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.”

“He is. Though he seemed to be a little stronger today.”

“I’d have said he was worse. I’ve asked my personal physician to look in on him. The least I can do, all things considered.”

Before Julia could ask what he meant, a footman in scarlet livery appeared at the drawing room door to announce that dinner was served.

Lady Holland rose from her chair. She was a curvaceous dark-haired widow of thirty-odd years, newly out of mourning. The golden thread of her elegantly embroidered dinner dress glistened in the gaslight. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would follow me.”

She led the way into a high-ceilinged, silk-papered dining room. On one side was a cavernous marble fireplace. On the other, a line of liveried footmen stood at the ready in front of a grand mahogany sideboard. The long dining table was adorned with clusters of roses and greenery, and ablaze with candlelight. Dancing flames sparkled in the crystal goblets and reflected in the polished-silver serving dishes.

The guests entered in order of precedence. Lord Gresham and Julia were among the first. She glanced back at the line of couples behind them. Near its end, Miss Throckmorton was on Captain Blunt’s arm, looking remarkably at home there.

Julia felt a peculiar twinge in her midsection. What kind of twinge, she wasn’t certain. It couldn’t be jealousy, could it?

But no.

She wasn’t some dog in the manger, to covet a gentleman she’d already rejected.

At least, she didn’t think she was.

“Lady Holland was careful to seat us near the fire.” Lord Gresham maneuvered Julia to her chair, pulling it out for her. “There’ll be no drafts to trouble you here.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She sat down, carefully arranging her full skirts. The seat on her right belonged to Lord Gresham. And on her left . . .

The thick cream-colored place card bore the name of Captain Blunt.

She scarcely had time to register it before he was there, a great gruff presence, appearing as if she’d conjured him. He filled up the space beside her, broad and tall and heart-clenchingly dangerous.

Her already trembling insides vibrated like a tuning fork.

She chanced a shy look up at him through her lashes.

He returned it, unsmiling. “Miss Wychwood,” he said. “It seems this seat belongs to me.”

Six

Julia wasn’t a proponent of tight lacing. On leaving the house that evening, she’d been cinched only snugly enough to fit into her dinner dress. Nevertheless, after an endless succession of rich cuisine forced on her by Lord Gresham, she could feel the rigid bones of her corset digging into her flesh.

“We’ve opened up my house in Grosvenor Square for year-round occupancy,” his lordship said from his seat beside her. “I mean to host a dinner myself next month. Perhaps you’ll see fit to act as my hostess.”