“Not a bit of it.” He tightened his grip. “If you must step out into the garden, I’ll accompany you—and happily so.” He propelled her toward the terrace doors. “I’ve a word or two to say to you in private.”

Jasper escorted Miss Throckmorton to a seat at the edge of the ballroom. The polka had enlivened her features. She looked flushed and pretty. Entirely unobjectionable. Any gentleman would be honored to partner her for a dance. To fetch her refreshments or to take her into supper.

He reminded himself of that fact for what felt like the hundredth time.

“How serious you look,” Miss Throckmorton remarked as she sat. “Are you not fond of dancing?”

“Fond enough to accept Lady Clavering’s invitation,” he said.

What choice had he?

His visit with Sir Eustace had dealt him a devastating blow. Indeed, on leaving Belgrave Square, Jasper had felt as though he’d come face-to-face with another patrol of enemy soldiers. Only this time, he hadn’t prevailed. This time, the enemy had given him a thorough and merciless kicking.

He’d emerged onto the street, scarcely registering the sound of a footman calling after him as he strode off in the direction of Half Moon Street. His emotions in turmoil, he was halfway to Piccadilly before he’d realized that he’d forgotten his gloves.

It had been the least of his problems.

Returning to Ridgeway’s house, Jasper had shut himself up in his room, as brooding and sullen as any rejected lover, until—through sheer force of will—he’d once again resigned himself to his task.

He’d come to London to find an heiress. It wasn’t for his own inclination. It was for the children. For the estate. He had no choice in the matter.

If Julia Wychwood was beyond his reach, then Miss Throckmorton and her fortune would have to do.

That hadn’t stopped him from searching the crowd for Miss Wychwood this evening.

He’d caught a glimpse of her during the polka. She was dancing with the Earl of Gresham, her expression shuttered, as if she’d withdrawn somewhere inside herself. A secret place filled with books and horses and endless expanses of verdant green countryside. Somewhere far away from the overwhelming crush of London.

It isn’t your concern.

And it wasn’t. He couldn’t involve himself. Setting his shoulders, he refocused on the lady before him.

“But you’re not enjoying yourself,” Miss Throckmorton said. “That’s plain to see.”

“I rarely wear my feelings on my sleeve, ma’am,” he replied.

“Indeed. It’s part of your charm. Still . . . One wonders why you came.” She opened her painted fan, wafting it in front of her face with a thoughtful air. “Surely, it wasn’t on my account.”

He couldn’t answer her. Not truthfully. Instead, he forced a smile, certain it must look more like a rictus of pain. “May I bring you a cup of punch?”

Miss Throckmorton’s own smile dimmed. “Thank you, yes. I am rather parched.”