It was a nice autumn afternoon in London, insofar as London gets nice afternoons in autumn. September had come sweeping over the great kingdom of Britain, and with it came crisp morning air, brown and orange leaves littering every park, lane and street, steely grey clouds and a wind which an optimist would describe as 'refreshing'.

Ralph had always been a bit of an optimist. Only when things were completely hopeless did he resign himself to his fate, and preferably not even then. It had only happened once, at any rate, and he, being a strong person, had decided that it would not happen again, if he had any say in the matter. Which he thankfully did.

However, as he straightened his tie, he couldn't help but wonder if this gala dinner, for there was no other way to describe it, might not be a little too much for him.

The duchess of Narborough, although a charming lady, was a lot of woman, and a lot for one man to handle, even for a couple of minutes. But she seemed to have taken a liking to the handsome young Navy officer who had been in the papers recently for rising so quickly to a high position (and then clearing up some mishap or other directly afterwards), and therefore had decided to invite him to her party. After all, he came from a respectable family, and should find his place among other respectable people from respectable families.

He inwardly groaned as he put on his almost-expensive tuxedo. The place was sure to be full of somewhat overweight ladies stuffed into too-small dresses and men smoking cigars that made him choke, and most likely the whole party wouldn't have one interesting topic of conversation between them. Unless he found someone or something to pass his time – and he very much doubted that he would – this was going to be a very long evening.

His nerves were somewhat frayed when he finally exited the house and fumbled to find his keys, afraid for a minute that he'd left them inside. The door was the type that locked when you shut it, and for most people that would be a nightmare, but for Ralph, who kept his things in impeccable order, it worked just fine.

As it turned out, he hadn't left them. Whistling (badly) some tune or other he'd heard on the radio that day, he walked to the garage and started the shiny new car.

--

The drive from his house to that of the Duchess was nerve-wrecking, long and took him through every layer of London, from the respectable but not overly expensive neighbourhood in which he had his flat, to the suburbs and the green grassy hell of wealth outside the city, which he had never visited before and wasn't really sure he wanted to see now.

Twice, he checked the invitation to see if he had mistaken the time.

Apparently there was to be some sort of concert as well, and he really had no wish to hear some dreadful new singer or musician the duchess just happened to adore and therefore insisted on subjecting the rest of London's society to, but he supposed there was just no way around it.

He turned on the car radio to get some peace of mind. It hardly worked. He didn't much like the artists of the day; their voices annoyed him. The music wasn't really to his taste. Then again, that might just be because it was made to be danced to, not listened to, and he had always hated to dance.

He wished he didn't have to go, he truly did. His gut feeling, which was usually more sensible than his brain, told him that this night would end in complete disaster. Since he had no idea how it could, unless he spilled wine on some rich woman in a cream-coloured dress, he told it to shut up. More sources of nervousness was really not what he needed.

As he arrived at the enormous mansion, however, he knew that he was perfectly composed, at least on the outside. His hair looked immaculate, his clothes no worse, his shoes shone. He'd checked all these things in the mirror. One thing his father had always been sure to remind him of, a respectable appearance was of the utmost importance.

A slightly foppish man at the door checked his name with the guest list, and then nodded at him, smiling pleasantly. It made him slightly uncomfortable. He smiled very quickly back before he went up a short flight of stairs and into the grand hall. He could feel the man's gaze on his back and tried to ignore it.

Guest list, he thought, repressing the urge to snort. You'd think it was the nineteenth century, or a royal ball.

He lifted his gaze. And wanted to leave the same way he'd entered.

Apparently there was a reason for the guest list. The room was enormous; the ceiling higher than any he'd seen before, and it was packed with filthy rich people with their noses high in the air.

It practically was a royal ball. He'd walked straight into Cinderella, and he sure as heck didn't feel like a prince.

He grabbed a glass of champagne from the first waiter that came by, and took a large sip, trying to forget that he hated champagne. This was even worse than he'd thought.
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