“Have you, Miss Wychwood?” Miss Throckmorton asked.
Julia turned to her. “I beg your pardon?”
“We were speaking of Paris,” Miss Bingham said. “Miss Throckmorton asked if you’d been there recently?”
“I have not,” Julia said. “I’ve never been out of London.”
“Never?” Miss Throckmorton was aghast. She was a tall, dignified young woman, with seal-brown hair drawn back in a tight cluster of ringlets. A strand of lustrous pearls hung from her neck. “How can that be?”
Julia explained, “My parents don’t like me to stray far from home. They rarely leave town themselves, except to take the waters in Bath.”
“You don’t go with them?” Miss Throckmorton asked.
“Oh, they don’t go together,” Julia said. “One always remains behind, and me along with them.”
“Miss Wychwood’s parents are both ill,” Miss Bingham said. “And Miss Wychwood, too, on occasion.”
“A pity,” Miss Throckmorton murmured. “You’re not unwell now, I hope?”
“You do look a little green,” Miss Bingham said.
Julia expected she did. She had no desire to be in a crowded drawing room. The setting provoked the worst of her anxiety. All the people huddled in groups, whispering and chattering, and exchanging dry witticisms.
How did they come up with them? All those droll remarks and witty rejoinders. Did they memorize them in advance?
Julia couldn’t imagine how it would work. Not for her, anyway. When confronted by a clever stranger, most times she couldn’t remember her own name, let alone some amusing scrap of rehearsed dialogue.
“Miss Wychwood?” Miss Throckmorton prompted, a trace of irritation in her voice. “Are you all right?”
“I’m very well. Only . . .” Julia flashed a glance about the room. Mrs. Major was still by the exit, as immovable as a sentry. But there was no one near the curtained French doors that led onto the terrace. “This room is a trifle close. If you’ll excuse me. I might just step outside.”
She moved to rise, but was forestalled by the arrival of a gentleman.
It was Viscount Ridgeway.
He was a familiar figure in London society. A handsome golden-haired gentleman, with a calculating air about him. The sort of man who enjoyed making sport of bluestockings and wallflowers. Ladies like Julia who were awkward and tongue tangled in company.
Indeed, it was he who had first presented Captain Blunt to her.
Stomach tensing, she sank back into her seat.
“Ladies.” Lord Ridgeway sketched them an elegant bow. “Please don’t get up. I haven’t come to interrupt your conversation.”
Miss Bingham blushed and batted her lashes. “Why have you come, my lord?”
“To impose on Miss Throckmorton.” He addressed her as if Julia and Miss Bingham had ceased to exist. “You look charmingly this evening, ma’am.”
“I thank you,” Miss Throckmorton replied.
“May I introduce you to an acquaintance of mine?” Lord Ridgeway gestured to someone in the crowd. “Lady Holland has informed me he’s to be your partner at dinner.”
“Oh?” Miss Throckmorton followed Lord Ridgeway’s gaze.
So did Julia.
It was Captain Blunt. He came toward them, looking as solemn and soldierly as he had at Bloxham’s.
Her heart performed a disconcerting little somersault.
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.”