Page 48 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“But you’re not enjoying yourself,” Miss Throckmorton said. “That’s plain to see.”

“I rarely wear my feelings on my sleeve, ma’am,” he replied.

“Indeed. It’s part of your charm. Still . . . One wonders why you came.” She opened her painted fan, wafting it in front of her face with a thoughtful air. “Surely, it wasn’t on my account.”

He couldn’t answer her. Not truthfully. Instead, he forced a smile, certain it must look more like a rictus of pain. “May I bring you a cup of punch?”

Miss Throckmorton’s own smile dimmed. “Thank you, yes. I am rather parched.”

He took his leave of her. A footman with a tray of punch glasses hovered near the doors to the terrace. Making his way toward him, Jasper couldn’t help but cast about the crowd once more in search of Miss Wychwood.

As always, his height was an asset. He found her almost at once.

Wearing a steel-blue gown cut low off her creamy shoulders, she was exiting through the terrace doors on Lord Gresham’s arm. She glanced back into the ballroom, her expression faintly desperate. Gresham didn’t falter. He tugged her out along with him, seemingly against her will.

Every nerve in Jasper’s body sounded a warning.

Good God. What was Gresham up to?

He moved to follow after them, all thoughts of Miss Throckmorton and her cup of punch forgotten.

A tall gentleman in flawlessly cut eveningwear stepped in front of him, barring his way. “Blunt. I thought that was you.”

Jasper gave the man a distracted look. It was Felix Hartford. A wealthy denizen of fashionable society, he was the grandson of the Earl of March and one of Jasper’s few acquaintances in town.

Though acquaintance might be a stretch.

Jasper was even less familiar with him than he was with Ridgeway. “Hartford. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I don’t wonder. It’s impossible to find anyone in this crush.”

“Quite.” Jasper looked past him to the terrace doors. “Excuse me. I have something I must attend to.”

Hartford followed his gaze. “An assignation?” He grinned. “Consider me surprised.”

Jasper glowered at the man. “It’s not an assignation, damn you. If you must know, Gresham’s taken Miss Wychwood outside. She didn’t appear too keen on the idea.”

Hartford’s brows notched in a disapproving line.

He was known to take a particular interest in Lady Anne. To what extent, Jasper didn’t know. The whole of their relationship seemed to consist of long looks and pointed barbs. As if the two of them were engaged in some private battle.

One could almost believe they were enemies, except for the fact that, given the opportunity, Hartford never failed to render Lady Anne a service.

And Miss Wychwood was Lady Anne’s bosom friend.

“Oh, she didn’t, did she?” Hartford moved past Jasper. “Well, Blunt? What are you waiting for?”

The Claverings’ tiered garden was landscaped for sin. Strategically placed torches illuminated the curving paths, but left plenty of nooks and crannies in shadow, perfect for midnight trysts. Muffled laughter and the sound of rustling fabric punctuated the splash of water flowing from a grand marble fountain nestled in a private clearing surrounded by statuary and manicured box hedges.

Lord Gresham guided Julia to one of the curved marble benches at the base of the fountain. He urged her to sit.

Julia stood her ground. She’d had enough of being pushed and pulled about. “My lord, I would you would stop pressing me.”

“Now’s not the time for missishness, girl. Have a seat so I might speak with you. Come. I’ll sit beside you—”

She struggled to free herself. “Pray, let me go. I mean it, sir.”

“Miss Wychwood, you compel me to be blunt.” He grasped both of her arms. “I require a wife. An heir. And your father has assured me you’re the one to fill the role.”