'Crap, crap, crap!'

'Miss! I must protest! Your language...!'

'Oh, pardon. I meant horse dung, of course. Or do you prefer faeces?'

The sputtering shop assistant bustled away to bury her scolded ears in folds of muslin. Behind me, Adaira disguised her giggle as a cough.

'You do have a rather colourful way of expressing yourself.'

'Well, colourful is good, isn't it?' I held up the brilliant orange ball gown against my front. 'What do you think?'

'Um...I think maybe not in this case. Try that one.'

I glanced around, and was nearly blinded. Adaira was holding up a brilliantly gleaming dress that was, from neckline to hem, a shiny golden colour.

She grinned at me. 'I bet he won't be able to take his eyes off you in this.'

I returned her smile with one eyebrow raised. 'I see you know your brother well.'

'Indeed I do. So, what about it? Are you going to try it on?'

'Hmm...thanks, but I think I'll politely decline. I don't really wish to spend the entire evening with him fiddling around on an abacus, trying to figure out how much my dress is worth.'

'But you do want to spend it with him.'

I glanced down, biting my lip. Usually, I was a pretty plucky girl. I didn't easily get afraid. But when it came to answering questions like this one...

'Yes.' The word was hardly more than a whisper. 'Yes, I do.'

'Hm.' Adaira tapped her chin. 'So...you want to spend time with him. You want to be with him. But you don't want to marry him.'

'Yes.'

'That's a pretty tough conundrum.'

'Yes.'

'Especially considering the fact that my brother, for some mysterious reason, is the most eligible bachelor in the entire British Empire and there are droves of unmarried young women hunting him wherever he appears.'

'Yes.'

'It probably won't be long before one of them gets their claws into him, and she'll give him compliments, and money, and will do anything in her power to–"

'Adaira?'

'Yes?'

'Shut up and get the next dress!'

'Yes, Ma'am!'

We continued to rifle through racks of ready-made dresses, balls of cloth and other finery. It felt extremely strange. All my life I had been on the outside looking in, wondering why other girls put so much effort into dressing up and looking pretty. Now I was on a desperate quest to do exactly the same. And why? To catch the attention of a man, in the hope that he might perhaps maybe perchance possibly if I was very, very lucky dance with me.

How the mighty have fallen.

Fallen indeed.

Fallen in love.

It was a terrifying feeling, and even more terrifying was to acknowledge it. I wanted – no, needed – Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Needed him with a bone-deep intensity that surpassed even my love for solid chocolate. But I had rejected him. He was not the sort of man to take that lightly. What if, with him, it was everything or nothing? What if, now that I had refused his offer, he no longer wanted me? It was a scary thought. But even scarier: what if he still did?

What if he asked me to dance tonight? What would I tell him? What could I possibly say? Hello there! I'm sorry I don't want to marry you, but would you like to just live in sin with me instead, because I'm head-over-heels in love with you, you stone-faced son of a bachelor?

Already tried that. It hadn't worked out so well.

So...what else could I say?

Baby steps, Lilly. Baby steps. After turning a man down like a ton of bricks, he most likely isn't inclined towards a passionate affair. First get him to dance with you. That is, if you can get him to unclench his teeth. Then worry about what to say to him.

All right.

Get him to dance with me. Get him to dance with me. Get him to dance with me. The words repeated over and over in my head, but I still had no clue how to do it.

I needed to attract his attention somehow. I needed just the right dress, the right make-up, and, most of all, the right style. I needed to become so stunningly beautiful that he couldn't possibly resist me. But...how?

You need help organising a demonstration for women's rights? I'm your girl! You need someone for a bit of target shooting? Great, I'm in! But dressing up? As a female?

Where did you even begin?

'Adaira, please!'

Desperately, I stared at the endless racks of clothes stretching in front of me. 'What am I supposed to do? What could I possibly wear that would attract his attention?'

'Well...' Turning in a circle, she gave the clothes all around a thoughtful look. 'You could always ask the tailor if he could stitch you a dress made from five-pound notes.'

'Adaira! This is serious!'

'I know. And I know my brother. If you want him to be unable to take his eyes from you, and to tear your dress off the moment the two of you are alone, that's the way to go.'

'I want him to tear my dress off because he wants me, not because he wants the dress!'

'Oh.' She clucked her tongue. 'Well, that's a little more tricky.'

'Serious suggestions. Please.'

There must have been something in my tone. Or maybe Adaira just knew exactly how I felt about her brother, because she instantly stopped teasing and started searching. She hadn't been joking when she said her mother had given her carte blanche. Without hesitation, she went through the most expensive dresses in the shop, everything from the latest London creations to rare and insanely expensive imports from Paris. Apparently, Lady Samantha had a quite definite preference as to which among her lady guests she would like to see as her daughter-in-law. Poor dear. I just didn't have the heart to tell her that I had turned him down already. Oh, and there was the little fact that I really, really didn't have enough money to pay for a ball gown, myself.

It would be rude to turn down her generosity, right?

But I wouldn't overdo it. Unless I really were to appear in a dress stitched from banknotes that he would get to keep, Mr Ambrose wouldn't be impressed by expensive fashion anyway. I needed something simple and elegant. Something that screamed 'I'm classy and cheap!' (the latter in the literal sense). I needed something perfect just for him.

But what kind of dress could that possibly be?

'Lilly!'

'Yes?'

Pulling my eyes from the décolletage of a dark red dress (much too generous for me, thank you), I turned to see Adaira emerging from a rack that featured fine, yet simply-cut dresses in interesting colours. She turned to face me and, smiling the devious smile I was starting to love, held up a dress into the light.

'What do you think of this?'

I stared – then I started smiling, too. 'Adaira, you are a genius!'

*~*~**~*~*

All was set. My clothes were bought. My secret weapons were sharpened and polished. My emergency stash of solid chocolate concealed in a hidden pocket. There was only one thing left for me to do: go completely and utterly barmy.

Ishegoingtoaskme? Ishegoingtoaskme? Blastblastblast! Ishegoingtoaskme?

The words hammered against my skull from the inside, needing to get out. I stalked through the halls of Battlewood, unable to sit down or even stand still, and every time I caught a glimpse of him, I wanted to grab him by the collar and demand: 'Well? Well, you bloody son of a bachelor? Are you going to ask me to dance with you? Are you? Do you still care?'

But I didn't.

Because, for one, that would be utterly undignified. And for another, he would bloody well have to ask me! I wasn't going to ask him whether he was going to ask me, no Sir!

But...

But...

But what if he was going to ask someone else?

The hyenas were everywhere. They were prowling the halls of Battlewood, stalking every single one of Mr Ambrose's steps, just waiting to pounce on him.

Okay, maybe I had taken the metaphor a little bit far. But you get my meaning. Every single one of them acted as if she were the only one Mr Ambrose could possibly choose, as if she had a special right to him that no one had better doubt. Snide comments flew through the corridors like flies in the summer. Eyes were suddenly filled with greed and hatred, tongues were coated with poison. Over the course of the day, nearly half a dozen incidents occurred that, had the participants been men, would have ended in deadly duels. Everyone hated and mistrusted everyone else. There was only one thing that all of them agreed on, one thing united them all: their hatred and mistrust of me.

'So, my dear Miss Linton...' Lady Eveline glanced up from her embroidery and gave me a smile that was just as fake as her needlework. She was stitching daisies on a field of green. My corpse pierced with three dozen needles would have been a much more honest representation of her true artistic vision. 'What excuse will you give for not attending the Christmas ball?'

I returned her smile with one just as insincere. Years spent in the company of my aunt had made me an expert. 'Whatever makes you think that I'm not going?'

'Oh, nothing, it's just...' She gave a little laugh. 'I met a few gentlemen in London who had the "honour" of dancing with you at a ball or two. Let's just say they found the experience quite memorable. The bruises on their feet especially impressed themselves quite firmly on their recollection.'

Blasted, blood-sucking little witch! If I ever meet you in a dark alley...!

'Is that so?' My smile widened. 'I myself met quite a lot of gentlemen in London, but strangely enough none of them ever mentioned you. I suppose you must be easy to forget.'

Her hand jerked and she stabbed a needle into her finger.

Bingo! Score one for you, Lilly!

Now, if I could only make her stab herself in the heart instead...

'Tell me, Miss Linton,' came a sugary-sweet voice from behind me. 'How do you manage to be so plain and ordinary, and yet so self-assured? I really admire that about you. How do you do it?'

...there would still be two dozen more just like her left.

'Oh, it's quite easy.' With a beaming smile, I turned towards Lady Caroline. 'I stand in front of the mirror every day and tell myself "I shall not behave like a horrible hag today." You should try the method some time. It might do you a world of good.'

The friendly smile bled from Lady Caroline's face.

'You don't actually think you have a chance, do you?'

I raised an eyebrow. 'A chance with what?'

'Not what. Whom.' Her eyes narrowed to slits. And hers weren't the only ones. All around, gazes turned predatory. Guess who was the prey? 'You can't honestly think he'll pick you!'

He already has, you witch! In more ways than you can imagine.

I shrugged. 'Well, you never know. As they say in Spain ¡Vete a freír espárragos!'

Her brow furrowed. 'What?'

I only smiled.

'Don't fool yourself.' That was Lady Caroline again, her voice like venom. 'A girl like you, with no title, no money, no nothing – he won't go near you with a ten-foot pole at that ball. Leave now, and spare yourself the humiliation of standing alone in a corner all night.'

'Excellent advice. Why don't you take it yourself?'

Blood rushed to her cheeks. Huzzah! My comeback reflex was still working as well as ever.

Unfortunately, it didn't do much good. They started to encircle me, approaching slowly, their fans drawn as if they were weapons.

'We are only concerned for your feelings and your reputation,' another lady told me with a smile you could have used as a bone saw. 'Wouldn't it be better for you to leave this place now, before you completely embarrass yourself?'

'To be honest...' Leaning forward, I slid my hand under the coffee table that stood between us. Invisible, it shot forward under the table top, grabbed her hand and bent back her forefinger. A quick twist was all it needed.

Her face paled.

'I think I'd rather stay. I can handle anything that comes at me. Don't you agree?'

Sweat appeared on her forehead. She gave a jerky nod. All her friends stared at her as if her hair had suddenly turned into spaghetti.

'Well, this has been fun, ladies.' Rising to my feet, I let go, and the hyena collapsed back in her chair, staring up at me with wide eyes. 'But I've got to run. Goodbye, or as they say in Spain, ¡Vete a la mierda!'

And I walked away with my head held high. Dear me... my recently gained Spanish vocabulary was really proving useful.

*~*~**~*~*

My boost of confidence had disappeared by lunchtime. True, I could hold my own against the hyenas. If I wanted to, I could lie in wait for Lady Caroline, hold her at gunpoint, tie her up and take her to the nearest farmer who needed a new scarecrow. But what good would that do?

Well, it would be tremendous fun.

All right, it would, but apart from that what good would it do? What did she or Lady Dorothea Asquith or Lady Eveline Maria Westwood or any one of those women really matter? After all, tonight, and every night after that, there would only be one person whose decision would count. And he was not wearing a dress or pelting me with snide little remarks. In fact, he hadn't spoken a word to me since Dalgliesh had left. And right now at the dinner table, he seemed determined to continue this policy.

Lady Samantha – bless her optimistic soul – had seated the two of us next to each other. It felt like sitting next to an undertaker's cold storage room – except that corpses would probably have been a lot more chatty. The arctic, ear-piercing silence radiating off of him was enough to make my bones shiver. If I needed an answer to the question whether he'd forgiven me for saying no to him – here it was.

Once or twice I glanced up at him, trying to catch his eye. I might as well have tried to catch a Siberian tiger with my bare hands. He didn't even seem to notice I was there.

But I knew better.

He noticed. He just didn't care to do anything about it.

Bloody hell! This can't be happening! Is he really that angry? Is he really going to ask someone else?

I couldn't bear to imagine him with any of these women. Dancing, holding hands, their bodies so close...

Swiftly, I sat down the glass I'd been holding. Another moment and I would have shattered it, so tight had my grip become.

Control yourself, Lilly! This isn't helping. You're next to him. Use the time. Find out what's going on in that stony head of his.

'Well, Mr Ambrose...' Putting on my best and most polished social smile, I turned towards him. 'I'm so looking forward to the Christmas ball. It's going to be so much fun.'

Silence.

Cold, hard, unforgiving silence.

All right. Another approach. What about a direct question? He'd be forced to answer then.

'Your mother has done a wonderful job decorating the house and making everything perfect for Christmas so far, don't you agree?'

A moment of silence, then...

'Indeed.'

Hooray! An answer.

Only not one that was particularly helpful.

'Do you think the ball tonight will be equally splendid?'

He made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a 'yes', a 'no' and a 'go boil your head in vinegar'.

'By the way, since we're on the subject...'

I paused with bated breath, waiting to see if he'd pick up the bait.

He didn't. Damn!

'Since we're on the subject, have you made any plans yet?'

'Yes.'

My heart made a leap. 'Really?' Too eager, bloody hell! You sound too eager, Lilly! 'What are they?'

'Building a boot factory in Sunderland.'

I blinked. 'Pardon?'

'Boots, Mr Linton. Attire for feet generally made from leather.'

'I know what boots are!'

'Indeed? You never cease to amaze me.'

'I wasn't talking about your business plans for the next quarter! I meant what are your plans for tonight?'

Please say they involve me. Please, please, please.

'Well...' Spearing a piece of roast lamb on his fork, Mr Ambrose raised it to his lips and took a deliberate bite. I was seized by a sudden, slightly disturbing envy for roasted lambs. 'I suppose I will have to attend that ball of my mother's.'

Yes, yes yes! But with whom? With whom, damn you?

'Are you looking forward to it?' I asked, more as a way of keeping the conversation going than as an actual question. I knew his answer would be something like 'as much as I enjoy being stabbed repeatedly in the eye with a rusty pitchfork.'

'Very much indeed, Miss Linton.'

I nearly choked on a bite of Yorkshire Pudding. 'W-what?'

'I believe I spoke perfectly audibly, Miss Linton.'

'Did I hear correctly? You are looking forward to a ball? An evening festivity that involves lots of dancing with females and no making money?'

'Indeed. You cannot spend all your time making money.'

Oh God. Was the world going mad?

'Besides...there will be a lovely young lady at the ball with whom I intend to dance the first dance.'

My heart nearly stopped.

You had better bet talking about me, Mister, or I'll...I'll...

'When do you intend to ask her?' I enquired, my voice no more than a whisper.

Nonchalantly, he sliced off another bit of roasted lamb and popped it into his mouth. 'Oh, I already have.'

What?

Slowly, my boiling hot mind followed the logical steps. He had already asked someone. He had not asked me yet. Ergo: he had asked somebody else.

Breathe, Lilly! Breathe! And above all, do not stab him through the heart with your pastry fork, no matter how tempting it may be!

'You...have, have you?'

'Indeed, Miss Linton.'

Indeed! If I hear that blasted word one more time...!

My hand tightened around the fork. Who was she? Who was the little witch who was trying to steal him away from me? I burned to ask him, burned to torture it out of him – but I couldn't. Doing so would mean admitting that I cared, in a bone-deep, heart-wrenching, soul-torturing way. And no way in hell was I prepared to admit that.

But I couldn't just sit there and say nothing!

'Do I know the lady?' I asked with the admirable nonchalance of a charging rhinoceros.

'Oh yes.'

Tell me her name! Tell me her name! Tell me her name, blast you!

Of course he didn't.

But he did say something else.

'And I must admit, Miss Linton, I'm quite fascinated by her. I've known her for quite a while, but since arriving here at Battlewood she has impressed me with her charm, her fiery spirit and her intelligence.'

Did he have a death wish?

'Oh, and it's generally thought that she is quite beautiful, too.'

Yes, he did. A big one.

I rammed my fork into a piece of Yorkshire Pudding, imagining that it was the head of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I would have liked to imagine it as her head, but unfortunately, I didn't know what she looked like. Not yet. When I found out...

'Congratulations,' I ground out between clenched teeth. 'It sounds like you have found a very fitting lady for the first dance.'