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.’
‘Oh, I intend to spend a lot more time with her than just one dance.’ Taking another deliberate bite of roast lamb, Mr Ambrose gazed coolly out of the window as if I weren’t even there. His face was a hard, impassive mask of stone. ‘She’s going to play a big role in my future life - one far beyond that of dance partner.’