Chapter Twelve
Funny how when you concentrate on walking, you suddenly forget how to walk, and it's worse when you're clinging onto the arm of a very dishy man. Trust me. Sadly the hand holding had to come to an end, on account of my usually dry non-nervous hands becoming as clammy as Tarquin's mitts. Instead, we adopted the casual rich toff thing, linking arms and breezing down the corridor, me trying to find topics of conversation but coming up short and him passing me the most intoxicating smile that nearly made me bump into a statue of a man.
The man had to be naked, didn't he. Why are all ancient statues naked? Were all Romans perverts? I'm no prude but surely art doesn't require a statue of a bloke with his dong out?
As the ballroom doors opened, a suited manor staff member bowing
