Jasper shrugged on his coat. “I heard you.”

“You asked for an alternative to Miss Wychwood and I’ve found you one. A tad less polished perhaps—”

“Am I likely to care about that?” Jasper asked crossly.

“No need to bite my head off,” Ridgeway said. “All gentlemen care. A wife should be an ornament to one’s masculine pride. But any fellow can make allowances, given the right inducement.”

Jasper felt a flash of irritation. But he couldn’t argue with Ridgeway’s logic. Money was required for the estate. For Charlie, Alfred, and Daisy. It’s why Jasper had come here. Not for sentiment or self-gratification. Certainly not for romance.

It didn’t matter that Miss Wychwood was sweet and beautiful. That her eyes lit up like polished sapphires when she discussed her favorite novels—novels written by J. Marshland of all people.

If there was ever a sign that Jasper should give up on the very idea of her, that had surely been it.

And she wanted him to give up. She’d told him point-blank not to pursue her. To continue to do so would make him no better than a rogue.

Besides, a man didn’t have to be smitten by a young lady in order to court her. Marriage was a business transaction. All that was wanted was a necessary incentive.

And Miss Throckmorton’s forty thousand pounds was nothing if not incentive.

Julia plucked at the set of pearl-sized buttons on the wrist of one of her evening gloves. She was seated on a jade velvet settee in Lady Holland’s spacious drawing room next to two other young ladies—Miss Throckmorton and Miss Bingham. Side by side, the full skirts of their respective dinner dresses billowed against each other in a rainbow of amethyst silk, Eugenie-blue grosgrain, and apple-green poplin.

Miss Throckmorton and Miss Bingham were angled toward each other, engaged in animated conversation. They were both younger than Julia. Not more than nineteen, if she was to guess, and possessed of all the enthusiasm of being in their first season.

Julia knew them only a little. A consequence of having been guests at so many of the same parties. But they weren’t her friends. She had nothing in common with either girl. For one thing, they were neither of them the least bit ill at ease. Not even Miss Throckmorton, an heiress to a fortune her late father had accumulated in trade. One might think she’d be self-conscious of the fact. Instead, she was brimming with confidence, poised in both her speech and her manner.

“I was finished in Paris,” she said in answer to a question from Miss Bingham. “Papa spared no expense.”

“Paris!” Miss Bingham sighed. “I haven’t been in ages. But my gown was made in Paris.” She fluffed her ruffled skirts. “Mama ordered it specially.”

Julia smoothed her hands over the skirts of her own gown—a dark amethyst silk trimmed with bands of plaited black ribbon. It wasn’t especially flattering to either her complexion or her figure. For that she’d need to employ a new dressmaker. Someone like her friend Evelyn’s beau, Mr. Malik. His designs were stunning to behold. A marvel of cut, fabric, and color, they fit a lady like a custom-made kid glove, making her the envy of all who saw her.