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“She is good. She is kind. She is ugly. Never mind. Maybe I paint you later.  If she will pay. Maybe I paint you anyway.  She does not like to pay.  But I think she is rich, all the same?”
    Eugenia faltered. Was he really asking her this question. “I – don’t know.  I do not enquire.”
    â€œNo. You do not ask.  You are angel!”
    Before Eugenia could protest, Gregor caught her chin in his hand and, bending his head, planted a kiss on her startled mouth. Then he let go and ran off down the stairs, whistling again. He neither looked back nor waved goodbye.
    Fingers to her lips, as if to seal in Gregor’s kiss, Eugenia turned and stumbled to her room.
    She could not face Great-Aunt Cloris and her mother. Something had happened to her and she did not want them to know.  They would be able to tell if they saw her, she was sure. Her lips must be blood-red, her cheeks full of fire.
    She sank onto her bed and clasped her hands to her bosom.
    At last, at last, she had met a man who was the essence of romance.
    And he was surely a lover of whom her mother could never approve in a million years!

CHAPTER THREE
    Mrs. Dovedale was not with Great-Aunt Cloris. She had suspected that Eugenia would oppose her selling the jewellery and so she had pretended to have a headache in order to stay behind while Eugenia and Bridget visited the park. Once they had left the house, she had snatched up her hat and coat and taken a hansom cab to Hatton Garden.
    She had not received quite the amount for her jewellery that she had hoped, but it was enough. She would be able to dress Eugenia and perhaps even herself for the ball and then – and then all their problems would be solved.
    Mrs. Dovedale was convinced that the Marquis was smitten with Eugenia. She was equally convinced that Eugenia would ultimately succumb to the Marquis’s undoubted charms, not least of which was his ownership of Buckbury Abbey.
    She returned home in the same hansom. A light rain was falling as the vehicle drew up outside Great-Aunt Cloris’s house.
    The following day Gregor arrived with his brushes and tubes of paint and an easel to paint Great-Aunt Cloris.
    Eugenia listened eagerly to the sound of his voice as he greeted Bridget in the hallway below. 
    She stood inside her door, thrilling to the rhythm of his footsteps as he mounted the stairs and passed her room. He was so close to her and yet she could not see him. She dared not see him. She envied Bridget when later she opened her door a crack and observed the maid carrying lunch up to Great-Aunt Cloris’s room. 
    â€œWhat are they doing?” she whispered as Bridget came down again with an empty tray. 
    Bridget stared at Eugenia. “Your great-aunt is sitting in a chair, miss, and the painter is – painting.”
    â€œThank you.” Eugenia sighed and closed her door again.
    She would love to have watched Gregor at work. But her mother and great-aunt had obviously exchanged words on the subject for, over the next few days, Eugenia was never invited to Great-Aunt Cloris’s room while the young Russian was present.
    Each morning she found her heart racing as she waited for the sound of the bell. She stood inside her door, willing Gregor to raise his voice as he passed by with Bridget.
    So infused with thoughts of Gregor was she that Eugenia never once thought to enquire about the jewels that her mother had decided to sell. The jewels – the Bescombe ball – the Marquis – seemed subjects from another world and time entirely.
    One bright morning, she at last plucked up the courage to open her door just a fraction as Gregor and Bridget passed on their way. 
    She opened the door so carefully that there was not the slightest creak from the hinge and it was no surprise that Gregor did not turn his head as she peeped out at him. But as he mounted the stairway to Great-Aunt Cloris’s room, he suddenly lifted his hand