Suddenly realizing what he had said, he blushed.
‘Begging your pardon, Miss. I didn’t mean to imply that… well…’
Unwillingly, I had to grin back. This might just not be such an ordeal after all.
‘Hmm…’ I replied, pretending to contemplate the question. ‘No, I don’t think I’m quite as heavy as a horse. But nearly.’
He smiled, relieved. ‘Then I shall take care with every step I take.’
We danced. It didn’t turn out to be that terrible. Colonel Malcolm was - for a man - relatively quiet and well-behaved. He pointed me into the right direction without forcing me and didn’t complain when I trampled on his toes. When we were done with the quadrille, he bowed to me in a very gentlemanly manner and said with a light smile that this had been a very novel experience.
My next partners were not quite so agreeable. While my aunt watched from the shadows of the potted plants, I wrestled with various men who seemed to think dancing consisted of pushing around the female like a piece on a chessboard. Whenever they would get too overbearing, I would make good use of my heel and aim a solid kick at the gentleman’s feet, or use my fan to prod them in the ribs. This elicited very satisfying groans from the male monsters. In that way, I got through about an hour of dancing. Sweat was beginning to trickle down my forehead. I threw a pleading glance at my aunt.
She shook her head.
So I smiled at the next gentleman and said yes, he could have the honour of this dance. The fight was beginning to go out of me. My kicks became increasingly feeble. After another half hour, I turned to my aunt again, this time clasping my hands in supplication.
She considered a moment - then nodded.
Thank the Lord! I was free. What bliss.
Staggering to a chair near the refreshment tables, I flopped down on it and leaned back, closing my eyes. Whoever knew dancing could be so exhausting? If this was what you had to do in order to catch yourself an eligible bachelor, I wondered at the fact that not more ladies had decided to try and go find a job of their own. Compared with this, even working for Mr Stoneface Ambrose looked like a piece of chocolate cake.
Could I take off my shoes? My feet ached, and I wanted so much to give them a little room and air. But although this hadn’t been included in any of my aunt’s lectures about etiquette, I somehow believed that taking off your shoes and putting your feet on the next table wasn’t considered acceptable behaviour at a high society ball.
My only consolation, I thought with a grin, was that I knew that my partner’s feet would be hurting a dang sight more than mine right now. There was nothing so useful to a girl as really solid heels.
‘… and abominably rude,’ a voice made its way through the haze of my exhaustion to my brain. My eyelids fluttered open. The voice was coming from behind the nearest potted plant. I wasn’t someone who eavesdropped, normally. Normally people didn’t have anything interesting to say. But this sounded like one of those rare occasions where it might be interesting to keep an ear open. After all, they mentioned rudeness. They might be talking about me.
‘Yes, that is what I heard,’ I heard another voice, which I recognized as Lady Metcalf's. ‘But he has certain… redeeming features.’
Oh. Not me. They were talking about some stupid man. Losing interest in the discussion, I slowly rose and started away in the direction of another refreshment table. I almost didn’t catch the next sentence.
‘But can anyone of you tell me what is so fascinating about him?’ Another voice demanded. ‘I just got back from the country and found that all London is awash with talk of him. I mean, what is so special about this Mr Rikkard Ambrose?’
I froze in my tracks.
The Sins of Mr Rikkard Ambrose
‘You haven’t heard?’
The voice was full of glee and juicy gossip. I was so quickly at the potted plant behind which the group of gossiping ladies where hiding that I saw who had spoken. It was the Duchess of Brandon. I should have been able to guess from the tone.
Lady Allen, obviously the one who had asked the question, flushed a little. ‘From what I’ve heard since I’ve arrived in town, he’s rumoured to be one of the richest men in London,’ she said defensively.
‘One of the richest?’ The duchess laughed. The sound almost made me want to go away again, or at least stuff my ears while it lasted. ‘My dear, from what my sources tell me, he is the richest. His wealth is unparalleled. There is only one other man who can hold a candle to him.’
Lady Allen’s mouth formed a little 'O', and her eyes went wide.
And I had to admit, to my shame: for once in my life I felt the same as Lady Allen and the Duchess of Brandon. I was awed, and a cold shiver ran down my back. The more I heard about Mr Ambrose, the more rich and powerful he seemed to become. Where the hell did all this wealth come from? I couldn’t believe he was simply the heir of some large estate. Why would he have that monumental building in the city if his wealth came from his inheritance? And what had all those people been doing there, hurrying about, carrying papers?