The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(7)

He could manage well enough for himself.

Entering the room, he kept to the back wall. Papered in pale green watered silk, it was adorned with evenly spaced gas wall sconces. Some gentlemen stood in the gaps. Some young ladies, too. Wallflowers, by the look of them. They dropped their eyes as Jasper moved past them, whispering to one another as soon as they thought him out of earshot.

“That awful scar!” one of them breathed.

“Have you ever seen anything so horrible?” her comrade breathed back in a dramatic undertone.

“And that’s not the worst of it. I heard . . .”

Jasper kept walking until the whispers faded away. He knew full well what he looked like. And he knew even better what people said about him. About how ruthless the notorious Captain Blunt had been in the Crimea.

God knew it was true enough.

Had Miss Wychwood heard such rumors? She was certain to have heard something.

He hadn’t seen her yet. He wasn’t confident she would be here. During the last month, she’d been expected at several events he’d attended, only to beg off at the last moment because of illness or indisposition.

His gaze drifted over the crowd. There were benefits to being tall. When standing, he could easily see over the rows of seated ladies and gentlemen. If Miss Wychwood was here, she wouldn’t be sandwiched in the middle of the audience. And she wouldn’t be exposed in the front row. She didn’t like crowds. And she didn’t like drawing attention to herself.

No. If she was here, she’d be nearest the exit. That much better to make her escape.

And that’s exactly where he found her.

She was seated in a chair in the third row from the front. On her left were the open doors of the drawing room, flanked by two liveried footmen, and on her right was the newly widowed Earl of Gresham. A heavily bewhiskered gentleman well past his fiftieth year, the earl had the look of a stout country squire. He was leaning over her, whispering something in her ear.

Her head turned as she listened, revealing her beautiful face in profile—the lustrous ebony hair, a dark arching brow, and the strong line of her straight nose and elegantly sculpted cheek and jaw.

Jasper’s pulse quickened the instant he laid eyes on her.

She wore a dark blue dress that exposed her pale throat and softly rounded shoulders. Some elaborate silk confection with fringe and ribbon bows. It shimmered in the gaslight, the color of the sea at midnight. The same shade as her eyes.

It was wholly unsuitable.

Much like Miss Wychwood herself.

The more he knew of her, the less he could envision her living at Goldfinch Hall. Even less could he imagine her acting the part of mother to Charlie, Alfred, and Daisy.

As if any lady of quality would ever consent to such a thing.

He would have to find another wealthy woman to marry. Someone who was less gently bred. Less sheltered and refined.

Less beautiful.

He was running out of time. He hadn’t needed Charlie’s letter to remind him. Jasper knew full well what was at stake. The burden of his obligations was ever present.

Marriage was the only solution.

All he needed was a likely candidate. Someone he could woo and wed with all speed. A distasteful business, but a necessary one.

Ridgeway was sure to know of another lady who might suit. Until then . . .

The music stopped and the crowd burst into a swell of restrained applause.

Jasper’s thoughts were wrenched back to the present. He tore his gaze from Miss Wychwood.

Hell and damnation.

Had he been staring? Staring and scowling like some miserable cur fretting over a bone? He grimaced at the thought, even as he joined in the brief round of applause for the two young ladies on the dais.

They curtsied and withdrew, smiles and blushes on full display. Lady Clifford took their place. Known for her keen interest in the arts, she was always hosting some sort of musicale or dramatic evening. Like many events of the season, they largely served as thinly veiled showcases for young ladies on the marriage mart.

“A fine effort by Miss Lydiard and Miss Bingham,” Lady Clifford said. “For our next performance, Miss Rumple will grace us with an air on the harp. Miss Rumple?”

An angelic young lady dressed all in white ascended to the dais. She curtsied to the audience before seating herself at the harp.

Her anemic performance was followed by that of one eligible young miss after the other, all expensively coiffed and clad. They sang and played in solos and duets, songs performed in German and Italian, in soprano and contralto.

Jasper remained standing against the back wall of the drawing room, arms folded across his chest. Among all the young ladies, he saw none to stir his interest. They were pretty enough, to be sure, and doubtless they all boasted respectable dowries. That should have been his foremost concern. His only concern.

And it was.

He required money to replace the roof at Goldfinch. Money to repair the years of rot and neglect. If he could manage to set the whole of the estate back on the right track, in five years’ time, it might be self-sufficient. All it required was an influx of capital.

As for the rest of the business, wedding and bedding some suitable heiress—a lady with no friends or relatives to interfere—he’d simply have to steel himself and get on with it. He didn’t have to like the girl, let alone be attracted to her. Many men married for mercenary reasons. It was the way of the world among the upper classes.