The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(8)

The prospect, nevertheless, left him chilled to the heart.

As the voice of the current performer rose to match its thundering accompaniment, he couldn’t help but glance, once again, in Miss Wychwood’s direction.

Lord Gresham was still there, his lecherous attention now focused on the lady to his right. The seat to his left was empty.

Julia Wychwood was gone.





Three





Julia huddled in the corner of the empty receiving room on the second floor, her novel open on her lap. A gas wall sconce above her illuminated the words on the page. Reading them, her pulse began to slow and her muscles gradually relaxed. Her surroundings faded—the shrill soprano of a performer, and the noise of the accompanying piano—as she sank into the now familiar story of Lady Audley.

No sedative could have worked with such efficiency.

In a novel she was safe. Her throat didn’t close up and her palms didn’t grow damp. She could experience things in a way that didn’t overwhelm her.

Obviously, it wasn’t ideal.

She shouldn’t be hiding in an empty room during Lady Clifford’s musicale. Still, Julia doubted whether anyone would notice her absence. Not her inattentive chaperone, society matron Mrs. Major, who had departed to join her fashionable friends shortly after their arrival. Not even Lord Gresham—though he had spent the better part of the first three performances talking into Julia’s bosom.

Men always talked at a female rather than to her.

As a rule, Julia didn’t mind it. When surrounded on all sides by strangers, she often found it difficult to formulate a word. An overbearing man could be a blessing in such circumstances. But Lord Gresham was overbearing with a purpose. Recently widowed, the elderly earl was seeking a new young wife to bear his heirs.

Such an arrangement might suit someone else, but it didn’t suit her. When she married—if she married—it wouldn’t be to some man who was old enough to be her father. Only look at what had happened to Lady Audley.

“That must be quite a book to hold your attention in all this din.”

Julia’s head jerked up. Her heart lurched.

Captain Blunt stood, silhouetted, at the entrance to the anteroom, his broad shoulders nearly spanning the doorframe. His scarred face was shadowed in the gaslight, making him appear even more sinister than he usually did—something she hadn’t thought possible.

He wasn’t old enough to be her father. Indeed, he couldn’t be much above thirty.

“What is it?” he asked.

Julia hastily closed her book. She cleared her throat. “It’s, um, Lady Audley’s Secret.”

“Ah. I see.” He advanced into the room. Slowly. Deliberately. As if he was approaching a wild horse that might shy away from him.

Julia rather felt like one.

Her heartbeat quickened as he drew closer. She instinctively shrank back against the silk-papered wall behind her, wishing she could disappear.

No such luck.

She was well and truly caught. And it was her own fault. She was the one who had chosen to hide in this particular corner. There would be no escaping him now.

He came to a halt in front of her. “Don’t be afraid.”

Don’t be afraid? He could say that when he was looming over her like a great beast in a fairy tale?

“I won’t spoil it,” he said.

Comprehension came like a lightning strike.

Julia inwardly groaned.

He wasn’t talking about himself. He was talking about the book.

She felt more than a little foolish. “You couldn’t spoil it. I’ve read it six times before.”

“Six times?” His black brows lifted. “Any particular reason?”

“Some stories are better the more you read them. You notice things you didn’t the first time. And not only that.” She hesitated. “Books you’ve already read are like old friends. It’s comforting to revisit them.”

He nodded once, as if in unspoken understanding. “And this is why you slipped away from the drawing room? To revisit an old friend?”

“No. That is . . . yes.” She couldn’t keep the stammer from her voice. Neither could she formulate a creditable excuse. The truth tumbled out unchecked. “I was feeling lonely out there.”

He gave the empty room a dubious look. “As opposed to in here?”

“Here I’m alone, but I’m not lonely. There’s a difference.”

Here, there were no fashionable crowds to exclude her from their midst. No one to provoke her anxiety. To make her feel unwanted or unworthy. There was only herself.

And now him.

“You must like the story tremendously,” he said.

“Oh, I love the story. It’s one of my absolute favorites.” Her gloved fingers fidgeted on the book’s cover. “Did you like it?”

“I did. Very much so.”

She stared up at him, speechless.

His mouth tipped at one corner. It was a semblance of a smile. A brief one at that. It vanished as soon as it materialized, his mouth reverting to its characteristic scar-snaggled sneer. “You look surprised.”

“I am rather. Most gentlemen wouldn’t deign to read a novel. And if they did, they’d never admit to liking it.”

He shrugged. “Novels provide an inexpensive escape from the realities of life. One would be a fool to discount them.” He cast a glance at the empty place beside her. “May I?”