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concealed from the rest of the ballroom by masses of flowers. Behind the sofa a marble statue of Diana, goddess of the chase, stood complete with marble bow and marble hounds.
    Annabelle had little time to take in the splendor of the ballroom with its glittering and elegant guests, its French chalked floor and great banks of hothouse flowers. Soon she was surrounded by admirers, and by the time the orchestra struck up, her dance card was full.
    How handsome and courteous the gentlemen seemed! Not at all like the bucks and bloods she had watched promenading in the square. There was admittedly quite a sprinkling of fops with their extraordinary wigs, stiff-skirted coats, and high red heels mincing and tittupping around the edges of the floor. The famous Mr. Brummell was pointed out to her by one partner, and Annabelle thought he looked surprisingly amusing and amused, and not at all like the terrifying Leader of Fashion she had been led to expect.
    She dipped and turned, curtseyed in the dance, moving increasingly easier as she became accustomed to partnering a gentleman and not one of her sisters on the sanded parlor floor of the rectory. The only thing that made her feel uncomfortable was the fact that several of the ladies kept staring at her gown and then putting their bejewelled and feathered heads together. Then she noticed Lord Varleigh standing at the entrance of the ballroom. His evening dress looked as if it had been molded to his tall muscular form, and his light gray eyes raked over the dancers searching for someone. Annabelle, perhaps!
    She felt quite breathless when the dance ended but put it down to the energetic steps of the Scottish reel she had just performed. He was coming towards her. He stopped and gave her a singularly sweet smile accompanied by a bow. Then he moved on.
    “You are looking more enchanting than ever, my dear,” Annabelle heard him say in a caressing voice. But the words were not said to her. Lord Varleigh had come to a stop beside a ravishing brunette. Her pink satin gownclung to her shapely figure, and her low neckline revealed magnificent breasts. Annabelle glanced down at her own lace-covered bosom and wondered if she had been too missish. The dashing brunette was a shade on the plump side. Probably be as fat as a sow by the time she’s forty, thought Annabelle and then wondered why she should so vehemently dislike a lady she did not even know. The brunette was dimpling up at Lord Varleigh in the most enchanting way from under thick black eyelashes.
    Annabelle became aware that she was staring at the couple quite blatantly. She blushed and turned away to look for her next partner.
    The gallant Captain came bounding up exuding a strong smell of the best Burgundy and Rowlandson’s Macassar Oil.
    “It is the waltz,” said Annabelle, listening to the announcement. “I fear I do not know how to do it.”
    “It’s easy,” said Captain MacDonald, putting an arm round her waist. “I lead … you follow.”
    Once Annabelle had become accustomed to the strange feeling of a man’s arm round her waist, she began to enjoy her first waltz. There was no denying that the Captain’s agility at Covent Garden extended to the ballroom, and Annabelle floated happily in his arms, executing turns and twists she would have believed impossible some few minutes before. As she relaxed, Annabelle suddenly thought of Emmeline. She had not seen the Dowager Marchioness for some time.
    “Have you seen my godmother?” she asked the Captain, looking up anxiously into his eyes.
    “Oh,
she’ll
be all right,” he said carelessly, drawing Annabelle closer in his arms. “I say, let’s speed things up a bit. This dance is dashed slow!”
    He began to spin faster and faster until Annabelle could not tell which way she was going. She finallymanaged to focus her eyes and notice that they were spinning rapidly towards a bower dedicated to Venus rising from the sea. A statue of the goddess on her shell stood in