Ellen had no time for more than an apologetic smile for Lady Bilbrough before her elderly gallant carried her away. It was always the same; at any ball she attended there was never any shortage of dance partners and in tonight’s crush there were more than ever. No sooner had a dance ended than she was snapped up for the next. It was gratifying, but she was glad when the music stopped for a while and she was able to catch her breath and talk to her friends. She was drawn into a laughing, chattering group at the side of the room and was giving them a lively account of her time in the capital when she realised her companions were not attending. The men were standing to attention and straightening their neckcloths, while without exception the ladies were simpering and blushing as they looked at someone behind her.
Ellen turned and found herself face to face with the man she had tried so hard to forget.
The room began to spin. At a great distance she could hear Lady Bilbrough performing the introductions. So he was now the Duke of Rossenhall. He had not lied to her about everything, then. Only about the marriage. Only about loving her. But why had he come to find her? She realised she was being presented to him as if they were complete strangers. Which of course, her struggling brain fought to tell her, everyone thought they were.
As Ellen sank down into the required obeisance she wondered if she would be able to rise again, for her knees felt too weak to support her.
‘Your Grace.’
By a supreme effort of will she kept her voice steady and rose gracefully from her curtsy. When she forced herself to look at the Duke she was momentarily dazzled, for the candles glinted off his fair hair and it gleamed like molten gold. A halo, although she knew to her cost he was no saint. She schooled her face into a smile. His eyes, green as a cat’s but cold as ice, pierced her to the soul. The handsome face was achingly familiar, yet now it was stony and uncaring, so different from the way she remembered him. He looked as if this encounter was as unwelcome to him as it was to her and she knew in that moment he had not planned it; he had not sought her out. Ellen’s hands were tightly wrapped about her fan and she felt one of the sticks break beneath her grip.
‘Mrs Furnell.’ No one else noticed the steely menace behind the softly spoken words. But then, thought Ellen, no one else here was so well acquainted with the Duke. ‘If you are not engaged, madam, perhaps you would do me the honour of standing up with me for the next dance?’
No. That would break her. She said, with spurious regret, ‘Alas, Your Grace, I have promised the next to Mr Leeming.’
Ellen turned to smile at that gentleman, but he immediately coughed and bowed and assured His Grace that he was happy to forgo the pleasure of dancing with Mrs Furnell. He then lost himself in a tangle of words as he tried to assure Ellen that he meant no disrespect to her. His sacrifice earned him a bow from the Duke.
‘Normally I would not dream of taking another man’s partner,’ said His Grace, with smiling civility, ‘but in this instance, I confess the temptation is too great to be resisted. Mr Leeming, is it not? I am indebted to you, sir.’ As if on cue, the orchestra struck up the first notes of the next country dance and the Duke offered his arm. ‘Madam?’
Time stopped. Ellen felt as if she had grown roots and could not move. She was aware of the interested stares of everyone around her, the smiling face of Lady Bilbrough, who was nodding encouragement, but most of all she was aware of the man standing before her, fair, tall and broad-shouldered, his back ramrod straight. Solid as a rock and dangerous as sin.
Ellen’s eyes dropped to the dark sleeve. She would as lief put her hand in the jaws of a crocodile, but she was trapped. To turn away would cause talk and speculation. Ruin. Slowly and with infinite care she placed her fingers on his arm. Beneath the fine material he was tense, hard as iron, and as he led her to the dance floor she could feel the anger emanating from him. It was like a physical wave, trying to wash her off balance. She put up her chin. Why should he feel aggrieved, when she was the one who had been betrayed? They took their places in the set, facing one another more like opponents than partners.
‘It has been a long time,’ he said. ‘Four years.’
She smiled politely. During those years she had practised hiding her true feelings and now that training came to her aid.
‘Is it really so long? I had forgotten.’
A lie. She had counted every one of the days since they had parted, but she did not cry over the past. At least, only in her sleep, and no one could help their dreams. They moved forward and back. They circled, changed partners and back again. His next words, little more than a fierce whisper as they passed, caused her to miss her step.
‘I thought you were in France.’
She corrected quickly and hissed at him as they circled, ‘That was the intention.’
‘But you came here.’
‘I had to live somewhere.’
‘But not with me.’
She kept smiling, but inside a sharp blade sliced deep into her heart. ‘No, never with you.’
They separated. Only her familiarity with the dance kept Ellen moving. Only pride and strength of will kept her smiling, while her mind wandered back to those heady days in the Egyptian desert. The stuffy warmth of the ballroom disappeared, replaced by a dry heat and the scouring sand carried by the Simoon, the wind that could blow up ferociously and without warning. The chatter of guests became the shouts and menacing cries of the Mamelukes as they thundered up on their horses and surrounded the camel train, bristling with weapons and clearly hostile.
Ellen heard again Mrs Ackroyd’s impatient tut. The little Englishwoman had been Ellen’s schoolteacher and was now her friend and mentor, and her indomitable spirit was in no way cowed by a threatening tribe of desert horsemen. Or perhaps it was being perched high on a camel that enhanced her sense of superiority.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ she admonished their trembling guide, ‘tell them I am a personal friend of Bernardino Drovetti, the French Consul General. Tell them he has arranged safe passage for us with the Governor of Egypt.’ She drew out a paper and waved it at the nearest rider. ‘Look, we have permission to visit the antiquities at Giza and our permit is signed by Muhammed Ali himself!’
At the name of Egypt’s current ruler, the horsemen muttered and growled and looked even more threatening. One rider, taller and broader than the rest, pushed his way through the throng and approached them. He was dressed as the others in loose white trousers, a blue waistcoat over the billowing white shirt and a turban with a scrap of cloth over his face to protect him from the windborne sand, but Ellen noticed that his skin was paler than his companions, and there was a glint in his emerald-green eyes that was strangely compelling.
‘Perhaps I can help?’ His voice was deep and well-modulated. She remembered feeling no surprise to hear the aristocratic English accent in this foreign land. ‘No doubt you paid good money for that pass, but I’m afraid your dependence upon the Pasha’s protection is misplaced. Outside the walls of Cairo his power is limited.’ The green eyes narrowed and gleamed, as if he was laughing at them. ‘Let me see what I can do.’
The memory of that mocking glance had haunted Ellen’s dreams for four years. Now, as the dance brought them back together, she could perceive no laughter in his eyes, just an ice-cold fury that chilled her blood. If only she had known he would be here, if only she had enquired who was in town before venturing out this evening, but she had thought herself safe enough in Harrogate. The Duke had no properties and no family this far north. Her mind, normally so sharp and clear, refused to work. She could not think what she should do, save continue to dance and smile.
When the music ended she ignored the Duke’s hand as they walked off the floor.
She said coldly, ‘Pray do not feel obliged to accompany