She lifted her own goblet, taking a drink. “It sounds divine.”

Her response provoked an odd flicker in his gray gaze. “You think so?”

“Oh yes. A secluded estate in rural Yorkshire, far away from meddling neighbors and disapproving villagers? I can imagine nothing better.” She paused. “I don’t suppose it has a moat?”

His lips twitched. “It does not.”

“And is it, by any chance, overgrown with wild roses?”

“Ah. There you have me. It is indeed overgrown, but it’s no castle in a French fairy tale, Miss Wychwood.”

And I’m no Beast, he might have said.

Julia’s cheeks warmed. She set down her goblet, chastened. “Forgive me. My imagination often runs away with me.”

“An imagination is nothing to apologize for.”

She flashed him a rueful grimace. “You wouldn’t say so if you knew half of what I was thinking at any given moment.”

“I should give a great deal to know what you’re thinking,” he said gravely.

The warmth in her face spread to her midsection. Her corset felt at once even tighter than it had before. It made her a trifle breathless. “If you truly want to know . . .”

“I would be honored.”

“Very well. I’m thinking about how marvelous it must be to live an isolated life in the country. To wake up in the morning, knowing the day doesn’t hold another ball or dinner or musicale.”

The faint hue of amusement faded from his expression. “You sound as though you really mean that.”

“I do. Most sincerely. Which is rather ironic, since I’m destined to live the rest of my life here in town.”

Captain Blunt appeared as though he had more to say on the subject, but before he could utter another word, their conversation was interrupted by Miss Throckmorton.

“Isn’t that right, Captain?” she asked loudly. “It’s always the way when traveling by steamer ship.”

He gave Julia a long, frowning look, before reluctantly turning to answer Miss Throckmorton.

Julia was left alone with only the food on her plate to occupy her. Food that was growing colder by the second. She pushed her remaining roast beef around disconsolately with her fork.

Lord Gresham snapped his fingers at a footman. “More gravy for Miss Wychwood.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t—”

“Tut-tut, Miss Wychwood. You must finish your meal.” The earl’s cheeks were ruddy from too much burgundy. “You’ll need your strength to accompany me on the piano after dinner. Lady Holland has asked me to sing.”

Julia’s already flagging spirits sank still further.

It was difficult enough to be here as a guest, seated at the table or in the drawing room, obliged to say yes and no, and please and thank you, and to keep this infernal smile pasted on her face. But to stand in front of the assembled company? To perform on the piano while everyone watched and judged?

She took another sip of wine to fortify herself.

This was going to be a catastrophe.