Julia swallowed a morsel of roast beef. It stuck in her throat. She hastily washed it down with a sip of wine from her crystal goblet. “Your hostess?” She endeavored not to choke. “I don’t think that would be very appropriate.”

“There’s nothing more appropriate, my girl, under the circumstances.”

It was the second time the earl had alluded to these mysterious circumstances. Given his recent visit to Belgrave Square, Julia suspected the worst.

“And what circumstances are those? If you mean—” She broke off as Lord Gresham motioned the footman to bring her more roast. “Please, my lord. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Nonsense. You require feeding up. We must have you healthy, Miss Wychwood.”

Julia quailed at the sheer amount of food already on her plate. She had a large enough appetite, to be sure, but she’d never been comfortable gorging herself in public. Much like everything else she enjoyed, overindulging was better done in the privacy of her bedchamber. There, tucked in bed with a novel, she’d often laid waste to an entire box of chocolates.

But Lady Holland’s packed dining room, with its flickering candlelight, clinking crystal, and hum of fashionable conversation, was a far cry from Julia’s curtained four-poster in Belgrave Square. How could she enjoy anything with so many people around?

She grudgingly speared a piece of potato on the tines of her fork, only half listening to Lord Gresham’s descriptions of the renovations to his London residence.

If this was what the future held for her, she didn’t know if she could face it. Year after year, wed to some aging nobleman, the entirety of her life lived under his constant scrutiny.

And not only his.

All of London society would be watching and judging. It was the very essence of town life. Julia knew that better than anyone. She’d been born here and had spent every day of the last two-and-twenty years a veritable prisoner in her parents’ house. Marriage was to be her one means of escape, and even that was merely exchanging one prison for another.

“What do you say to that, Gresham?” The elderly lady seated on his lordship’s right commanded his attention.

Julia exhaled, glad for the reprieve, however brief. Lowering her uneaten forkful of potato back to her plate, she dared another look at Captain Blunt.

Throughout dinner, she’d heard the intermittent murmur of his deep voice in low conversation with Miss Throckmorton.

But he wasn’t talking to Miss Throckmorton now. Like Lord Gresham, the young toffee heiress was occupied with the person on her opposite side, leaving Captain Blunt temporarily at his leisure.

His frost-gray eyes met Julia’s. “Miss Wychwood.”

Her heartbeat quickened. “Captain Blunt.”

For a taut moment, neither said another word.

Julia was the first to break the silence. It was either that or risk him turning his attention back to Miss Throckmorton. “This is a merry party, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He continued to regard her with the same quietly appraising look.

She was certain he must think her very strange.