Page 53 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

“That he’s dead?”

“For that, or . . . for any of it?”

He sank down beside her on the bench, as close to her as he’d been in the anteroom during Lady Clifford’s musicale. “Every day, every hour, I’m sorrier than I can express.”

Julia exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “You regret your conduct? I suppose that’s a start.”

“My regret is nothing new, Miss Wychwood. I’ve had years to come to terms with my past. Six long years since I returned to England.” His gaze captured hers, solemn and steady in the torchlight. “I want to tell you—and you must believe—that I came back from the Crimea a completely different man. Since that time, I have been doing my utmost to right the wrongs of the past.”

She stared up at him, the warmth of compassion stirring in her veins. “The war changed you?”

“Utterly.” His face was half-shadowed in the flickering flames, making him look very much the part of a man caught between the forces of light and darkness. “You do believe people can change?”

“I do,” she said. “I-I want to.”

“Then believe it. I am not now the man that I was then. That person—the soldier you’ve heard stories about—is dead.”

“And in his place?”

“Someone else. Someone who’s trying very hard to do the right thing in extremely difficult circumstances.”

Julia’s compassion for him grew. She was beginning to understand.

This was the reason he was committed to raising his illegitimate children. To repairing their home and restoring their birthright. He wasn’t some rogue determined to flout society. He was a changed man—a penitent man—attempting to make amends.

“Is this why you need a suitable lady at your side?” she asked.

“It is,” he said. “Very much so.”

The fountain trickled behind them in a melodic splash of water.

And Julia knew—she simply knew—that that lady wasn’t her. Not because she’d told him so, but because he’d discovered it for himself. It’s why he hadn’t come to her when she’d arrived in the ballroom. Why he hadn’t appeared to claim a dance with her or offered to bring her a cup of punch.

He’d admitted to having seen her. If he had wanted her company, he’d have sought her out. Nothing would have stopped him. But he hadn’t. Not until he’d felt honor bound to save her from Lord Gresham.

The realization should have been enough, but a small vulnerable part of herself demanded she verify it absolutely.

“How long have you been here?” she asked. “At the ball, I mean.”

“Since half ten.”

“I didn’t see you. Were you in the cardroom?”

He looked at her, something inexplicable in his eyes. “I was with Miss Throckmorton.”

Julia had suspected it already. Indeed, she had nothing to reproach him with. She’d told him they didn’t suit. Had asked him to stop pursuing her. Nevertheless . . .

His admission hit her like a blow.

Only last night she’d confessed that she wished to know him better. And he’d promised her she would.

What had changed his mind?

Was it something she’d said during their ride this morning? Some foolish remark or awkward gesture?

Or was it merely that Miss Throckmorton’s dowry was greater than her own?

Julia wasn’t aware of the exact amount the wealthy toffee heiress was worth, but it must be substantial to tempt Captain Blunt. He’d made no secret that money was his primary concern.