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‘Oh right! OK.’ Temperance tried to spare his feelings as he marched them around in a boxy step, but after three minutes she couldn’t hold back the laughter much longer.

Nina came to her rescue and wound the song up.

‘Ahh, it’s finished. Thanks for the dance.

’ He nodded once, gave her a Scouts’ salute and then legged it out of the barn.

‘See?’ Susie appeared again, her eyes twinkling. ‘Someone new.’

‘But I was thinking more like someone who can vote. And has gone through puberty. I’m picky like that.’ Twangy guitar chords bounced out of the speakers and around the barn as ‘Wicked Game’ started to play. The DJ was leaning hard into his slow dance section.

Temperance gathered up her skirts and started to turn away.

‘Wait! Give me one more chance. Someone with GCSEs, got it. Just stay there.’

Temperance closed her eyes and let the sway of the music fill up her senses.

A whistle made her turn to the back of the room. Susie was standing with her arm around Roy, the old milkman, who, as he’d moved further into his eighties, had slid further down the height chart too. Susie mouthed, ‘Fancy it?’

Temperance laughed and flicked her sister the Vs, spinning back to the speakers and letting the low notes of the song radiate through her.

A moment later, something big and solid bumped into her back. She turned around to see a tall figure half-hidden behind a haze of dry ice, one of the Scout masks looming down at her.

Susie’s third attempt, then . A smile crept up Temperance’s face. At least he seems roughly the right age .

‘Sure. Why not?’ Without time for a second thought, Temperance looped her hands behind the guy’s neck and started dancing with the random. She’d take Susie’s approach – the backpackers only stayed a week, so why worry about the fallout? It was just a dance.

She moved half a step closer, the crinkly white silk of her dress flowing around his legs, almost taking him prisoner. He hesitated at first, but then fell into the same rhythm of swaying, side to side. Their shoulders synced, their hips too.

‘What a wicked thing to do . . .’

Suddenly, Temperance couldn’t feel the weight of the dress pulling her down anymore.

It was like it was holding her up now, guiding her steps, keeping her locked in a daydream.

The dress was all of a sudden the choreographer, not just the costume.

It rustled between them, like a static charge about to explode.

Temperance gave in to the moment, losing herself in the hypnotic melody of the song and the magnetic pull that seemed to draw her closer, closer, to her dance partner.

Heat chased through her torso. A current of something bright flashed behind her eyes.

She was aware of the soft skin of her forearm pressed against his neck, the hard cord of muscle there, the rough prickle of his short hair.

Green-grey eyes blinked behind the mask but didn’t look at anything but her.

Teeth holding his bottom lip. Temperance couldn’t pull away.

Wouldn’t. Neither did he. She moved in closer.

Her breathing sped up, her hips nudged forwards until she could feel the strength in his chest crush against hers.

As aware as she was of her own hands, every tiny goosebump along her collarbone standing to attention, Temperance suddenly felt his hands move: running over her hips, around her waist until they rested at the very small of her back.

A firm hold, one that anticipated her movements and led her through them.

She sank into that touch. And now her dance partner was the force holding them up, together, now he was calling the shots. Inching closer, swaying deeper. The corset seemed to clutch more tightly around Temperance’s ribs: her breath felt light and shallow.

Was it the disco lights or was everything suddenly tinged with in deep blue?

Temperance blinked her eyes hard to try to clear her vision, the wooziness of the hot, thin air and the dress and the song making her dizzy.

But tonight was not the night for sensible thoughts, for overthinking.

Or even thinking. Or even under-thinking.

She was just doing , she was just being .

As the two moved as one, it really did feel like a wicked game: they were daring each other to move even nearer, press even closer.

It was a test to see who would lose their nerve first and Temperance swore to herself she wouldn’t wuss out now.

She kept her eyes locked onto his as his head dipped, his shoulders rounded and he leant down towards her.

Temperance could feel each breath rasp in her throat, her pulse rattling in her veins.

Somehow, through all the layers of this dress, she could feel the pressure of his fingertips.

His forehead, albeit underneath the black mask, came to rest on hers. The heat of his breath fell on her upper lip.

The sway. The song. Those eyes. She was hypnotised. And she was giving in to it, completely.

They could have been the only two people on the whole dance floor .

But the song petered out. The dry ice drifted away. ‘Backstreet’s Back’ kicked in around them, making it impossible to keep up a slow dance. Reluctantly, Temperance broke contact and felt those strong hands drop down from her back.

The man pushed away a step, lifting the mask from his face.

‘Abel.’ She barely spoke the word out loud.

He didn’t seem aware of the hoard of dancers pouring in around them, bouncing on the spot and throwing monster moves. Abel still held her gaze, his eyes liquid, his jaw held tight, and if the speakers had lost power she felt sure she’d be able to hear the crackle in the air between them.

She put her hand out towards his arm. Her fingers closed around the crisp cotton of his shirt, could feel the reassuring strength of his forearms under her touch.

Abel reached forward and brushed a curl away from her brow, to get a better look at her eyes, as if searching for something he knew was there but was just out of reach.

But then his mouth drew into a hard line. ‘I’m sorry. This will never happen.’