The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(19)

Julia exhaled, glad for the reprieve, however brief. Lowering her uneaten forkful of potato back to her plate, she dared another look at Captain Blunt.

Throughout dinner, she’d heard the intermittent murmur of his deep voice in low conversation with Miss Throckmorton.

But he wasn’t talking to Miss Throckmorton now. Like Lord Gresham, the young toffee heiress was occupied with the person on her opposite side, leaving Captain Blunt temporarily at his leisure.

His frost-gray eyes met Julia’s. “Miss Wychwood.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “Captain Blunt.”

For a taut moment, neither said another word.

Julia was the first to break the silence. It was either that or risk him turning his attention back to Miss Throckmorton. “This is a merry party, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He continued to regard her with the same quietly appraising look.

She was certain he must think her very strange.

Though why he should come to that conclusion tonight of all nights, she couldn’t fathom.

So far, she’d behaved with near perfect decorum. She’d sat in the drawing room with the other young ladies, she’d engaged in conversation at table, and she hadn’t once let her anxiety get the better of her.

Not yet.

Indeed, despite the clamminess of her hands and the trembling of her stomach, her unruly nerves were under creditable control.

Why then did he look at her so? His gaze searching hers, cold and emotionless, sending a shiver of awareness through her vitals?

“Do you, er, have many such parties where you come from?” she asked lamely.

“Dinner parties? No, ma’am.”

“None?”

“We live an isolated life in Yorkshire.”

“We,” she echoed before she could think better of it. Her voice sunk to a whisper. “Do you mean you and your . . . your children?”

A frown notched his heavy black brows.

At Bloxham’s he’d referred to the subject as indelicate. And it was. Julia knew it was.

She was on the verge of apologizing when he startled her with an answer.

“Yes.” His words emerged in a gruff undertone. “There are four of us altogether. Five if you count the estate’s caretaker, Mr. Beecham.”

Julia considered this information for a moment. Society gossip would have one believe that Captain Blunt had an entire houseful of illegitimate children. A half dozen or more. Instead, there were only three of them. Three.

She supposed even one illegitimate child was a shocking number. A gentleman, after all, shouldn’t have any. Still . . .

Three was a great deal more palatable than seven or eight.

“Are they all boys, your children?” she asked.

Captain Blunt raised his crystal goblet to his lips. “Not all. I have two boys, Charlie and Alfred. But my youngest is a girl, Daisy. She’ll be seven this August.”

Julia’s mouth curved in an involuntary smile.

It was hard to picture the fearsome Captain Blunt as father to a six-year-old girl. She wondered how much interaction he had with the child. Most well-to-do fathers had precious little until their children were older and better behaved.

“I expect you have a nurse to look after her,” she said.

Captain Blunt downed the remainder of his wine in one swallow. “Nothing of the kind. As I said, there are five of us in the house. No one else.”

“No servants?”

At first, he didn’t seem disposed to answer. He returned his goblet to the table, his long fingers lingering on the stem.

“It must be a large house,” Julia said.

His shoulders stiffened, as if he was bracing himself to administer a piece of unpleasant news. His scarred mouth set in a grim line. “It is a large house, and formerly a great one. But live-in servants are difficult to come by, and my estate lies on the moors, many miles from the nearest village. In poor weather, one can go weeks at a time without seeing another soul.”

She lifted her own goblet, taking a drink. “It sounds divine.”

Her response provoked an odd flicker in his gray gaze. “You think so?”

“Oh yes. A secluded estate in rural Yorkshire, far away from meddling neighbors and disapproving villagers? I can imagine nothing better.” She paused. “I don’t suppose it has a moat?”

His lips twitched. “It does not.”

“And is it, by any chance, overgrown with wild roses?”

“Ah. There you have me. It is indeed overgrown, but it’s no castle in a French fairy tale, Miss Wychwood.”

And I’m no Beast, he might have said.

Julia’s cheeks warmed. She set down her goblet, chastened. “Forgive me. My imagination often runs away with me.”

“An imagination is nothing to apologize for.”

She flashed him a rueful grimace. “You wouldn’t say so if you knew half of what I was thinking at any given moment.”

“I should give a great deal to know what you’re thinking,” he said gravely.

The warmth in her face spread to her midsection. Her corset felt at once even tighter than it had before. It made her a trifle breathless. “If you truly want to know . . .”

“I would be honored.”

“Very well. I’m thinking about how marvelous it must be to live an isolated life in the country. To wake up in the morning, knowing the day doesn’t hold another ball or dinner or musicale.”