Page 32 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

Holding the candle aloft in her left hand, Mary pulled the quilted coverlet on the bed back with her right. She waited as Julia climbed in. “Aye. True enough. But it’s our lot as women, ain’t it? If I were you, I’d thank my lucky stars the earl had taken a fancy to me. He’s better than most men. Richer, too.”

Julia settled back against her down pillows. The four-poster’s heavy draperies were already drawn on three sides, making her bed feel as warm and safe as the den of a woodland animal. “But what about love?” she asked. “What about romance?”

“With who? Not that Captain Blunt fellow?”

Julia’s pulse gave a rebellious flutter.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of him standing next to her on the terrace. The size and strength of him. It had been a little like being next to Cossack. That bone-deep sense of safety and security garnered from being aligned with a larger, more powerful animal.

But Captain Blunt was no animal. He was a man.

A big, virile man who—unless she had mistaken him—was going to meet her for a ride in the park in the morning.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

Mary tucked her in. “You’re overtired, you are. Worrying your head about romance, when you’ve a perfectly good gentleman paying court to you.” She drew the bed-curtain, engulfing Julia in darkness. “Sleep, now. I won’t have you looking tired at the ball tomorrow.”

The ball.

Julia had been trying not to think of it.

It would be her third evening engagement without her friends. Another night of dressing up and making a spectacle of herself, alone and exposed, with no one to stand at her side.

But Captain Blunt would be at the ball, wouldn’t he?

She nestled deeper into her bed, comforted by the thought of him. By the very real possibility that he would be there for her. Not a hero, it was true, but not quite a villain, either. Something in between, perhaps.

Someone who made her feel a little less lonely.

Jasper reined Quintus in the moment he caught sight of Miss Wychwood riding down Rotten Row.

She was wearing the same black riding habit and veiled hat as on the last occasion they’d met in Hyde Park. An unbecoming shroud of fabric, but—to her—a necessary one. He comprehended that now. She didn’t want to be seen.

For her, invisibility meant safety. It was why she preferred solitude to the excitement of the crowd. Why she disappeared into empty rooms rather than staying where there was music, singing, and dancing.

Being alone wasn’t the same as being lonely, she’d said.

Damned if he hadn’t understood exactly what she meant. Even so . . .

Good God.

He’d never met a young lady so ill-suited for town life.

After all, what was the London season if not a stage on which eligible young ladies were kept on endless display? Paraded here and there for the benefit of every interested individual? It wasn’t a system set up for sensitive females. Delicate creatures like Miss Wychwood, with anxious minds and romantic hearts.

How in the world was she to thrive in such a charged environment? How was she to breathe?

Surely, it would be a mercy to marry her and take her back to Yorkshire with him.

Or so he’d been telling himself ever since they’d parted last night.

Goldfinch Hall was no palatial estate, but there, at least, she could have a little freedom. And if the price of that freedom was somewhat steep . . .

Well.

Such was the fate of beautiful young maidens who put themselves in the path of villains.

“Captain Blunt,” she said, bringing her black gelding to a halt.