The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(21)

The evening air was cool and sweet, redolent with the fragrance of Lady Holland’s prize roses and . . .

Tobacco?

Jasper shot an irritated look to the right. Two gentlemen were huddled in the shadows, talking and smoking cigars.

Miss Wychwood didn’t seem to notice them. The moment she and Jasper stepped through the French doors, she released his arm and walked straight to the furthermost edge of the balcony. Setting her hands on the rail, she exhaled a shuddering breath.

Her face was illuminated in the torchlight—brow drawn and lips trembling. For one alarmed instant, Jasper feared she might cry.

He came to stand at her side. “Miss Wychwood—”

“I want to go home,” she said in a colorless voice.

“Of course. I’ll fetch your chaperone.” He moved to return to the house.

“No!” She caught at his sleeve. “No, please. Mrs. Major won’t permit me to leave early. Not even if I—” She broke off, shaking her head. Her hand fell from his arm, resuming its place on the rail. “It doesn’t matter.”

A swell of frustration tightened his chest. He didn’t know how to help her. How to put her at her ease. After the ordeal she’d been through at dinner and then in the drawing room, she needed more than fresh air. She needed to feel safe.

“Surely, she’ll allow it,” he said. “If I tell her you’re unwell—”

“I’m not unwell. I’m being silly.”

He made a scoffing noise.

“I am,” she insisted. “Ask anyone.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I can judge for myself.”

The renewed sounds of rousing piano music, and a doubly rousing tenor, drifted out from the drawing room. Some idiot must have demanded an encore from Gresham and Miss Throckmorton.

Miss Wychwood’s fingers curled tight around the rail.

Jasper was possessed by the urge to gather her up in his arms. To protect her from all this. To hold her until her breath was steady and her trembling had ceased.

A ludicrous impulse.

He couldn’t embrace her. Not here. Not anywhere.

He could do nothing but offer the support of his proximity. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder, his arm close enough to brush hers.

She smelled of lavender water and herbal soap. A fresh, clean scent. It clung to her as softly as a whisper, as intoxicatingly feminine as all the rest of her—the gentle curve of her pale shoulders, the twinkling jewels that studded her silken hairnet, and her overflounced gown, with its ruffles and ribbons and ridiculously full skirts.

Skirts that were even now bunched against the side of his leg.

A peculiar warmth pooled within him. It was all mixed up with this bloody sense of powerlessness, leaving him cross, and restless, and damnably hot under his cravat.

“Miss Wychwood . . .” His every instinct demanded action.

She gave him a wary look in the torchlight. No longer sapphire blue, next to the rich amethyst of her silk gown, her eyes had taken on a violet hue.

A bewitching sight. It provoked a thrum of longing in Jasper’s veins.

“Yes?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “Did you, ah, finish your book?”

“Mrs. Marshland’s novel?” She brightened. “Yes, I did, actually.”

Some of the tension in his muscles eased.

This was how he could help her. Not by holding her. Not by carrying her off to safety somewhere. But by talking to her. By engaging her on the subject she loved most.

“What did you think of it?” he asked.

She replied without hesitation. “I enjoyed it immensely.”

“You disagree with Marshland’s critics, then.”

“I suppose I must. Though I don’t know anything more about what the critics said than what the clerk at Bloxham’s told me. Something about the story being tripe or treacle?”

Jasper grimaced. “That about sums it up.”

She turned to face him. “You read Mr. Bilgewater’s column in the Weekly Heliosphere?”

“Sometimes.”

“And follow his recommendations?”

“The critics and I rarely agree when it comes to popular novels.” He regarded her in the light of the torch. “I’m more interested in what you think.”

Her eyes were wide and guileless, but her expression wasn’t without intelligence. Indeed, there was a kind of earnest passion in her gaze. The look of a true devotee of romance. “I told you,” she said. “I enjoyed it. Which should be evident enough, given how fast I finished reading it.”

“What did you enjoy about it?”

“So many things.” She warmed to the subject, more animated than he’d seen her all evening. “Mrs. Marshland’s work isn’t as thrilling as it once was, but her prose is beautiful. She writes with such a depth of emotion. As if she’s felt it all herself—the love and the yearning. Even the romantic disappointments. One can feel it right along with her.”

A surge of secret pride made him stand a little taller, a litter straighter, even as he leaned into her, craving more of her favorable opinions. He warned himself to tread carefully. Romance was a dangerous subject to discuss with a lady.

And not only romance.

“You assume J. Marshland is a woman.”