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“There is nothing I can do about that.” Julian chuckled. “You are quite taken with the lady. I am certain you can persuade her that you are the better match.”

“You are quite sure you have no interest there?” Brookmire tilted his head. “We have all been acquainted these many years, and — ”

Julian held up a flat hand. “Pray, desist. Miss Galbraith is pleasing enough, but I have no thought of pursuing her. If you wish to, you have my blessing and gladly.”

A grin broke across Brookmire’s face, and Julian sighed inwardly. There were a hundred handsome young ladies in London, and his brother had fixed upon the one who did not return his regard. He supposed matters of the heart did such things to a man, though he had no experience of it himself.

“Capital. Then we forget Stoneleigh House and Miss Trent — for this one night.” A twinkle came into his brother’s eye. “Or you shall, at least.”

“I have not attended a ball in some while.” Julian inclined his head. “Perhaps you are right. One evening’s respite from the matter will do no harm.”

Brookmire spread his hands, as if presenting the whole glittering room for his brother’s consideration. “There are a great many suitable young ladies here. And we are both aware that you must settle on a match soon enough. You hold the title. You owe the line an heir. Whatever I do about Miss Galbraith, it is your future that signifies.”

Marriage was a practical matter; Julian did not pretend otherwise. Yet just now the thought of it felt remote and gray beside the sharp, fresh absence of Stoneleigh House. “It is not the moment,” he said. “I cannot give my mind to Miss Trent and to courtship both at once. The house is the more pressing of the two.”

“True enough.” Brookmire’s gaze wandered the room. “Though it cannot be put off forever.”

Julian tipped his head a fraction, wondering whether his brother spoke of the house or of himself. Before he could ask, a familiar voice cut across them.

“Carrington? Is that you?”

A broad smile came to Julian’s face, the first true one of the evening. He clasped the Earl of Yarmouth’s hand. “Yarmouth! It has been an age.”

“Far too long.” His friend nodded to Brookmire. “You are both well, I hope?”

“In body, well enough,” Brookmire answered before Julian could. “In mind, perhaps a good deal less so.”

“Oh?” Yarmouth’s smile dimmed.

“There is some frustration on my brother’s part, and on mine, for his sake.” Brookmire shook off the warning press of Julian’s hand. “You will have heard, no doubt, that Lady Warrington left her great London house to a young lady who is no relation to her at all?”

Understanding crept across Yarmouth’s face. “Ah. I had heard there was something curious in the will. I did not know it concerned the house.” He looked at Julian. “That must have been a hard blow.”

“It was.” Julian gave a grim smile and let his gaze drift across the room, and there it caught, and held.

Miss Viola Trent had just come in upon her sister’s arm. The candlelight found her chestnut hair and deepened it to copper where it was gathered at the nape of her neck. Her gown was plain beside the silks around her, a pale blue, unadorned save for a little lace at the throat, and her gloved hands were clasped tight before her, as if she might fly apart should she let them go. Then she lifted her head, and her clear brown eyes came directly to his, and widened to find him already watching.

His heart struck hard against his ribs. He pulled his gaze away, heat climbing his neck at being so plainly caught.

“It seems everyone is watching her,” Yarmouth murmured.

It was true. Julian let his eyes move over the room and found scarcely a head not turned her way — some openly curious, some sliding their glances sidelong behind a fan. He looked back at Miss Trent. Her shoulders had drawn up, a rigidity setting into her frame. She felt the weight of all those eyes. He had no doubt of it.

“She has the look of a rabbit set down in a field of hounds,” Brookmire said, a thread of unkindness in his voice and in the curl of his lip. “And no notion of how to run.”

“She is afraid.” The words were out of Julian before he had decided to say them. “Surely that much we can all understand.”

A small silence. Yarmouth glanced at Brookmire and back again.

Julian cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is that her fear is plain enough, and reasonable. I am not yet acquainted with the lady, but — ”

“Though you must be, if you are to settle the matter of the house.”

Julian shot his brother a look and turned pointedly back to Yarmouth. “As I was saying — I saw her only yesterday, in the middle of London, overwhelmed near to fainting by the attention she had drawn. It is no small thing, to be made a spectacle of overnight.”

Yarmouth gave a low, gruff sound of agreement. “Yes. I should think it most unnerving — the more so for being unexpected.” Then he straightened. “Wait a moment. Is that Lady Manion beside her? Is Lord Manion here as well?”

Julian looked at him, surprised. “You are acquainted with the lady?”