Couldn’t the man see that Miss Wychwood was shy and anxious in company? That she disliked being made a spectacle?
Jasper hadn’t known her above a month when he’d realized it for himself.
“Poor Miss Wychwood,” Miss Throckmorton murmured from her seat beside him. “Shall I rescue her?”
Jasper gave Miss Throckmorton a rare look of gratitude. “An excellent idea.”
Miss Throckmorton rose and walked to the piano, her skirt floating about her legs. She was a lovely young lady in her way. Poised and polished, and entirely self-assured. She leaned down to Miss Wychwood’s ear.
What she said was too soft to hear, but whatever it was, it prompted an expression of relief in Miss Wychwood’s face. Without further ado, the two young ladies switched places.
Gresham’s song faltered. He cast a hard look at Miss Wychwood as she stood from the bench in front of the piano.
“Pray go on,” Miss Throckmorton said to him, sitting down. She picked up right where Miss Wychwood had left off, continuing the song with a resounding swell of expertly played chords.
Gresham resumed singing, but there was no mistaking the cloud of displeasure that marred his brow. Miss Wychwood had disobeyed him. Not an auspicious start to their relationship.
And it was to be a relationship. Jasper recognized that much.
Gresham needed a young wife to bear him an heir, and for better or worse, he’d set his eyes on Miss Wychwood.
Why wouldn’t he?
Miss Throckmorton, Miss Bingham, and all the rest of the season’s young ladies may be polished to a shine, but Julia Wychwood was as beautiful and unspoiled as a wild rose.
No doubt Gresham thought he could tame her. Mold her into a proper countess.
Is that what she wanted? To be the wife of a wealthy titled lord?
After their conversation at dinner, Jasper had cause to doubt it. And now, watching Miss Wychwood edge her way through the crowded drawing room in search of a seat, he doubted it even more. She appeared a hair’s breadth away from losing her composure.
Damn Gresham.
Jasper stood, intercepting her as she passed his chair. “Miss Wychwood,” he said in a voice for her ears alone. “You look as though you require a breath of fresh air.”
Her hands were shaking. “I do, rather.”
“Will you permit me to escort you onto the terrace?”
“Yes, I—”
“Shh!” Mrs. Major swiveled in her seat to glare at them. She waved her lacquered fan, motioning for Miss Wychwood to either sit down or remove herself.
Miss Wychwood mutely took Jasper’s proffered arm.
He led her to the row of glass-paned French doors at the back of the drawing room. Swathed in heavy red velvet draperies, they opened onto a torchlit balcony. It ran the entire length of the house, looking down over the formal gardens below.
The evening air was cool and sweet, redolent with the fragrance of Lady Holland’s prize roses and . . .
Tobacco?
Jasper shot an irritated look to the right. Two gentlemen were huddled in the shadows, talking and smoking cigars.
Miss Wychwood didn’t seem to notice them. The moment she and Jasper stepped through the French doors, she released his arm and walked straight to the furthermost edge of the balcony. Setting her hands on the rail, she exhaled a shuddering breath.
Her face was illuminated in the torchlight—brow drawn and lips trembling. For one alarmed instant, Jasper feared she might cry.
He came to stand at her side. “Miss Wychwood—”
“I want to go home,” she said in a colorless voice.
“Of course. I’ll fetch your chaperone.” He moved to return to the house.
“No!” She caught at his sleeve. “No, please. Mrs. Major won’t permit me to leave early. Not even if I—” She broke off, shaking her head. Her hand fell from his arm, resuming its place on the rail. “It doesn’t matter.”
A swell of frustration tightened his chest. He didn’t know how to help her. How to put her at her ease. After the ordeal she’d been through at dinner and then in the drawing room, she needed more than fresh air. She needed to feel safe.
“Surely, she’ll allow it,” he said. “If I tell her you’re unwell—”
“I’m not unwell. I’m being silly.”
He made a scoffing noise.
“I am,” she insisted. “Ask anyone.”
“I don’t need to,” he said. “I can judge for myself.”
The renewed sounds of rousing piano music, and a doubly rousing tenor, drifted out from the drawing room. Some idiot must have demanded an encore from Gresham and Miss Throckmorton.
Miss Wychwood’s fingers curled tight around the rail.
Jasper was possessed by the urge to gather her up in his arms. To protect her from all this. To hold her until her breath was steady and her trembling had ceased.
A ludicrous impulse.
He couldn’t embrace her. Not here. Not anywhere.
He could do nothing but offer the support of his proximity. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder, his arm close enough to brush hers.
She smelled of lavender water and herbal soap. A fresh, clean scent. It clung to her as softly as a whisper, as intoxicatingly feminine as all the rest of her—the gentle curve of her pale shoulders, the twinkling jewels that studded her silken hairnet, and her overflounced gown, with its ruffles and ribbons and ridiculously full skirts.
Skirts that were even now bunched against the side of his leg.
A peculiar warmth pooled within him. It was all mixed up with this bloody sense of powerlessness, leaving him cross, and restless, and damnably hot under his cravat.
“Miss Wychwood . . .” His every instinct demanded action.
She gave him a wary look in the torchlight. No longer sapphire blue, next to the rich amethyst of her silk gown, her eyes had taken on a violet hue.
A bewitching sight. It provoked a thrum of longing in Jasper’s veins.
“Yes?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Did you, ah, finish your book?”
“Mrs. Marshland’s novel?” She brightened. “Yes, I did, actually.”
Some of the tension in his muscles eased.
This was how he could help her. Not by holding her. Not by carrying her off to safety somewhere. But by talking to her. By engaging her on the subject she loved most.
“What did you think of it?” he asked.