He tipped his chin in query.
“You’re a brilliant man. You’ll figure it out.” Her lips bent secretively and she inched closer, as if giving a hint at the meaning of her words.
Rowles’s hands memorized the feel of her frame, while his mind studied the pressure of her hand on his shoulder, the loving look of her eyes, and the upturned bow of her lips as they danced.
He wanted to say something but restrained himself, not wishing to break the spell of the moment. So, remembering what she’d said earlier about reading the honesty in his eyes, he unshuttered his soul and met hers unflinchingly.
And rather than turn away from the rawness of it, she looked back like she loved what she saw. As if it answered questions she hadn’t asked.
As if it soothed her soul the same way it soothed his.
And he wondered what she saw there, deep within him.
And for the first time, he wondered if maybe…maybe it was enough.
He might not be the best man.
But perhaps, his love might be the best love.
Twenty
Sometimes people believe in little or nothing, nonetheless they give their lives to that little or nothing. One life is all we have, and we live it as we believe in living it, and then it’s gone. But to surrender what you are and live without belief—that’s more terrible than dying—more terrible than dying young.
—Joan of Arc, fromJoan of Lorraineby Maxwell Anderson
Standing at the front gate of the Foundling Hospital, Joan waved at Miss Bronson’s coach as it pulled to a stop. Miss Bronson stepped down from the carriage and adjusted her skirt. With an amused smirk tipping her lips, she made her way to where Joan waited.
Joan waved, her mind alight with curiosity. What was Miss Bronson thinking?
“Interesting evening, was it not?” Miss Bronson said by way of greeting as she looped arms with Joan and they started toward the front entrance.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Joan asked playfully.
Miss Bronson gave her a look. “Only that I’m friends with the future Duchess of Westmore.” She gave her brows a wiggle.
“Miss Bronson!” Joan hushed her, even as her heart pounded at the thought—rather the hope—that she’d scarcely let herself dwell on. “That’s gossip.”
“That’s what anyone with eyes saw last night. Do you know, when he danced with me…” She lowered her voice and Joan leaned in. “I actually asked him if he was distracted.”
“No, you did not,” Joan said, shock rocking her to her core.
“Yes, because while he is an excellent dancer, I thought he might run into me because his eyes weren’t on anything butyou.”
“I was on the edge of the ballroom.”
“I know,” Miss Bronson said with gleeful emphasis. “And beside your brother, who, I might also add, is a delightful dancer. It was very kind of him to ask. Is he attached?”
Joan’s forehead pinched at the sudden shift in topic. “Er, no. He’s not… Well, it will be some time till he takes a wife, I’d imagine.” Joan thought over his work, work that could be of the dangerous sort, and thought Morgan was disinclined to add any woman to that equation.
“That’s a pity.” Miss Bronson sighed. “He’s enchanting and quite handsome.”
“He has his moments,” Joan allowed, still not fully ready to forgive him.
“You’re his sister. That’s quite a different perspective, I’d imagine.”
“Yes,” Joan said, her focus on the opening door as Corinne stepped out and welcomed them.
“Good morning, ladies! I’m so pleased you could come today. We had several new arrivals and two ladies who will meet with prospective employers later this week, so it’s quite an eventful day.”