Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

‘Ah! Mrs Brank! Miss Linton, Miss Linton, Miss Linton, Miss Linton, Miss Linton and Miss Linton! Thank you very much for coming. I am delighted that you could make it.’

I must say, I was impressed. Lady Metcalf’s smile was even more fake than mine, and she lied like a professional politician. But then, her father had been Foreign Secretary, so maybe it ran in the family.

‘Lady Metcalf,’ my aunt trilled. ‘I was so excited when we received your invitation. It was very nice of you, considering you have never before deigned to include us in one of your festivities.’

Ouch! I could see where this was leading. Poisonous fumes already hung heavily in the air between the two older ladies.

‘I simply could not resist,’ Lady Metcalf purred. ‘Sir Philip was so… enthusiastic. And I simply had to invite the young lady who has been so fortunate as to attract the affection of one of London’s finest young men, despite her… err… regrettable social position.’

If looks could kill, Lady Metcalf would have been a red blot on the wall right then, and my aunt would be hauled off to Codbath Fields Prison faster than you could say Jack Robinson. Unluckily, though, looks couldn’t kill, and my aunt remained a free woman.

‘Remember,’ she hissed at me while curtsying to Lady Metcalf. ‘Behave yourself!’

This was going to be a very long night. And he would be there!

*~*~**~*~*

The young man approached me with vigour in his step. He wore a bright waistcoat, a carnation in his buttonhole, and a bright, confident smile on his handsome face. I disliked him immediately.

‘Miss Linton?’ He bowed deeply. ‘Will you do me the honour of granting me your hand for this dance?’

I smiled back at him one hundred times as brightly. ‘Why certainly! How could I refuse to dance with you, Sir?’

Now if I could only remember your name, so I could put you on my list of murder victims…

‘Thank you, Miss.’

Stretching out his fingers, he clasped them around mine. Blast! I knew I had agreed to dance with him, but did that mean he actually had to touch me? Working hard to keep my fake smile on my face, I let myself be led onto the dance floor. From the edge of the crowd I could see Anne and Maria ogling me with incredulity. I smiled at them, too. Tonight was smiley night! Argh!

As the first notes of the quadrille[36] began, the young man put his arms around me and began to shove me across the dance floor. I believe officially it is called steering, but that word implies that the steerer actually knows what he is doing, whereas my dancing partner evidently did not.

‘Enjoying the dance?’ he asked me with a cheerful smile.

‘Why yes, of course,’ I replied with an even more cheerfuller smile.

Curse you! May the furies of hell hound you to pandemonium and back!

‘Me too. What a wonderful ball.’

‘Oh yes. So wonderful.’

And gouging out your eyes would be great! Yes, they should definitely gouge out your eyes, pickle them and eat them for breakfast!

I would have dearly loved to grab the bugger by the collar and see how he liked being 'steered' himself, but my aunt was watching. So I smiled until my face hurt and only contrived to step on my partner’s feet now and again. Finally I had discovered an advantage of hoop skirts: nobody could see what my heels were doing. Not even my aunt.

I danced with partner after partner. Most of them were actually quite good dancers, and those who were, went away with their feet still intact and an annoyingly good opinion of yours truly. In passing, I heard somebody say: ‘… and that Lilly Linton… such a nice, quiet, charming girl. Always smiling so brightly, it really lights up the evening. And so very…’

Mercifully, I was swept away by my partner then, so I didn’t have to hear any more of my false accomplishments. Nevertheless, I knew that my aunt had been right. If I just said, ‘Yes, Sir, of course, Sir,’ to every question asked and smiled prettily, gentlemen who before would have been running in the opposite direction at the sight of me were suddenly delighted with this blasted charming new Lilly. It made me want find an umbrella stand in which to vomit.

All this play-acting took considerable concentration. Not enough, though, to make me forget about the special guest to whom Wilkins had promised to introduce us tonight. Continuously, my eyes scanned the ballroom for any sign of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. They never found any. My anxiety grew with every minute.

What’s the matter? Why isn’t he here? Or… maybe he is here! Maybe he is watching me, gazing coldly at my dress, my fan and any other articles that screamed ‘female!’, getting more determined to get rid of the girl in his office with every passing minute!

From the moment the idea first entered my mind, I felt an itch on the back of my head as though he was standing behind me, his cold gaze drilling into the back

of my head - which of course was a load of cobblers because I was dancing the quadrille, ergo twirling continuously around the room, seeing everything.

Blast! He can’t be here! And he certainly can’t be watching me from behind if I’m always pirouetting!