“Dinner parties? No, ma’am.”
“None?”
“We live an isolated life in Yorkshire.”
“We,” she echoed before she could think better of it. Her voice sunk to a whisper. “Do you mean you and your . . . your children?”
A frown notched his heavy black brows.
At Bloxham’s he’d referred to the subject as indelicate. And it was. Julia knew it was.
She was on the verge of apologizing when he startled her with an answer.
“Yes.” His words emerged in a gruff undertone. “There are four of us altogether. Five if you count the estate’s caretaker, Mr. Beecham.”
Julia considered this information for a moment. Society gossip would have one believe that Captain Blunt had an entire houseful of illegitimate children. A half dozen or more. Instead, there were only three of them. Three.
She supposed even one illegitimate child was a shocking number. A gentleman, after all, shouldn’t have any. Still . . .
Three was a great deal more palatable than seven or eight.
“Are they all boys, your children?” she asked.
Captain Blunt raised his crystal goblet to his lips. “Not all. I have two boys, Charlie and Alfred. But my youngest is a girl, Daisy. She’ll be seven this August.”
Julia’s mouth curved in an involuntary smile.
It was hard to picture the fearsome Captain Blunt as father to a six-year-old girl. She wondered how much interaction he had with the child. Most well-to-do fathers had precious little until their children were older and better behaved.
“I expect you have a nurse to look after her,” she said.
Captain Blunt downed the remainder of his wine in one swallow. “Nothing of the kind. As I said, there are five of us in the house. No one else.”
“No servants?”
At first, he didn’t seem disposed to answer. He returned his goblet to the table, his long fingers lingering on the stem.
“It must be a large house,” Julia said.
His shoulders stiffened, as if he was bracing himself to administer a piece of unpleasant news. His scarred mouth set in a grim line. “It is a large house, and formerly a great one. But live-in servants are difficult to come by, and my estate lies on the moors, many miles from the nearest village. In poor weather, one can go weeks at a time without seeing another soul.”
She lifted her own goblet, taking a drink. “It sounds divine.”
Her response provoked an odd flicker in his gray gaze. “You think so?”
“Oh yes. A secluded estate in rural Yorkshire, far away from meddling neighbors and disapproving villagers? I can imagine nothing better.” She paused. “I don’t suppose it has a moat?”
His lips twitched. “It does not.”
“And is it, by any chance, overgrown with wild roses?”
“Ah. There you have me. It is indeed overgrown, but it’s no castle in a French fairy tale, Miss Wychwood.”
And I’m no Beast, he might have said.
Julia’s cheeks warmed. She set down her goblet, chastened. “Forgive me. My imagination often runs away with me.”
“An imagination is nothing to apologize for.”
She flashed him a rueful grimace. “You wouldn’t say so if you knew half of what I was thinking at any given moment.”
“I should give a great deal to know what you’re thinking,” he said gravely.
The warmth in her face spread to her midsection. Her corset felt at once even tighter than it had before. It made her a trifle breathless. “If you truly want to know . . .”
“I would be honored.”
“Very well. I’m thinking about how marvelous it must be to live an isolated life in the country. To wake up in the morning, knowing the day doesn’t hold another ball or dinner or musicale.”
The faint hue of amusement faded from his expression. “You sound as though you really mean that.”
“I do. Most sincerely. Which is rather ironic, since I’m destined to live the rest of my life here in town.”
Captain Blunt appeared as though he had more to say on the subject, but before he could utter another word, their conversation was interrupted by Miss Throckmorton.
“Isn’t that right, Captain?” she asked loudly. “It’s always the way when traveling by steamer ship.”
He gave Julia a long, frowning look, before reluctantly turning to answer Miss Throckmorton.
Julia was left alone with only the food on her plate to occupy her. Food that was growing colder by the second. She pushed her remaining roast beef around disconsolately with her fork.
Lord Gresham snapped his fingers at a footman. “More gravy for Miss Wychwood.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t—”
“Tut-tut, Miss Wychwood. You must finish your meal.” The earl’s cheeks were ruddy from too much burgundy. “You’ll need your strength to accompany me on the piano after dinner. Lady Holland has asked me to sing.”
Julia’s already flagging spirits sank still further.
It was difficult enough to be here as a guest, seated at the table or in the drawing room, obliged to say yes and no, and please and thank you, and to keep this infernal smile pasted on her face. But to stand in front of the assembled company? To perform on the piano while everyone watched and judged?
She took another sip of wine to fortify herself.
This was going to be a catastrophe.
* * *
Jasper sat at the edge of Lady Holland’s drawing room. His attention was fixed, along with the rest of the guests, on Lord Gresham and Miss Wychwood. The latter was seated in front of the Hollands’ square rosewood piano, her delicately tapered fingers stumbling through the accompaniment to the earl’s boisterous tenor.
She was visibly uncomfortable. A pale pink flush suffused her throat as Lord Gresham loomed over her, turning the pages of her music and intermittently correcting the errors in her playing.
He was an overbearing man. A bully, though he hid it behind a facade of paternal condescension. Jasper had seen enough of them in his lifetime to recognize the breed on sight. And Gresham had the potential to be one of the worst.
His true character manifested in the way he ignored Miss Wychwood at dinner, heaping her plate despite her objections, and in the way he subjected her to embarrassment in front of the crowd, insisting she play a song with which she was clearly unfamiliar.
Jasper’s temper rose with every fumbled chord.