“Headache?” Joan asked, remembering the aftereffects of her brother’s drinking from an earlier escapade.
“Severe,” was his only reply.
The duke relaxed, and Joan noted the way the room seemed to shift back to normal, the tension unwinding like yarn from a ball.
Joan giggled softly and then turned to the duke. “Speaking of virtues…” she said with a laugh.
“A well-placed verbal spar. I concede defeat on that point. But you must admit, my challenge goes unopposed.”
Joan narrowed her eyes playfully. “Very well, I will concede that one cannot make a statement about excess being universally malignant.”
“You made a very convincing argument,” the duke said.
Joan’s cheeks heated at his words, since the statement was coming from someone who would certainly know about worthy debates. Surely he’d seen his share of brilliant students and ideas in his time at Cambridge; he was likely one of those brilliant minds. The compliment washed through her all the way to her toes, far more than if someone had called her beautiful.
The duke had praised her mind, her intelligence, the intangible things that didn’t fade with time.
“Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his look. There was such warmth there, captivating her. So many times she looked at people to uncover things, or to find the truth, but in this moment nothing was required of her. Everything he had said was true, and she was basking in the glow of it all. His body language said even more than his words.
“Does that mean this theological discussion has ended? Please say yes.” Morgan’s words broke the spell, and she turned away, wondering how long she’d been staring at their guest.
She hazarded a peek back to him, observing the way he glanced from Morgan to her, likely noting the same thing she had, Morgan’s closed eyes. Never before had she been so thankful for a headache. If Morgan had seen her behavior, he would certainly have questions.
Questions she wasn’t ready to answer yet.
Because she wasn’t sure of it herself.
But one thing was for certain.
This conversation, this precious half hour of time, was more enchanting and tempting than all of the hours spent with her potential suitors. Which left her with one question, the one she was most afraid to answer.
Was she fascinated by the duke? Or was this what it felt like when one fell in love?
Nine
Rowles wiped one hand down his face as he thought back over the events of the morning. What had begun as the worst sort of way to start a day—apologizing and looking after a friend he’d assaulted—ended with the brightest conversation he’d had in an age.
Joan didn’t only see through to one’s soul, she bloody well interpreted what she saw as well. Her premise was brilliant and well defended. And he took the challenge as a way to tease her, test her, and see a little into that wit he’d enjoyed when they’d waltzed. And she’d not only risen to the challenge but done so brilliantly and with such articulate prowess. She was enchanting.
But good Lord. When she’d called him Professor… Hopefully, he’d collected himself quickly enough, though she was painfully observant, and she might have caught on to the expression on his face. For his mind had taken a seductive turn, and abruptly so, catching him wholly off guard. He’d liked her calling him Professor. He’d liked it far too much, and it had taken concentrated effort to school his features and keep his wits about him. She was a temptation he hadn’t expected and wouldn’t soon forget. Even now he was anticipating seeing her again, which only led to further problems. He’d mended his friendship with Morgan. It wasn’t the time to ask permission to court his sister.
Good heavens. He could only imagine the fight that would possibly follow. And that didn’t bode well for a potential suitor.
Rowles decided to wait, test, and see if perhaps Joan had felt the same sort of attraction. He had time, and if there was nothing on her end, no need to alert Morgan. It was a long stretch, he reminded himself. Joan had a plethora of suitors clamoring for her attentions, and he wasn’t necessarily included in their ranks, at least officially.
It wasn’t worth destroying a friendship for a possibility. But he could still ask for a dance, could he not? He’d already waltzed with her. Rowles thought back to Morgan’s original description of him.
Safe.
He felt anything but safe at the moment, not after enjoying her lively conversation, and certainly not after hearing her call him Professor.Safewas not an accurate word. It had taken severe restraint on his part not to cross the room and kiss her right then and there, in front of the bloody housekeeper, God, and everyone.
And for the first time, Rowles felt dangerous. But in the way the gothic romance novels portrayed the tragic hero. Black eye and all.
He could play the part.
It was a little too close to home anyway.
An ill mother, a title that weighed heavily on him, a love interest that was completely out of reach, and a hero with nothing to lose but his best friend.