The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(20)

The faint hue of amusement faded from his expression. “You sound as though you really mean that.”

“I do. Most sincerely. Which is rather ironic, since I’m destined to live the rest of my life here in town.”

Captain Blunt appeared as though he had more to say on the subject, but before he could utter another word, their conversation was interrupted by Miss Throckmorton.

“Isn’t that right, Captain?” she asked loudly. “It’s always the way when traveling by steamer ship.”

He gave Julia a long, frowning look, before reluctantly turning to answer Miss Throckmorton.

Julia was left alone with only the food on her plate to occupy her. Food that was growing colder by the second. She pushed her remaining roast beef around disconsolately with her fork.

Lord Gresham snapped his fingers at a footman. “More gravy for Miss Wychwood.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t—”

“Tut-tut, Miss Wychwood. You must finish your meal.” The earl’s cheeks were ruddy from too much burgundy. “You’ll need your strength to accompany me on the piano after dinner. Lady Holland has asked me to sing.”

Julia’s already flagging spirits sank still further.

It was difficult enough to be here as a guest, seated at the table or in the drawing room, obliged to say yes and no, and please and thank you, and to keep this infernal smile pasted on her face. But to stand in front of the assembled company? To perform on the piano while everyone watched and judged?

She took another sip of wine to fortify herself.

This was going to be a catastrophe.



* * *





?Jasper sat at the edge of Lady Holland’s drawing room. His attention was fixed, along with the rest of the guests, on Lord Gresham and Miss Wychwood. The latter was seated in front of the Hollands’ square rosewood piano, her delicately tapered fingers stumbling through the accompaniment to the earl’s boisterous tenor.

She was visibly uncomfortable. A pale pink flush suffused her throat as Lord Gresham loomed over her, turning the pages of her music and intermittently correcting the errors in her playing.

He was an overbearing man. A bully, though he hid it behind a facade of paternal condescension. Jasper had seen enough of them in his lifetime to recognize the breed on sight. And Gresham had the potential to be one of the worst.

His true character manifested in the way he ignored Miss Wychwood at dinner, heaping her plate despite her objections, and in the way he subjected her to embarrassment in front of the crowd, insisting she play a song with which she was clearly unfamiliar.

Jasper’s temper rose with every fumbled chord.

Couldn’t the man see that Miss Wychwood was shy and anxious in company? That she disliked being made a spectacle?

Jasper hadn’t known her above a month when he’d realized it for himself.

“Poor Miss Wychwood,” Miss Throckmorton murmured from her seat beside him. “Shall I rescue her?”

Jasper gave Miss Throckmorton a rare look of gratitude. “An excellent idea.”

Miss Throckmorton rose and walked to the piano, her skirt floating about her legs. She was a lovely young lady in her way. Poised and polished, and entirely self-assured. She leaned down to Miss Wychwood’s ear.

What she said was too soft to hear, but whatever it was, it prompted an expression of relief in Miss Wychwood’s face. Without further ado, the two young ladies switched places.

Gresham’s song faltered. He cast a hard look at Miss Wychwood as she stood from the bench in front of the piano.

“Pray go on,” Miss Throckmorton said to him, sitting down. She picked up right where Miss Wychwood had left off, continuing the song with a resounding swell of expertly played chords.

Gresham resumed singing, but there was no mistaking the cloud of displeasure that marred his brow. Miss Wychwood had disobeyed him. Not an auspicious start to their relationship.

And it was to be a relationship. Jasper recognized that much.

Gresham needed a young wife to bear him an heir, and for better or worse, he’d set his eyes on Miss Wychwood.

Why wouldn’t he?

Miss Throckmorton, Miss Bingham, and all the rest of the season’s young ladies may be polished to a shine, but Julia Wychwood was as beautiful and unspoiled as a wild rose.

No doubt Gresham thought he could tame her. Mold her into a proper countess.

Is that what she wanted? To be the wife of a wealthy titled lord?

After their conversation at dinner, Jasper had cause to doubt it. And now, watching Miss Wychwood edge her way through the crowded drawing room in search of a seat, he doubted it even more. She appeared a hair’s breadth away from losing her composure.

Damn Gresham.

Jasper stood, intercepting her as she passed his chair. “Miss Wychwood,” he said in a voice for her ears alone. “You look as though you require a breath of fresh air.”

Her hands were shaking. “I do, rather.”

“Will you permit me to escort you onto the terrace?”

“Yes, I—”

“Shh!” Mrs. Major swiveled in her seat to glare at them. She waved her lacquered fan, motioning for Miss Wychwood to either sit down or remove herself.

Miss Wychwood mutely took Jasper’s proffered arm.

He led her to the row of glass-paned French doors at the back of the drawing room. Swathed in heavy red velvet draperies, they opened onto a torchlit balcony. It ran the entire length of the house, looking down over the formal gardens below.