A Flight To Heaven by Barbara Cartland

more guests arrived and somehow Chiara found herself walking away from the door, her hand upon the Count’s arm.
    He was silent, looking sideways at her with his dark eyes, as he led her to a gilt sofa at the side of the ballroom.
    Above their heads, soft music was playing from the Musician’s Gallery and now their Majesties were stepping into the middle of the ballroom, circling the floor in a slow waltz to a little ripple of applause.
    “ It is you ,” the Count murmured and Chiara felt as if she had been waiting all her life to hear him speak those words in his deep extraordinary voice. “You are not a real angel, after all, just a young girl who goes to balls!”
    He raised one of his long eyebrows, waiting for her to answer him, but she could only nod her head.
    She felt shy and stupid and clumsy.
    He shifted position, moving so that he was face to face with her and now she found herself with one hand on his shoulder and the other clasped in his hand.
    “Well – since I am the Guest of Honour,” Arkady said, “I had better take the floor for the first dance and I think you must join me.”
    “Oh!” Chiara gave a little cry of surprise as he spun her around, drawing her into the sensual rhythm of the waltz.
    Her feet knew the steps of the waltz to perfection.
    From earliest childhood her Mama had taught her and she was grateful that the dancing master at school had drilled her, as all she could focus on was the man whose hand rested so lightly on the middle of her back.
    She had never danced a waltz like this before, so swift, so light and with so many turns and twists.
    Around and around the Count led her, flying faster and faster across the ballroom floor, spinning her until her skirts swirled out like flower petals and her head was full of a jumble of candlelight and the glow of his dark eyes.
    Her heart was racing and her whole body sang with joy. To dance like this was the most wonderful thing she had ever experienced.
    It was almost exactly the same feeling as the wild exhilaration of galloping along the beach – but no, it was even better than that, for there was music. And there was – him .
    As she thought it, the tempo of the waltz began to slow. The first dance was coming to an end.
    The Count released her and bowed low at the exact spot by the gilt sofa, where they had begun to dance.
    More guests were coming into the ballroom and Chiara was becoming uncomfortably aware, now that she was standing still, that most of them were looking at her.
    “You are upset. What is wrong?” the Count asked, and then he gave a little shrug. “Ah! I suppose I should have reserved you by writing my name in your little card.”
    “No, not at all – it doesn’t matter!” Chiara said quickly.
    “That is the way it is done,” the Count was saying now, his eyes looking into hers. “I apologise.”
    “No – it was wonderful!”
    Chiara wanted more than anything to dance with him again. She wanted to give him her ball card and have him write his name, Count Arkady Dimitrov, beside every waltz, polka and redowa printed there.
    His eyes brightened and he smiled at her.
    “Perhaps you have flown in, after all, from the sky! I can see now that you are the same angel I saw swooping along the sands – ”
    “Darling!” Chiara’s mother was now approaching, closely followed by Lord Darley, who had just entered the ballroom. “Our friends have arrived – you must come and say ‘hello’.”
    Lady Fairfax’s cheeks were positively glowing with excitement. All her earlier nervousness had vanished, now that Lord Darley was at her side.
    Chiara was desperately torn.
    She could not bear to leave the Count, as it felt to her as if he was the only person in the ballroom.
    Lady Fairfax noticed her daughter’s hesitation.
    “Do forgive me, Count Dimitrov,” she said, with a quick curtsey. “So gracious of you to honour Chiara with the first dance.”
    He inclined his head politely, but before he could speak, their