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Indeed? Do you think anyone could be that good an actor?
Yes! No! Oh… blast! I didn’t know!
My eyes were drawn over to Mr Ambrose again. His dark, sea-coloured eyes had never left me.
The comtesse beside me chuckled and winked. ‘What did I tell you, ma chérie? Amour…’
With that, she got to her feet and bustled off.
Unbelievable! There really should be an export embargo on crazy French aristocrats!
Mr Ambrose had nearly drained his glass by now. Taking a last swig, he placed it down on the table with a distinct clink I could hear even from where I was sitting, halfway across the room. Getting to his feet, he started towards me, his eyes full of… what?
Devotion, passion, love, yearning, infatuation, attachment and amorousness, maybe?
Ha! Not hardly!
He walked in a dead straight line, not deviating an inch from his course at any time. Somehow he managed to walk at just the right pace to not collide with a single couple on the dance floor. Not once did he slow down. I straightened in my chair and hurriedly swallowed my last date.
‘My dear Lillian.’ Stopping in front of me, he bowed as coldly and precisely as a metal man driven by clockwork. ‘Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?’
My eyes met his cold, hard ones. I? In love with him? Ha! Never! That old crone was off her rocker! I would show her!
‘No, thank you.’ I told him with a dignified inclination of the head.
The little finger on his left hand twitched. And twitched again. Oh dear, twice in a row? I must have really gotten his dander up.
Putting one hand on either arm of my chair, he leaned down towards me. He didn’t stop moving when he invaded my personal space. I leaned backwards until I was pressed up against the backrest, but still he kept coming. He didn’t stop until his face was only inches from mine. Then he unclenched his teeth and, in a very low, controlled voice, said:
‘You are my loving wife, remember? That is not exactly compatible with you turning down my invitation to dance in front of the entire ballroom. May I enquire after your reasons?’
I met this old hag who propounded the most ludicrous theory - and I’ll do my bloody best to prove her wrong! I’m not in love with you, do you hear? No, I’m definitely not!
‘I, um… just don’t feel like it.’
Mr Ambrose’s voice lowered, to a level so dangerous it should have had a warning label on it. ‘You don’t feel like it?’
‘Err… yep.’
‘We are in a ballroom full of people, any number of whom could be Dalgliesh’s spies, and you don’t feel like it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get up and get on the dance floor - now!’
In love? Ha! And double ha! Who could ever be in love with such an insufferable tyrant!
I met his cold stare head-on.
‘I’m not in the mood to dance right now. Thank you for the offer. Maybe later.’
‘There is no later. You will not ruin our di
sguise because of some senseless, irrational female mood!’
It isn’t senseless, you granite-headed brute! I’ve just had someone tell me that I am in love with you! I need some time to recover from the shock! I mean… you? You are the most arrogant, opinionated, chauvinistic son of a bachelor south of the North Pole! That’s like being told you love being hit over the head with a hammer and having your toes doused in boiling oil!
I raised my chin. ‘One dance won’t make a bloody bit of differen-’
