Had he wished to, he could have easily overpowered her.

He didn’t.

She was nonetheless overwhelmed by him. A prisoner to sensation; the ridged scar on his lip, the heat of his body, and the curve of his gloved palm cradling her face.

Knees trembling, she lifted her hand to clutch weakly at the lapel of his black evening coat. Her touch seemed to bring him back to his senses.

He broke the kiss, his chest expanding once, twice, as if—like her—he had difficulty getting enough air into his lungs. “There,” he rasped, bringing his forehead to rest gently against hers. “Is that a first kiss worthy of remembering?”

Julia inhaled a tremulous breath, taking in the delirious scent of him—bergamot shaving soap, clean linen, and the spice of warm male skin. Her own body was hot all over, her face awash with blushes. Good Lord. Captain Blunt had kissed her! Their first kiss.

And their last.

Moisture pricked at the backs of her eyes. It was silly to be so affected. But what lady wouldn’t be to have shared such a kiss with such a man?

“I shall remember it for as long as I live,” she said.

“So will I, Miss Wychwood,” he vowed softly. “So will I.”

Thirteen

The trouble with an unforgettable kiss was that, within a startlingly short period of time, remembering it wasn’t enough. Julia was no sooner back in her bedroom in Belgrave Square than she was consumed by thoughts of repeating the experience.

Her foolish heart couldn’t accept that it was never going to happen again.

But it wasn’t.

It couldn’t.

Henceforward, all Captain Blunt’s kisses belonged to Miss Throckmorton.

As Julia sat in front of her dressing table, head bent for Mary to brush her hair, a sickening jealousy sank its claws into her soul.

She was unaccustomed to the sensation.

It wasn’t in her nature to be jealous of anyone. Not young ladies who were prettier than she was, or who had experienced more of life. She prided herself on being a good friend. On being genuinely happy for those of her acquaintance more fortunate than she was herself.

But not now. Not at this moment.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Mary remarked. “And here I thought you’d be chattering my ear off about the ball.” She ran another stroke of the brush through Julia’s hair. “You’re not really ill, are you?”

“I don’t know,” Julia said. She certainly felt poorly.

It’s what she’d told Mrs. Major anyway.

After parting ways with Captain Blunt in the garden, Julia had returned to the house in search of her chaperone. She’d found Mrs. Major at the edge of the ballroom, all atwitter over Lord Gresham’s departure.

“Quite a to-do,” she’d said. “The earl over imbibed. He’s gone home in a cab.”

“I’d like to go home, too,” Julia had said. “I’m not feeling at all well.”

In the Wychwood family, there was no statement more powerful than one intimating ill health. Even Mrs. Major had snapped to attention. The earl had left his carriage at their disposal. She’d wasted no time in bundling Julia into it and seeing her straight back to Belgrave Square.