centred as all other men. He couldn't hope to rival a woman's intuition.
“Actually, I think I have,” I said, as sweetly as possible.
He looked up again, staring at Miss Hamilton and Lord Dalgliesh, who were still engaged in conversation.
“I must say, I'm surprised, Miss Linton. I didn't think you would figure it out so quickly. In fact, I didn't think anybody could figure it out on their own.”
I had to work hard to conceal a snort.
Please! With your staring at her the entire time? What sort of silly guffin do you take me for?
“I think it is pretty obvious,” I retorted, my tone not a bit sarcastic. Honest, maybe, but not a bit sarcastic,
“Indeed? Well, if I were you, Miss Linton, I'd keep what you know to yourself. If it comes out that you know, you will be in terrible danger. You might end up with a knife between your ribs.”
My eyebrows shot up. “That's going a bit far, don't you think?” A derisive snort escaped me. “She can't be that jealous.”
“She?” Abruptly, he stopped turning. The neighbouring couples almost crashed into us, and only because I stirred him into motion again was a collision avoided. “She? What are you talking about, Miss Linton?”
“Your...” I swallowed. For some reason it was hard to say out loud. Avoiding his eyes helped, so I looked down. “Your romantic interest in Miss Hamilton, of course.” A frown crept onto my face. “What were you talking about?”
He didn't answer me at first. Looking up, I saw that his beautiful statue's face was even more emotionless than usual. Whereas normally it just looked stony, now it looked completely vacant. He looked as if he was readjusting the gears of his brain.
“Well...” He cleared his throat. “I was talking of my interest in Miss Hamilton, of course. You're right. I am very romantically interested. Indeed you could say, pining with love for her. That would be a very accurate description of the situation.”
“I see,” I mumbled, looking down again, so I didn’t have to look at his chiselled face any more. For some reason, my eyes started stinging. “What was it that caught your fancy? Her figure? Her eyes?”
“Her eyes. And her figure too. And her dress, her manners, and her... well, she does not have anything more to catch fancies with, but all that she does have is very fancy-catching. You could say that I have passionately fallen in love with the entirety of her, not just the individual components.”
“But you like her eyes.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“What is so special about them?” I demanded to know, still not daring to look up. I had a suspicion why my eyes were stinging, and if it was correct I wanted nothing less than for him to see my face right now. “I saw nothing extraordinary about them!”
He cleared his throat again. “Well... they look very... very ocular, for one thing.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Pardon?”
“This word, 'ocular'. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It is Latin. It is a word denoting everything that refers to eyes.”
“So… what you're in fact saying is that what's special about her eyes is that they look very much like eyes.”
Now I simply had to stare up at him suspiciously. He wouldn't see my face anyway. He would still be staring at her.
I was right. He was. His gaze was still firmly fixed on the lady and Lord Dalgliesh.
“Her nose is very lovely too,” he added, sounding more like a salesman praising a fish at the London market of whose freshness he wasn't convinced than like a passionate lover. Maybe he always sounded like that when he was in love. If so, God have mercy on any poor creature who ever developed real, deep feelings for him! Not that something like that was ever likely to happen.
“Does it, Sir?”
“Yes, indeed, her nose as many excellent features. It is straight, not overtly long or crooked like those of some other ladies in the ball room; it has two holes at the bottom, and there is no hair growing out of them. Her teeth are adequate, too – none missing or falling out. I checked. You should always check the teeth first.”
“I believe that's when you're buying a horse, not when you're looking for a prospective bride,” I pointed out.
“Indeed? Well, it certainly cannot hurt to check. In any case, what all this boils down to is that I am in love with Miss Hamilton. Passionately in love.”
“Yes.” I bit my lip. “You already mentioned that.”
“And that's the only reason I came to this ball. To spend time with the woman I am passionately in love with. There was no other motivation.”
Still, he wouldn't even look at me. His words were like sharp pinpricks. I knew they shouldn't hurt, but they did. With all my might, I avoided looking up into his dark, sea-colored eyes, staring at the floor instead.
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
The dance ended just at that moment, and I had never been so happy about the end of a dance in my life. For once I had no desire to hound him about the contents of the file, or demand equal treatment with men, or do anything else. All I wanted was to be far away from him.
I am in love with Miss Hamilton. Passionately in love.
His words echoed in my head, again and again, refusing to leave me alone. The moment he released me from his grip, I stepped back, not wanting him to touch or hold me any longer. I just managed a brief curtsy, then I turned and ran away through the crowd, wishing that in this ballroom there was just one quiet corner where I could hide!
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My Dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,
I heard some of you were slightly miffed about the rather short nature of the last chapter. The truth is: it was slightly shorter because I needed more time to work on this chapter and the pivotal scene within iit. I hope you enjoyed Lilly's Dance with Mr Ambrose!
And now the pivotal question: do you think Mr Ambrose is really in love with Miss Hamilton...? ;-)
Yours Truly
Sir Rob