The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(24)

“With who? Not that Captain Blunt fellow?”

Julia’s pulse gave a rebellious flutter.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of him standing next to her on the terrace. The size and strength of him. It had been a little like being next to Cossack. That bone-deep sense of safety and security garnered from being aligned with a larger, more powerful animal.

But Captain Blunt was no animal. He was a man.

A big, virile man who—unless she had mistaken him—was going to meet her for a ride in the park in the morning.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

Mary tucked her in. “You’re overtired, you are. Worrying your head about romance, when you’ve a perfectly good gentleman paying court to you.” She drew the bed-curtain, engulfing Julia in darkness. “Sleep, now. I won’t have you looking tired at the ball tomorrow.”

The ball.

Julia had been trying not to think of it.

It would be her third evening engagement without her friends. Another night of dressing up and making a spectacle of herself, alone and exposed, with no one to stand at her side.

But Captain Blunt would be at the ball, wouldn’t he?

She nestled deeper into her bed, comforted by the thought of him. By the very real possibility that he would be there for her. Not a hero, it was true, but not quite a villain, either. Something in between, perhaps.

Someone who made her feel a little less lonely.



* * *





?Jasper reined Quintus in the moment he caught sight of Miss Wychwood riding down Rotten Row.

She was wearing the same black riding habit and veiled hat as on the last occasion they’d met in Hyde Park. An unbecoming shroud of fabric, but—to her—a necessary one. He comprehended that now. She didn’t want to be seen.

For her, invisibility meant safety. It was why she preferred solitude to the excitement of the crowd. Why she disappeared into empty rooms rather than staying where there was music, singing, and dancing.

Being alone wasn’t the same as being lonely, she’d said.

Damned if he hadn’t understood exactly what she meant. Even so . . .

Good God.

He’d never met a young lady so ill-suited for town life.

After all, what was the London season if not a stage on which eligible young ladies were kept on endless display? Paraded here and there for the benefit of every interested individual? It wasn’t a system set up for sensitive females. Delicate creatures like Miss Wychwood, with anxious minds and romantic hearts.

How in the world was she to thrive in such a charged environment? How was she to breathe?

Surely, it would be a mercy to marry her and take her back to Yorkshire with him.

Or so he’d been telling himself ever since they’d parted last night.

Goldfinch Hall was no palatial estate, but there, at least, she could have a little freedom. And if the price of that freedom was somewhat steep . . .

Well.

Such was the fate of beautiful young maidens who put themselves in the path of villains.

“Captain Blunt,” she said, bringing her black gelding to a halt.

The sun was shining brilliantly in a cloudless azure sky. It was a perfect morning for riding. As a consequence, they weren’t the only two in the Row. Several ladies and gentlemen were about, making the privacy Jasper had envisioned when he’d suggested this meeting impossible.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He was resolved to take what he could get. “Miss Wychwood. Good morning.” He sketched a bow. “How are you?”

“Very well.”

“No ill effects after last night?”

She ducked her head, giving a breathless laugh. “No, no. Not unless you count embarrassment.”

He rode up to her. Her gelding was impossibly large, but next to Quintus, he may as well have been a palfrey. “What have you to be embarrassed about?”

“Behaving like such a ninny. You would think I’d never played the piano in front of anyone before.”

“I thought nothing of the kind.”

She nudged her gelding into a walk, her gloved hands steady on the reins. “What did you think?”

Jasper fell in step beside her on Quintus. Miss Wychwood’s groom followed after them at a distance. “That you needed someone to come to your aid. I hoped I wouldn’t be too objectionable a candidate.”

“You weren’t,” she said. “You were perfect. I’m so very grateful. I wanted to tell you—”

“You needn’t.” Gratitude was the last thing he wanted from her. “It was a privilege.”

“I can still be grateful for it.” She gave him a shy glance through the fine net of her veil. “You’ve come to my aid so often these past days.”

A stab of guilt pricked at his conscience. It was in his interest that she think well of him. Even so, he wouldn’t permit her to make him out to be something he was not. “Perhaps it’s because I have ulterior motives where you’re concerned.”

Her voice took on a serious note. “My dowry, you mean.”

“Among other things.”

“I’m glad we can speak plainly about it,” she said.

He inclined his head. No doubt it would be wiser to woo her with honeyed words and empty promises, but he’d never excelled in that regard. Besides, there were enough secrets between them already—secrets he was destined to take to his grave. In this, at least, he could be honest with her.