“Don’t you look dandy with your chapeau bras.”
“No more so than you,” Morgan countered.
The air buzzed around them, and Joan glanced about, noticing the whispers and attention their little party was drawing.
Blast theTattlerfor making such a story concerning her friendship with the duke.
Or at least she hoped they still had a friendship. It seemed so…strained at the moment.
The duke had regarded her once and then kept his attention on her brother, as if choosing to be near her but not engage her in conversation.
Oh, how she missed their conversations.
“Tell me, Your Grace, how have you been?” she asked, wanting his attention, needing to see his expression and know what lurked in its depths.
“I’m afraid I’ve been terribly busy. We’ve made some adjustments in the estate and I’m to travel soon, so it’s consumed much of my time.” He met her eyes unflinchingly.
“I hope nothing is amiss?” Joan inquired, then regretted her invasive question. But rather than apologize, she waited to see how he would answer.
“Well, I think the best answer is to say it’s all being addressed, Lady Joan.”
Joan almost corrected him playfully, but then remembered their setting and nodded.
Someone approached from her side, and she turned, curtsying to a bowing Lord Archby. “Lady Joan, may I have the next dance?”
Joan nodded and offered her dance card. She noted his selection of the cotillion. Archby had been one of her first callers, and she studied him with curious interest as he bowed to the duke and her brother, then took his leave.
“Archby is still scratching at the door,” Morgan whispered softly.
Joan’s face heated as her look flashed to the duke. Rowles was engaged in conversation with another gentlemen beside him and had apparently missed the entire interaction.
Disappointment filtered through her.
He truly wasn’t interested in her, then.
She didn’t wish for such an answer, but the unknown was far worse than the known.
With renewed interest, she offered shy looks to several other gentlemen, all of whom approached her and asked for dances as well. As the music for the cotillion began, she departed for the dance floor on the arm of Lord Archby.
Joan didn’t need to force a delighted expression as she enjoyed the dance, since Archby was an excellent dancer. He even offered to procure her some lemonade after the dance.
“It’s awful, but if it will allow me one more moment to stand by your side, I’ll do what I must,” he said with a flirtatious smile.
“When offered in such a way, how could I refuse?” she flirted back, thankful for the distraction.
The evening progressed, and she danced, ate, and chatted, all with the duke nearby but never truly engaging her unless absolutely necessary.
It was awkward, stilted, and dreadful.
The final dance was a waltz, and no one had requested it, likely because her brother stood nearby, a silent sentinel of protection.
“I don’t believe this dance is spoken for?”
Joan turned to the duke, her brow furrowing in confusion. He’d hardly spoken to her, and now he wanted the most intimate dance? What sense did this make?
She had the inclination to refuse him, but in truth, she didn’twantto say no. She wanted to feel his hand at her waist. Her fingers itched to rest upon his shoulder, and her ears burned to hear his voice.
“Of course,” she whispered.