The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(41)

She yielded to the tantalizing pressure.

It was more than a first kiss. It was an acknowledgment. A physical validation of their unspoken attraction to each other. Something raw and honest and imbued with an undercurrent of soul-quaking passion.

He wasn’t particularly suave or seductive about the business. On the contrary, there was a certain masculine ruthlessness to his kiss. It spoke of the soldier he’d been. A man used to taking what he wanted. To prevailing against all odds.

Had he wished to, he could have easily overpowered her.

He didn’t.

She was nonetheless overwhelmed by him. A prisoner to sensation; the ridged scar on his lip, the heat of his body, and the curve of his gloved palm cradling her face.

Knees trembling, she lifted her hand to clutch weakly at the lapel of his black evening coat. Her touch seemed to bring him back to his senses.

He broke the kiss, his chest expanding once, twice, as if—like her—he had difficulty getting enough air into his lungs. “There,” he rasped, bringing his forehead to rest gently against hers. “Is that a first kiss worthy of remembering?”

Julia inhaled a tremulous breath, taking in the delirious scent of him—bergamot shaving soap, clean linen, and the spice of warm male skin. Her own body was hot all over, her face awash with blushes. Good Lord. Captain Blunt had kissed her! Their first kiss.

And their last.

Moisture pricked at the backs of her eyes. It was silly to be so affected. But what lady wouldn’t be to have shared such a kiss with such a man?

“I shall remember it for as long as I live,” she said.

“So will I, Miss Wychwood,” he vowed softly. “So will I.”





Thirteen





The trouble with an unforgettable kiss was that, within a startlingly short period of time, remembering it wasn’t enough. Julia was no sooner back in her bedroom in Belgrave Square than she was consumed by thoughts of repeating the experience.

Her foolish heart couldn’t accept that it was never going to happen again.

But it wasn’t.

It couldn’t.

Henceforward, all Captain Blunt’s kisses belonged to Miss Throckmorton.

As Julia sat in front of her dressing table, head bent for Mary to brush her hair, a sickening jealousy sank its claws into her soul.

She was unaccustomed to the sensation.

It wasn’t in her nature to be jealous of anyone. Not young ladies who were prettier than she was, or who had experienced more of life. She prided herself on being a good friend. On being genuinely happy for those of her acquaintance more fortunate than she was herself.

But not now. Not at this moment.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Mary remarked. “And here I thought you’d be chattering my ear off about the ball.” She ran another stroke of the brush through Julia’s hair. “You’re not really ill, are you?”

“I don’t know,” Julia said. She certainly felt poorly.

It’s what she’d told Mrs. Major anyway.

After parting ways with Captain Blunt in the garden, Julia had returned to the house in search of her chaperone. She’d found Mrs. Major at the edge of the ballroom, all atwitter over Lord Gresham’s departure.

“Quite a to-do,” she’d said. “The earl over imbibed. He’s gone home in a cab.”

“I’d like to go home, too,” Julia had said. “I’m not feeling at all well.”

In the Wychwood family, there was no statement more powerful than one intimating ill health. Even Mrs. Major had snapped to attention. The earl had left his carriage at their disposal. She’d wasted no time in bundling Julia into it and seeing her straight back to Belgrave Square.

On arriving, Mrs. Major had accompanied Julia into the hall to leave a note for her father. While writing it, she’d fretted loudly over Lord Gresham’s drunkenness, Julia’s sickness, and the prospect Sir Eustace would blame Mrs. Major for both.

All the servants had heard her.

“You are pale,” Mary acknowledged as she set aside the silver-plated brush. “Is there anything I can bring you? A cup of chocolate? Or some warm milk?”

“There’s nothing you can do for me,” Julia said bleakly. “Not unless . . .”

Once again, she thought of Miss Throckmorton and her boundless fortune.

Was that the reason Captain Blunt had chosen her instead of Julia? Not because of Julia’s personal failings but because of her financial ones?

There was only one way to find out.

“Not unless you can discover how much Miss Daphne Throckmorton is worth,” she said.

Mary’s brows shot up. “That toffee heiress everyone’s talking about?”

Julia wasn’t surprised Mary had heard of her. As the longest-serving servant in the Wychwood household, Mary prided herself on knowing all the fashionable comings and goings in Mayfair.

“Hmm. I suppose I could find out.” She gave her a quizzical look. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” Julia said, “the information might make me feel better.”

Or not.

Either way, at least she’d know the truth.

“The state you’re in, you don’t need information.” Mary examined Julia’s face in the mirror. “What you need is bed. Or a doctor. You sure you don’t want Jenkins to send for one?”