“Aren’t you a professor? I’d think proving someone incorrect would be part of your daily work.”
“Do you think so little of those who taught you to make such a claim? No. Rather, I’m often proven incorrect. But the difference is, I appreciate the opportunity to learn. While your brother appreciates the opportunity to prove himself right.”
“Ah, I see the difference,” she replied, then tipped her head as she studied him. Her scrutiny was piercing, as if she were seeing right through him and reading his very soul. The sensation of being evaluated didn’t sit well with him, and his cravat seemed tight as he swallowed. When people studied him in such a way, they usually were looking for some link to his mother, some thread of the infirm in his features, expression, or mien.
“You’re a good friend, Your Grace. My brother is lucky to have you.” She looked away, her cheeks graced by a becoming hint of pink that hadn’t been present a few moments ago. But there was a spark in her eyes, as if she wanted to say something but chose to withdraw.
Testing his theory, Rowles pressed her. “There was something more you wished to say, wasn’t there?” He added a teasing lilt to his tone, even though his heart beat strangely in his chest.
“You read people well, Your Grace.”
“I’ve had to learn. It’s part of the weight of the title.”
“I believe that.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“But it relates to it.” She hitched a shoulder, adjusting her hand on his upper arm. “I’m afraid it’s personal, and it’s not my place.”
“And now I’m more curious,” he answered.
“I suppose I did not put myself in a winning position, arousing your curiosity by attempting to dodge the question.”
“For one so astute, you did miss that repercussion,” he teased.
“Ah, this is true. Don’t tell my brother. He will pester me mercilessly,” she answered, a giggle interrupting.
“Ah, that is another thing I wouldn’t have expected from you, seeing as you have an older brother.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“You gave me ammunition,” Rowles answered, a smirk spreading across his lips. The movement was so natural he nearly missed it, but joy seeped into his soul, calming his restless spirit ever so slightly.
“Ah, and what makes you think I did that unwittingly? If I’m as astute as you say, wouldn’t it follow that I didn’t miscalculate my words but chose them intentionally? What have you to say to that theory, Professor?”
His blood heated at her flirtation. Hearing her call himprofessorwas oddly erotic, and he tamped down his instinctive response. She was Morgan’s younger sister, and her brother was trusting him to be a “safe” choice for her first waltz.
He felt anything but safe at the moment. Rather, he was certain that if Morgan knew the inner temptation Rowles was currently fighting, he’d have a facer to show for it come morning.
“Hmm?” Joan asked again.
“You’ve still not answered my question.” Rowles turned the conversation, needing some sort of distraction.
Her flirtatious expression faded into a more serious one. Ice chilled his veins as she met his eyes unflinchingly. “Are you sure you wish to know?”
An odd foreboding tickled his senses, but not one to back down, he nodded. The music ended, yet he held her for a moment longer, waiting.
Joan released a breath, then leaned in ever so slightly and whispered, “You’re not.”
Frowning, Rowles tipped his head in confusion. “I’m not…what?”
She paused, as if weighing her words with great care. “You’re not…your mother.”
Shock laced through him, and he released her from the frame of their waltz. It took a moment, but he pulled his wits about him and offered her his arm as they walked back toward her brother in silence.
“I was afraid I would say too much,” Joan murmured. “I apologize.”
Rowles slowed his steps slightly as he replied. “No apology necessary. Rather, thank you. You’ve said the very thing everyone—save your brother—has avoided speaking about in my presence. And…I believe you. Thank you.”