He didn’t even like balls. Julian glanced at Mrs Whittleworth who was waiting by the door with him. Tugging his necktie, he glanced up at the stairs and waited. Why was he always waiting for her? He was tempted to scold Mrs Whittleworth for mentioning the ball but it had seemed a good idea. The thought of braving London sent chills down his spine but a small gathering... he could do that for Viola, surely? If only the thought of being around all those people didn’t make his palms clammy. Of course, when he’d suggested the idea—secretly praying she tell him she wasn’t interested—she had been thrilled at the idea of a proper English ball. He really did hate balls. He hated people. And dancing. And... well he liked to drink but not in the manner that people would expect at balls. He’d rather throw back a few whiskies than sip some wine and port. A purring Patches chose that moment to be sociable and nuzzle his leg. Julian shook his head and nudged the cat aside. He really didn’t need cat hair on his trousers.
