The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(37)

“Argh!” Lord Gresham released her. Groaning plaintively, he hopped about the clearing on one foot. “Damn and blast it!”

“You have only yourself to blame, sir,” she said primly. Backing away from him, she glanced around the darkened clearing for her best route of escape. “I told you to let me go.”

“Miss Wychwood!” Captain Blunt emerged through the shrubbery. His black-and-white evening clothes, so understated and civilized, stood in stark contrast to the dangerous glint in his ice-gray eyes. “Are you all right?”

Her already racing pulse kicked into a gallop. “Captain Blunt. What are you doing here?”

Felix Hartford appeared in the captain’s wake.

Julia took another step back.

She’d known Mr. Hartford for most of her life, but theirs wasn’t anything resembling a friendship. He’d always been more interested in Anne than in her—an interest that manifested itself in razor-sharp jests that never failed to rile Anne’s temper.

Seeing him now, Julia wasn’t entirely confident he was there to assist her. Not until he moved to intercept Lord Gresham.

“What’s the meaning of this, sir?” Lord Gresham blustered.

“I could ask the same.” Mr. Hartford grasped the earl by his coat. “Dragging off a defenseless young lady? And in your appalling condition?”

Lord Gresham shrugged free of him. “You have a damned nerve, Hartford. There’s nothing wrong with my condition.”

“You smell like a distillery.”

His lordship turned the color of a ripe tomato. “I may have lost my head a little owing to drink, but—”

Captain Blunt advanced on the earl, something savage in his expression. In that moment, Julia could easily imagine him as Hades, God of the Underworld.

Or as a merciless soldier, cruel and pitiless to his core.

A shiver went through her.

Captain Blunt saw it. His face darkened like a thundercloud. “If you’ve hurt her—”

“I? Hurt her?” Lord Gresham was indignant. “It’s you who’s frightening her, Blunt, not I. Miss Wychwood and I have an arrangement. The girl’s father—”

“Her father be damned,” Captain Blunt said. “You have no right—”

“On the contrary. I have every right.” Lord Gresham gave Julia an aggrieved look. “Tell him, Miss Wychwood.”

Julia met Captain Blunt’s eyes. “It was a misunderstanding,” she said. “That’s all. I’d rather not have a scene.”

“Quite right.” Mr. Hartford took Lord Gresham’s arm. “I’ll see you into a carriage. You can make your apologies to Lady Clavering tomorrow.”

The earl dragged his feet. “What about Miss Wychwood?”

Mr. Hartford looked to Julia. “Shall I fetch your chaperone?”

“Oh no.” She retreated until she felt the bench press against the back of her skirts. “Please don’t summon Mrs. Major. It will only inflame the situation. I’ll be quite all right here. I only require a moment to compose myself.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Captain Blunt said.

Julia’s gaze lurched to his. Her heart skipped a beat.

Mr. Hartford nodded once. “Very well, but don’t linger. People will talk.” With that, he marched Lord Gresham from the clearing, leaving Julia and Captain Blunt alone in the moonlight.

Entirely alone.

Nothing but the crackling torchlight and the tinkle of the fountain to break the silence between them.

Julia sank down on the marble bench. She breathed deeply of the cool night air, willing her wild pulse to return to something like normal.

Captain Blunt remained where he was, standing at the edge of the clearing. A great menacing beast glowering at her as surely as he had at Lord Gresham.

But no.

There was something else in his gaze now. Something equally unsettling.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said.

She pressed a hand to her corseted midriff. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you all right?” he asked again.

“I . . . Yes, but . . . I can’t catch my breath.”

He came closer. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No. I’m fine,” she said. “Just . . . give me a minute.”

He paced the grass in front of her as she marshaled her senses. His large frame was wrought with tension.

She studied him covertly, feeling that same unsettling pull of attraction she’d felt on every other occasion they’d met. Strange, that. He wasn’t a classically handsome man. His countenance was too saturnine. His features too harshly hewn. Indeed, there was no softness or gentleness in his face at all.

Nowhere except, perhaps, in the shape of his mouth.

His lips curved with a vague sensuality. The faintest suggestion of tenderness, marred forever by the trajectory of his scar.

Once, she’d been afraid of him. But now . . .

Now, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

A scandalous notion. She blamed Lord Gresham for putting it into her head. If he hadn’t attempted to kiss her, she wouldn’t be thinking about kisses at all.

“I’m grateful you and Mr. Hartford arrived when you did,” she said when she’d regained some of her composure.