Damn Gresham.

Jasper stood, intercepting her as she passed his chair. “Miss Wychwood,” he said in a voice for her ears alone. “You look as though you require a breath of fresh air.”

Her hands were shaking. “I do, rather.”

“Will you permit me to escort you onto the terrace?”

“Yes, I—”

“Shh!” Mrs. Major swiveled in her seat to glare at them. She waved her lacquered fan, motioning for Miss Wychwood to either sit down or remove herself.

Miss Wychwood mutely took Jasper’s proffered arm.

He led her to the row of glass-paned French doors at the back of the drawing room. Swathed in heavy red velvet draperies, they opened onto a torchlit balcony. It ran the entire length of the house, looking down over the formal gardens below.

The evening air was cool and sweet, redolent with the fragrance of Lady Holland’s prize roses and . . .

Tobacco?

Jasper shot an irritated look to the right. Two gentlemen were huddled in the shadows, talking and smoking cigars.

Miss Wychwood didn’t seem to notice them. The moment she and Jasper stepped through the French doors, she released his arm and walked straight to the furthermost edge of the balcony. Setting her hands on the rail, she exhaled a shuddering breath.

Her face was illuminated in the torchlight—brow drawn and lips trembling. For one alarmed instant, Jasper feared she might cry.

He came to stand at her side. “Miss Wychwood—”

“I want to go home,” she said in a colorless voice.

“Of course. I’ll fetch your chaperone.” He moved to return to the house.

“No!” She caught at his sleeve. “No, please. Mrs. Major won’t permit me to leave early. Not even if I—” She broke off, shaking her head. Her hand fell from his arm, resuming its place on the rail. “It doesn’t matter.”

A swell of frustration tightened his chest. He didn’t know how to help her. How to put her at her ease. After the ordeal she’d been through at dinner and then in the drawing room, she needed more than fresh air. She needed to feel safe.

“Surely, she’ll allow it,” he said. “If I tell her you’re unwell—”

“I’m not unwell. I’m being silly.”

He made a scoffing noise.

“I am,” she insisted. “Ask anyone.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I can judge for myself.”

The renewed sounds of rousing piano music, and a doubly rousing tenor, drifted out from the drawing room. Some idiot must have demanded an encore from Gresham and Miss Throckmorton.

Miss Wychwood’s fingers curled tight around the rail.

Jasper was possessed by the urge to gather her up in his arms. To protect her from all this. To hold her until her breath was steady and her trembling had ceased.

A ludicrous impulse.

He couldn’t embrace her. Not here. Not anywhere.

He could do nothing but offer the support of his proximity. Standing there, shoulder to shoulder, his arm close enough to brush hers.

She smelled of lavender water and herbal soap. A fresh, clean scent. It clung to her as softly as a whisper, as intoxicatingly feminine as all the rest of her—the gentle curve of her pale shoulders, the twinkling jewels that studded her silken hairnet, and her overflounced gown, with its ruffles and ribbons and ridiculously full skirts.