Page 23 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

But like Lord Ridgeway, Captain Blunt wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Miss Throckmorton.

As Lord Ridgeway introduced the pair of them, Julia could do nothing but sit woodenly on the drawing room settee, her hands clasped in her lap.

The scene before her was unsettlingly familiar.

Just so had Lord Ridgeway introduced Captain Blunt to her at Lady Arundell’s ball. In response, Julia had fled.

Miss Throckmorton, by contrast, was perfectly composed. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance,” she said. “I’ve heard of your exploits, of course. The Hero of the Crimea, isn’t that what they call you?”

“An overstatement,” Captain Blunt said. “I’m no hero.” As he spoke, his icy gray eyes met Julia’s. It was the barest glance. A mere heartbeat of connection—of acknowledgment—before he turned his attention back on Miss Throckmorton.

Julia’s chest constricted almost painfully.

No. He wasn’t a hero. He was just a man. One that, only yesterday evening, she’d asked to stop pursuing her.

And he had done so. Obviously.

It wasn’t a rejection. He was respecting her wishes. An honorable action, really. It made no sense that it would hurt.

She schooled her features, even as she again cast about her for some means of escape. Her gaze lit on the Earl of Gresham. Newly arrived, he stood at the entrance to the drawing room, speaking to Mrs. Major.

Mrs. Major replied, motioning toward Julia with a toothy smile.

Julia’s palms dampened beneath her gloves. She had no affection for Lord Gresham. Not only was he too old for her, he was rather insensitive, too. The kind of blustering gentleman who always talked over a lady or insisted she do this thing or that.

He made a direct line for her from across the drawing room, wasting no time in presenting himself.

“Miss Wychwood,” he said, bowing. “Ridgeway. Captain Blunt. Ladies.”

“Gresham,” Ridgeway said.

Captain Blunt gave Lord Gresham a stiff nod. He didn’t seem pleased to see the earl.

Julia wondered if they knew each other.

“You will excuse me, gentlemen.” Lord Gresham offered his hand to Julia. “Miss Wychwood’s estimable chaperone has granted me the honor of escorting her into dinner.”

“An honor indeed,” Ridgeway said.

Captain Blunt said nothing. But he wasn’t looking at Miss Throckmorton any longer. He was frowning at Julia.

She took Lord Gresham’s hand, permitting him to draw her to her feet. Escape was escape, even if it came in the form of a long-winded, condescending old man who stared overlong at one’s bosom.

“Take care you avoid the drafts,” Lord Gresham said, guiding her away. “There’s a chill in the air this evening. Your father mentioned it particularly.”

She gave him an alert glance. “You’ve spoken to my father?”

“I called on him this afternoon in Belgrave Square. The poor fellow. He’s a martyr to his health.”

“He is. Though he seemed to be a little stronger today.”

“I’d have said he was worse. I’ve asked my personal physician to look in on him. The least I can do, all things considered.”

Before Julia could ask what he meant, a footman in scarlet livery appeared at the drawing room door to announce that dinner was served.

Lady Holland rose from her chair. She was a curvaceous dark-haired widow of thirty-odd years, newly out of mourning. The golden thread of her elegantly embroidered dinner dress glistened in the gaslight. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would follow me.”

She led the way into a high-ceilinged, silk-papered dining room. On one side was a cavernous marble fireplace. On the other, a line of liveried footmen stood at the ready in front of a grand mahogany sideboard. The long dining table was adorned with clusters of roses and greenery, and ablaze with candlelight. Dancing flames sparkled in the crystal goblets and reflected in the polished-silver serving dishes.