Julia wondered if that was true in the captain’s own case. Could he really be as menacing as he appeared? She didn’t know to a certainty. All she knew was that, according to society gossip, he was positively dangerous—especially to marriageable young ladies.
It didn’t excuse how she’d behaved toward him at the ball.
She moistened her lips. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
He looked steadily back at her.
“When Lord Ridgeway was introducing you to me at Lady Arundell’s ball . . .” She faltered. “Perhaps you don’t remember—”
“I remember,” he said gruffly.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “Yes, well . . . I’m sorry to have run off like that. I fear I’m not at my best when meeting strangers.”
“Do you often run off during introductions?”
“Not generally, no. Not unless I suspect I’m going to swoon.” Her mouth ticked up at one corner in a rueful smile. “You wouldn’t have appreciated having to catch me.”
Something flickered behind his icy gaze. An emotion impossible to read. “You don’t know me very well, ma’am.”
Were it any other gentleman, Julia might have suspected him of flirting with her. But not Captain Blunt. His scarred countenance was as coldly serious as his tone.
Her smile faded. “No, indeed.” She tightened her fingers on the reins. “But I apologize all the same.” She inclined her head to him as she urged Cossack on in the opposite direction. “Good day, Captain Blunt.”
He didn’t return her farewell. He didn’t say anything. He only sat there atop his horse, watching her ride away.
Julia felt the burning impression of his stare at her back. And this time, she didn’t will herself to be brave. She did what she’d wanted to do since she’d first laid eyes on him.
She pressed her heel into Cossack’s side and she fled.
* * *
Jasper was half tempted to ride after her, no matter that she’d just dismissed him.
But no.
He held Quintus to a standstill as Miss Wychwood rode away. She kept to a walk for several strides before kicking her horse into a lofty, ground-covering canter. Her seat was impeccable, her gloved hands light on her reins. She had a reputation for being a good rider. And she must be one to handle a horse so obviously too big for her.
Good God. She couldn’t be more than five feet and two inches in height. A petite lady, with a gentle way about her. Had she no one to choose her a more suitable mount?
Jasper suspected not.
Her parents were well-known invalids, prone to all manner of fancies. Their elegant townhouse in Belgrave Square played host to an endless stream of doctors, chemists, and an ever-changing roster of servants.
Even Miss Wychwood’s groom was of a recent vintage—a different fellow from the one who had accompanied her three days ago. He cantered a length behind her, the pair of them disappearing into the distance.
Jasper’s frown deepened.
He’d learned many things about Miss Wychwood in the past several weeks, enough to know that marrying her and whisking her away to Yorkshire was going to be anything but simple.
Damn Viscount Ridgeway for suggesting it.
Exiting the park, Jasper returned to Ridgeway’s house in Half Moon Street. It was a fashionable address, if not an ostentatious one, tucked between the house of a rich old widow on one side and that of a well-to-do solicitor on the other. After settling Quintus in the mews with his groom, Jasper made his way up the front steps to the door.
Ridgeway’s grizzled butler, Skipforth, admitted him into the black-and-white tiled hall. “His lordship has requested your presence in his chamber,” he said as he took Jasper’s hat and gloves. “He’s breakfasting there.”
Of course he was.
Ridgeway rarely emerged from his room before ten, and then only on sufferance.
Jasper felt a flare of irritation. Not for the first time, he regretted accepting Ridgeway’s invitation to stay.
“Shall I take you to him, sir?” Skipforth asked.
“No need.” Jasper bounded up the curving staircase to the third floor. He rapped once on Ridgeway’s door before entering.
The heavy curtains were drawn back from the windows and sunlight streamed through the glass, revealing an expansive bedchamber decorated in shades of rich crimson and gold. On the far side of it, opposite his unmade four-poster bed and the silver tea tray containing the remains of his breakfast, sat Nathan Grainger, Viscount Ridgeway.
He was sprawled in a wooden chair in front of his inlaid mahogany dressing table, eyes closed as his valet trimmed his side-whiskers.
“That you, Blunt?” He squinted open one eye. “Back so soon?”
“As you see. Skipforth said you had need of me?”
“So I do. And excellent timing, too. Fennel’s just finished shearing me.” Ridgeway dismissed his valet with a wave of his hand.
Fennel, a weedy old man with a shifty expression, promptly withdrew into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him with a click.
“I require your opinion on a horse I’ve been eyeing at Tattersalls,” Ridgeway said. “Unless you have other plans today?”
“Nothing that can’t be changed. When are you leaving?”
“Presently.” Ridgeway sat forward in his chair, examining his freshly trimmed side whiskers in the glass. “What do you think?”
Jasper could detect no difference from the way Ridgeway usually looked. “I suppose they’re shorter.”
“Indeed. I despaired of them growing too full. A man wants to appear dignified, but after all, one doesn’t wish to look like the Prime Minister.”
“No chance of that.” Jasper crossed the floor to take a seat in a velvet-upholstered wingchair near the fire.
Ridgeway kept only enough servants to support a bachelor establishment. His house was, nevertheless, comfortable and well-tended—a definite improvement from the hotel Jasper had been staying at when he’d first arrived in town.
Not that he’d had much choice in lodgings at the time.
He had no family in London to impose upon. No real friends on whom he could inflict his company.
Even his connection with Ridgeway was tenuous at best.
They’d met six years ago in Constantinople—both men at their lowest ebb. Ridgeway had come to Scutari Hospital to collect the body of his younger brother, killed in the skirmish that had taken the lives of the rest of Jasper’s men.