she was unable to think of a single syllable of conversation to break the silence.
‘What did I say to make you poker up so?’ he enquired, placing her hand on his arm and strolling towards the buffet. Julia followed, chiding herself for being so meek. But just how did one snub a rake? ‘Have a glass of champagne, Miss Tresilian, and explain how I have offended you.’
‘You haven’t,’ Julia lied.
‘Nonsense, you were looking highly disapproving, like one of the chaperones. You must tell me or I will not let you go and ten minutes in my company is all your reputation will bear.’
‘You are outrageous,’ Julia said, alarmed, annoyed and illogically inclined to laugh.
‘I know. I did warn you.’ They halted by the buffet where footmen were pouring wine from bottles standing in long ice troughs.
‘You remarked on my gown,’ she admitted, twitching the gauze as though that would transform it into a creation from the pages of La Belle Assemblée.
‘I complimented you upon it,’ Major Carlow corrected her, handing her a flute of sparkling wine.
‘Sarcastically.’ Julia took a sip and sneezed. ‘Oh dear, I do not usually drink this.’
‘Then you must have some more and become accustomed.’ He took a bottle and topped up both their glasses. ‘You thought me sarcastic? I meant nothing but honest admiration. That style suits you.’
‘It would seem that your appreciation of gowns encompasses a wide range of styles, Major Carlow.’ Julia glanced down at her wine glass in alarm. It was empty, which could be the only excuse for such a remark. He was silent. Julia risked a glance up through her lashes. He was smiling, although whether that made it better or worse she had no idea.
‘Horses for courses, Miss Tresilian. Or in this case, gowns to suit personalities. You represent virtue most charmingly. Another lady may better represent…freedom.’ He reached for her wine glass; she held tight to it, but his fingers lingered.
‘Even when that lady is married?’ she asked, suddenly reckless, goaded by his touch. And jealous, she realized, appalled at herself. Which was insanity. The other day this man had yielded to a gallant impulse and saved her from annoyance. That did not change the fact that he was nothing but trouble for any virtuous woman. He was probably deliberately provoking her.
Major Carlow shrugged, still amused. Presumably cross and indiscreet virgins were an entertaining novelty for him. ‘If her husband does not build good fences, he must expect poachers in his coverts.’
‘Really, Major! Ladies are not game birds for you to bag,’ she snapped.
‘I am sorry to disillusion you, Miss Tresilian, but for some, it is always open season.’
‘Well, I am sorry for you then,’ she declared roundly. ‘For when you are married, you will have to spend all your time building your own fences and worrying about poachers. Poor woman,’ she added with feeling.
‘But I have no intention of marrying, Miss Tresilian. I have an elder brother already doing his duty by the family name, so your sympathy for my imaginary bride is quite unnecessary.’
‘I am certain she would do you a great deal of good.’ For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of bitterness in the mocking eyes.
Julia found she wanted to cry. Here she was at her very first ton party and not one of the respectable men of easy circumstances her mother dreamed of had exchanged so much as a sentence with her. And what was she doing? Bandying words with Hal Carlow, who was the last man in Brussels she should be seen with. No-one respectable was going to talk to her now, and she had lowered herself to discuss quite shocking subjects with him.
‘You disappoint me, Miss Tresilian.’ And indeed, the amusement had gone from his eyes and there was a distinct hint of storm clouds back again. ‘I did not think you one of those ladies who believes that all rakes are capable of redemption and that it is their duty to try to accomplish that.’
‘Redeem you?’ Did he mean what she thought he meant: that she expected him to fall for her? That she wanted to reform his wicked ways, to have him run tame at her command? ‘You, Major Carlow, may drink yourself under the table, fall off horses and break your limbs, gamble until your pockets are to let and dally with married ladies until an enraged husband shoots you, for all I care.’ She thrust her wine glass back into his hand. ‘And, should you survive all that, I will pity you, because you will end up a lonely man, realizing just how empty your rakehell life is.’
That was a magnificent parting line, she told herself, sweeping round and stalking off without the slightest idea where she was going. It would have been rather more effective without the crack of laughter from behind her.
The reception room had been thrown open into a gallery running the length of the rear of the house with views south out over the ramparts towards the Fôret de Soignes. Now, late at night, a few lights twinkled from amidst the dark blanket of trees.
‘A splendid position, is it not?’ a voice beside her asked. ‘Of course, it is not good for security. The Capel household were burgled the other day by rogues with a ladder from the ramparts.’
‘Oh, how unfortunate.’ Julia pulled herself together and turned to find a sombrely dressed man of medium height and with mouse-brown hair standing at her side. ‘But the walks on the ramparts are very charming unless it is windy.’
‘I beg your pardon for addressing you without an introduction,’ the man continued. ‘Only there seem to be none of the chaperones within sight, and it does seem so awkward, standing here pretending we cannot see each other. I should leave.’
‘I am sure we can pretend we have been introduced,’ Julia said. How refreshing, a respectable gentleman who was worried about polite form. ‘I am Julia Tresilian.’
‘Thomas Smyth.’ He bowed, Julia inclined her head. ‘Are you a resident of Brussels, Miss Tresilian?’
‘My mother and I have been here for some months, Mr Smyth.’
‘A charming city. I am touring and had hoped to visit Paris, but that is out of the question now. I shall have to return home without that treat, I fear.’
‘Wellington will defeat Bonaparte,’ Julia said, mentally crossing her fingers, ‘and then you may return.’
‘I doubt I will be at liberty. In August, I take up a living in a parish in Suffolk.’ As Mr Smyth turned to face her, she saw he had calm hazel eyes and nondescript features. With his unassuming manner, he exuded a feeling of tranquil commonsense.
‘You are a clergyman, sir?’
‘A most fortunate one. I was a scholar, with little hope of advancement, then my godfather secured me the patronage of an old friend of his and I find myself with the most delightful country parish. It will be lonely at first, I have no doubt, to be a bachelor rattling around in a large vicarage.’
Julia murmured something polite, her mind racing. Was Mr Smyth, on the strength of two minutes’ conversation, telling her that he was available? Surely not.
‘Perhaps, if I were to find your chaperone, we could be properly introduced?’ he asked. ‘I have hired a horse and curricle
