But she wasn’t.

Perhaps she’d never been.

And if she wasn’t safe here, where would she be safe? She had nowhere to go. No relations to take her in. Not even her friends could assist her. Not in any substantial way. Anne, Stella, and Evelyn had their own battles to fight.

Julia would have to fight her own battles, too. A daunting prospect. Though not an impossible one. She had a vague idea where she could begin.

“Forty thousand pounds,” she murmured. It was a generous sum for a dowry, but not as sizable as Julia had feared. Her eyes drifted shut, her pulse slowing to a crawl in the oppressive heat of the room. “I wonder if he knows . . .”

Fourteen

The day after the Claverings’ ball, Jasper made the hour-long journey to Richmond Park in company with Lord Ridgeway. Lady Desmond was hosting a picnic there, and guests were expected to arrive by noon. Most of fashionable society would be in attendance, Miss Throckmorton among them.

“The weather’s clear, thank God,” Ridgeway remarked as they disembarked from his carriage. “Last picnic I attended, we had all of thirty minutes to eat before the rain started. A dashed nuisance. And I’d brought my curricle, too.” He tapped the closed body of the coach with his silver-topped walking stick. “Lesson learned.”

Passing through the gates, the grounds of the park spread out before them. Formerly a royal hunting preserve, it was nearly ten miles in circumference, studded with ancient trees, glistening waterways, and antlered deer grazing peacefully on the grassy slopes.

Jasper settled his hat on his head. He’d worn a black suit, just as he always did. He was in the minority. Most of the gentlemen present had favored sack coats and garish plaid trousers. The ladies, by contrast, were in soft whites and pastels, with flowing skirts and wide bell-shaped sleeves. His gaze slid over them.

She wasn’t here.

“Try not to look so disappointed,” Ridgeway said under his breath as they trudged onward. “The ladies will take offense.”

Jasper cast him a dark glance.

He was in a dangerous mood. Since returning from the ball last night, he’d been unable to think straight. Unable to sleep or even to breathe without the overwhelming weight of his unhappy situation bearing down on him.

It was intolerable.

On rising this morning, he’d saddled Quintus and gone for a bruising ride in Hyde Park. He’d told himself it wasn’t because he hoped to see Miss Wychwood. And yet he’d looked for her all along Rotten Row. She hadn’t been there.

And now she wasn’t here.

A fact that made him want to roar with frustration.

Damn and blast it all to hell.

What had he been thinking last night? As soon as he’d known her dowry was out of reach, he should have let the thought of her go. He’d had years of practice in forgetting. In hardening his heart against all finer feeling.