“It is always a boon to have a duke in attendance, but I think she shall recover.” He gave a chuckle, but it was sad, mournful in nature. “Give my apologies to Joan. Please, I’ve already had one miscommunication with her, and I do not wish for this to be an additional one.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Morgan promised. “Until later.” He bowed and took his leave.
Rowles watched his friend’s retreat and sighed deeply, his bones weary as if sensing a hopelessness that threatened to overtake him.
It was for the best.
He knew it.
Didn’t he?
Fourteen
The poor folk gladly came to me, for I did them no unkindness, but helped them as much as I could.
—Joan of Arc, fromThe Trial of Joan of Arcby W.S. Scott
Joan had received no fewer than five callers that afternoon, but the one caller she sought did not appear. Lord Goodman was attentive, and his light-blond hair was combed in the utmost fashion, but as she conversed with him, he kept reminding her of someone else.
Only lacking the conversational skills of said person.
One could only talk about the weather and hounds for so long.
And her disappointment continued when her brother conveyed the news that the duke wouldn’t attend the evening’s ball. He assured her it was nothing to do with their escapade that afternoon at the park.
Yet she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it did.
The evening at the ball was lovely, perfect, if one viewed it from the outside. But appearances were often deceiving, so while she danced the cotillion, she appeared cheerful and serene on the outside, but her heart was heavy.
While she sipped orgeat and admired the flowers along the refreshment table, she was reliving the earlier events of the day and berating herself for her blunders.
And while she waltzed with Lord Goodman, she wished another’s arms held her.
It wasn’t till the carriage ride home that Morgan questioned her silence.
“It was a lovely evening, was it not?” he asked, clearly probing for information.
Joan’s contemplation strayed from the window. “It was as expected, yes.”
When she didn’t elaborate, Morgan continued. “I saw you waltzed with Goodman.”
Joan nodded. “He called this afternoon as well.”
“Then I shall check my sources to ensure he is as good a man as his name suggests.”
“If you wish,” Joan replied, uninterested. She twisted her lips and met her brother’s eyes. “Did the duke mention anything that would give you reason to think he was angry with me?”
Morgan sighed. “Joan, this hasn’t anything to do with you.”
“It feels as if it does,” she muttered.
Morgan chuckled. “Why does that not surprise me?” He reached across the carriage and patted her hand. “Leave it be. You have to focus your efforts on a match… You said so yourself at the beginning of the season. I thought we agreed that you’d release this…attachment…to the duke.”
“Easier said than done, I’m afraid.”
Morgan sighed. “I don’t know what more to say, Joan.”
“Has he truly not said anything about me?”