The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(18)

“Take care you avoid the drafts,” Lord Gresham said, guiding her away. “There’s a chill in the air this evening. Your father mentioned it particularly.”

She gave him an alert glance. “You’ve spoken to my father?”

“I called on him this afternoon in Belgrave Square. The poor fellow. He’s a martyr to his health.”

“He is. Though he seemed to be a little stronger today.”

“I’d have said he was worse. I’ve asked my personal physician to look in on him. The least I can do, all things considered.”

Before Julia could ask what he meant, a footman in scarlet livery appeared at the drawing room door to announce that dinner was served.

Lady Holland rose from her chair. She was a curvaceous dark-haired widow of thirty-odd years, newly out of mourning. The golden thread of her elegantly embroidered dinner dress glistened in the gaslight. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would follow me.”

She led the way into a high-ceilinged, silk-papered dining room. On one side was a cavernous marble fireplace. On the other, a line of liveried footmen stood at the ready in front of a grand mahogany sideboard. The long dining table was adorned with clusters of roses and greenery, and ablaze with candlelight. Dancing flames sparkled in the crystal goblets and reflected in the polished-silver serving dishes.

The guests entered in order of precedence. Lord Gresham and Julia were among the first. She glanced back at the line of couples behind them. Near its end, Miss Throckmorton was on Captain Blunt’s arm, looking remarkably at home there.

Julia felt a peculiar twinge in her midsection. What kind of twinge, she wasn’t certain. It couldn’t be jealousy, could it?

But no.

She wasn’t some dog in the manger, to covet a gentleman she’d already rejected.

At least, she didn’t think she was.

“Lady Holland was careful to seat us near the fire.” Lord Gresham maneuvered Julia to her chair, pulling it out for her. “There’ll be no drafts to trouble you here.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She sat down, carefully arranging her full skirts. The seat on her right belonged to Lord Gresham. And on her left . . .

The thick cream-colored place card bore the name of Captain Blunt.

She scarcely had time to register it before he was there, a great gruff presence, appearing as if she’d conjured him. He filled up the space beside her, broad and tall and heart-clenchingly dangerous.

Her already trembling insides vibrated like a tuning fork.

She chanced a shy look up at him through her lashes.

He returned it, unsmiling. “Miss Wychwood,” he said. “It seems this seat belongs to me.”





Six





Julia wasn’t a proponent of tight lacing. On leaving the house that evening, she’d been cinched only snugly enough to fit into her dinner dress. Nevertheless, after an endless succession of rich cuisine forced on her by Lord Gresham, she could feel the rigid bones of her corset digging into her flesh.

“We’ve opened up my house in Grosvenor Square for year-round occupancy,” his lordship said from his seat beside her. “I mean to host a dinner myself next month. Perhaps you’ll see fit to act as my hostess.”

Julia swallowed a morsel of roast beef. It stuck in her throat. She hastily washed it down with a sip of wine from her crystal goblet. “Your hostess?” She endeavored not to choke. “I don’t think that would be very appropriate.”

“There’s nothing more appropriate, my girl, under the circumstances.”

It was the second time the earl had alluded to these mysterious circumstances. Given his recent visit to Belgrave Square, Julia suspected the worst.

“And what circumstances are those? If you mean—” She broke off as Lord Gresham motioned the footman to bring her more roast. “Please, my lord. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Nonsense. You require feeding up. We must have you healthy, Miss Wychwood.”

Julia quailed at the sheer amount of food already on her plate. She had a large enough appetite, to be sure, but she’d never been comfortable gorging herself in public. Much like everything else she enjoyed, overindulging was better done in the privacy of her bedchamber. There, tucked in bed with a novel, she’d often laid waste to an entire box of chocolates.

But Lady Holland’s packed dining room, with its flickering candlelight, clinking crystal, and hum of fashionable conversation, was a far cry from Julia’s curtained four-poster in Belgrave Square. How could she enjoy anything with so many people around?

She grudgingly speared a piece of potato on the tines of her fork, only half listening to Lord Gresham’s descriptions of the renovations to his London residence.

If this was what the future held for her, she didn’t know if she could face it. Year after year, wed to some aging nobleman, the entirety of her life lived under his constant scrutiny.

And not only his.

All of London society would be watching and judging. It was the very essence of town life. Julia knew that better than anyone. She’d been born here and had spent every day of the last two-and-twenty years a veritable prisoner in her parents’ house. Marriage was to be her one means of escape, and even that was merely exchanging one prison for another.

“What do you say to that, Gresham?” The elderly lady seated on his lordship’s right commanded his attention.