Page 22 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“Have you, Miss Wychwood?” Miss Throckmorton asked.

Julia turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”

“We were speaking of Paris,” Miss Bingham said. “Miss Throckmorton asked if you’d been there recently?”

“I have not,” Julia said. “I’ve never been out of London.”

“Never?” Miss Throckmorton was aghast. She was a tall, dignified young woman, with seal-brown hair drawn back in a tight cluster of ringlets. A strand of lustrous pearls hung from her neck. “How can that be?”

Julia explained, “My parents don’t like me to stray far from home. They rarely leave town themselves, except to take the waters in Bath.”

“You don’t go with them?” Miss Throckmorton asked.

“Oh, they don’t go together,” Julia said. “One always remains behind, and me along with them.”

“Miss Wychwood’s parents are both ill,” Miss Bingham said. “And Miss Wychwood, too, on occasion.”

“A pity,” Miss Throckmorton murmured. “You’re not unwell now, I hope?”

“You do look a little green,” Miss Bingham said.

Julia expected she did. She had no desire to be in a crowded drawing room. The setting provoked the worst of her anxiety. All the people huddled in groups, whispering and chattering, and exchanging dry witticisms.

How did they come up with them? All those droll remarks and witty rejoinders. Did they memorize them in advance?

Julia couldn’t imagine how it would work. Not for her, anyway. When confronted by a clever stranger, most times she couldn’t remember her own name, let alone some amusing scrap of rehearsed dialogue.

“Miss Wychwood?” Miss Throckmorton prompted, a trace of irritation in her voice. “Are you all right?”

“I’m very well. Only . . .” Julia flashed a glance about the room. Mrs. Major was still by the exit, as immovable as a sentry. But there was no one near the curtained French doors that led onto the terrace. “This room is a trifle close. If you’ll excuse me. I might just step outside.”

She moved to rise, but was forestalled by the arrival of a gentleman.

It was Viscount Ridgeway.

He was a familiar figure in London society. A handsome golden-haired gentleman, with a calculating air about him. The sort of man who enjoyed making sport of bluestockings and wallflowers. Ladies like Julia who were awkward and tongue tangled in company.

Indeed, it was he who had first presented Captain Blunt to her.

Stomach tensing, she sank back into her seat.

“Ladies.” Lord Ridgeway sketched them an elegant bow. “Please don’t get up. I haven’t come to interrupt your conversation.”

Miss Bingham blushed and batted her lashes. “Why have you come, my lord?”

“To impose on Miss Throckmorton.” He addressed her as if Julia and Miss Bingham had ceased to exist. “You look charmingly this evening, ma’am.”

“I thank you,” Miss Throckmorton replied.

“May I introduce you to an acquaintance of mine?” Lord Ridgeway gestured to someone in the crowd. “Lady Holland has informed me he’s to be your partner at dinner.”

“Oh?” Miss Throckmorton followed Lord Ridgeway’s gaze.

So did Julia.

It was Captain Blunt. He came toward them, looking as solemn and soldierly as he had at Bloxham’s.

Her heart performed a disconcerting little somersault.