The person she’d found fascinating.
But as she endeavored to fill her dance card, she had a thought.
Perhaps he didn’t find her fascinating enough in return.
Seventeen
It had been a week.
Seven days since he’d seen both Morgan and Joan, and it had bloody well felt like a year.
Rowles had stayed true to his word and kept away from the social scene, which had somehow led to further speculation about his mother, as was evident in a recentTattlerarticle.
What once was simmering has now cold, and this is most regrettable. It was excessively diverting to watch the Lady J with the duke, but alas, the duke has once again retreated into seclusion. One has to wonder why. Could it be because his mother’s condition has worsened? Or perhaps it’s because the duke follows her path as well…
Rowles reread the article and then crumpled the sheet in his hands. He tossed it into the fire, watching it catch and then burn to ashes. It was symbolic in so many ways.
How much of his life had been reduced to ash because of his mother? And like the article he’d burned, he had no way to stop the progression of the fire’s hunger as it continued to consume parts of his life.
He returned to his study and lifted the gold letter opener, sliding a finger along the edge, flirting with the point. He sighed and put it down.
“Your Grace, Lord Penderdale is here to see you,” the butler announced with a bow.
Rowles nodded, unsurprised he hadn’t heard the butler’s arrival; he’d been far too caught up in his thoughts of late to pay attention to small things like the comings and goings of servants.
“Show him in,” Rowles directed, his curiosity piqued, followed by a slow dread that crept through his bones.
Was Morgan coming to release him from exile, and if so, was it because Joan had found a suitor?
Rowles swallowed tightly and waited as his friend strode into the room, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Good morning,” Morgan said by way of greeting.
“Is it?” Rowles asked, then pointed to a chair.
Morgan took a seat and watched him. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like it, too. Thanks for noticing,” Rowles answered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Morgan studied him, his posture relaxing. “Have things not improved with your mother?”
Rowles let out a long sigh. “Indeed not. And as far as she is concerned, I’m dead to her. A lovely thing, that.”
“I’m sorry, old chap.”
“It seems there is nothing I can do about that, so it is what it is.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to ask about Joan, but doing such would only feed his insatiable appetite for her. Better to leave it, unless Morgan brought it up.
And if he brought her up in conversation, would it mean she was spoken for?
Rowles suppressed a physical reaction to such a thought.
He was protecting her by staying away, by keeping himself from being an option. This was the mantra he had rehearsed and recited over and over, a litany and a prayer that kept him rooted at home.
Away from her.
Because the only thing that could be stronger than his pull toward her was his drive to protect her.
Even if it meant from himself.