Page 11 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

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?”

Julia’s mouth went dry. “Er . . . yes. If you wish.” She moved her flounced skirts out of the way, making room for him on the silk-cushioned bench.

He sank down next to her. The bench creaked in protest beneath his weight.

He was close. Too close.

His leg brushed hers. She felt it through the barrier of her petticoats and crinoline, as surely as if their knees had touched without anything between them. Her already racing pulse skipped a beat.

She’d never been this near to him before. Never yet had the opportunity to fully appreciate his size and strength. The peculiar power of his presence. It was commanding. Almost menacing. And why not? He was a soldier. A dangerous soldier, if rumors were to be believed.

If she knew what was good for her, she’d stand up and walk straight back to the drawing room. Instead, she remained where she was, a hair’s breadth away from one of the most ruthless men in recent military history.

He may have been known as the Hero of the Crimea, but the moniker was rarely spoken with honorable connotation. Captain Blunt had been notorious during the war.

She wasn’t privy to the particulars of his conduct. At the time, she’d been too young to read the papers. And now, among the ladies with whom she associated, there was only the vaguest of murmurings. All Julia knew for certain was that his notoriety had increased since returning to England.

If what her best friend, Lady Anne, said was true, the captain’s haunted estate in Yorkshire was presently playing host to his brood of illegitimate children. A scandalous fact. What sort of gentleman flaunted his sins in public? The answer was evident: a man who was no gentleman at all.

If he wanted to compromise Julia, he could, and easily.

She contemplated running away, but glancing up at the captain, she found him gazing down at her with single-minded attention.

“Miss Wychwood . . .”