Julia gritted her teeth. It was their second dance of the evening. One more and they may as well announce their engagement to the world. The earl certainly seemed keen enough.
Already well in his cups when he’d arrived to collect her, he’d sat beside her in the carriage, clutching at her hand and talking at her décolletage the entire journey from Belgrave Square.
Seated across from them, Mrs. Major had only smiled complacently, so satisfied in her success at helping to engineer a great match that she’d willfully ignored both the earl’s behavior and his inebriated condition.
A condition that had only grown worse as the evening progressed.
Parched by the heat of the ballroom, Lord Gresham had been making free with the unending supply of punch provided by footmen who circulated the floor offering cups on silver trays.
He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. But his cheeks were ruddy and he was gripping Julia with a clumsy strength. She couldn’t get loose of him. The more she wiggled, the tighter he grasped.
A grim foreshadowing of what their life together would be like.
Julia hadn’t accepted it yet, but she recognized the signs. The walls were closing in on her. Or perhaps they already had and she was only now beginning to realize the full extent of her captivity.
She saw no means of escape. Not even Captain Blunt provided her any hope. For one thing, there was his past to contend with. And for another, he wasn’t even here. At least, he didn’t appear be.
Which didn’t mean he hadn’t come.
The sheer density of the crowd made it impossible to locate anyone. At any given moment, people were flowing from one room to the next, clogging the halls before spilling out into the drawing room or cardroom, or onto the terrace.
Julia wished she had as much freedom. If she did, she’d run straight out into the garden. Into the darkness and the fresh evening air. She wouldn’t stop running until she was alone. Until Lord Gresham and Mrs. Major and all the rest of them were too far away to catch her.
“Miss Wychwood?” Lord Gresham inquired loudly.
She blinked, bringing the earl’s face back into focus. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said you must save me the waltz.”
Julia recoiled at the prospect.
Mercifully, the music came to a close before she was obliged to reply. His lordship released her, bowing. It was a short reprieve. Only a fraction of a second of freedom before he took her arm again to guide her from the floor.
“It’s the supper dance,” he said. “We can dine together afterward.”
“Oh no. I can’t think of dancing again, or of dining. Not until I’ve had a breath of air.” She tugged her arm in a fruitless attempt to extricate herself. “If you would please excuse me.”
“Not a bit of it.” He tightened his grip. “If you must step out into the garden, I’ll accompany you—and happily so.” He propelled her toward the terrace doors. “I’ve a word or two to say to you in private.”
* * *
Jasper escorted Miss Throckmorton to a seat at the edge of the ballroom. The polka had enlivened her features. She looked flushed and pretty. Entirely unobjectionable. Any gentleman would be honored to partner her for a dance. To fetch her refreshments or to take her into supper.
He reminded himself of that fact for what felt like the hundredth time.
“How serious you look,” Miss Throckmorton remarked as she sat. “Are you not fond of dancing?”
“Fond enough to accept Lady Clavering’s invitation,” he said.
What choice had he?
His visit with Sir Eustace had dealt him a devastating blow. Indeed, on leaving Belgrave Square, Jasper had felt as though he’d come face-to-face with another patrol of enemy soldiers. Only this time, he hadn’t prevailed. This time, the enemy had given him a thorough and merciless kicking.
He’d emerged onto the street, scarcely registering the sound of a footman calling after him as he strode off in the direction of Half Moon Street. His emotions in turmoil, he was halfway to Piccadilly before he’d realized that he’d forgotten his gloves.
It had been the least of his problems.
Returning to Ridgeway’s house, Jasper had shut himself up in his room, as brooding and sullen as any rejected lover, until—through sheer force of will—he’d once again resigned himself to his task.
He’d come to London to find an heiress. It wasn’t for his own inclination. It was for the children. For the estate. He had no choice in the matter.
If Julia Wychwood was beyond his reach, then Miss Throckmorton and her fortune would have to do.
That hadn’t stopped him from searching the crowd for Miss Wychwood this evening.
He’d caught a glimpse of her during the polka. She was dancing with the Earl of Gresham, her expression shuttered, as if she’d withdrawn somewhere inside herself. A secret place filled with books and horses and endless expanses of verdant green countryside. Somewhere far away from the overwhelming crush of London.
It isn’t your concern.
And it wasn’t. He couldn’t involve himself. Setting his shoulders, he refocused on the lady before him.
“But you’re not enjoying yourself,” Miss Throckmorton said. “That’s plain to see.”
“I rarely wear my feelings on my sleeve, ma’am,” he replied.
“Indeed. It’s part of your charm. Still . . . One wonders why you came.” She opened her painted fan, wafting it in front of her face with a thoughtful air. “Surely, it wasn’t on my account.”
He couldn’t answer her. Not truthfully. Instead, he forced a smile, certain it must look more like a rictus of pain. “May I bring you a cup of punch?”
Miss Throckmorton’s own smile dimmed. “Thank you, yes. I am rather parched.”
He took his leave of her. A footman with a tray of punch glasses hovered near the doors to the terrace. Making his way toward him, Jasper couldn’t help but cast about the crowd once more in search of Miss Wychwood.
As always, his height was an asset. He found her almost at once.
Wearing a steel-blue gown cut low off her creamy shoulders, she was exiting through the terrace doors on Lord Gresham’s arm. She glanced back into the ballroom, her expression faintly desperate. Gresham didn’t falter. He tugged her out along with him, seemingly against her will.
Every nerve in Jasper’s body sounded a warning.
Good God. What was Gresham up to?
He moved to follow after them, all thoughts of Miss Throckmorton and her cup of punch forgotten.