As they reached Morgan, Rowles bowed and offered Joan’s arm to her sibling. Thanking her for the dance, he went to stand beside Morgan as another young buck came to collect her for the next round of the cotillion.
As she walked onto the dance floor, Rowles watched. And when her attention darted over her shoulder and met his look, he took a deep breath, unsure what odd sensations were fighting for dominance within him.
Only when he heard Morgan’s sharp intake of breath did he break his stare from Joan to find Morgan’s eyes intent upon him.
Seeing too much.
Rather than face his friend’s questions, Rowles took control of the conversation. “She’s perceptive.”
Morgan froze, then gave a jerky nod. “She is that.”
“It’s…refreshing. You’ll have your hands full with suitors.”
“Are you a prophet as well as a professor now?” Morgan asked tightly, but the stark suspicion faded from his expression.
“In this, yes,” Rowles admitted. Then he patted his friend’s back. “Best of luck with that.”
Morgan’s expression bordered on hostile, but then he turned to face his friend fully. “Tell me, then. Will you be one of them?”
Rowles took a step back in surprise. “Pardon?”
“Should I expect you to come calling at the social hour with sonnets and flowers?”
Rowles noted the sarcastic tone to his friend’s voice and sobered. “Judging by your tone, you already know the answer to that.”
Morgan narrowed his eyes, but didn’t press his friend further.
For that, Rowles was thankful, because the truth would have been a lie, one way or another.
Because he wasn’t sure of the answer.
Because half of him was intrigued.
The other half was terrified.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone saw through him so clearly. And that begged the question: If she looked closely, what would she see?
And did he want to know?
Sometimes demons were better left buried, rather than faced and set free.
Four
It had been too far.
She’d known it, but he kept pressing her for the answer and now all she had was regret. They had been having such a lovely waltz, her first one, and with a duke no less. But she’d ruined it by looking too deeply and seeing too much. Hadn’t she learned? People hid things for a reason; they didn’t want others to know. And just because she could observe and make assessments based on various traits she’d studied in her research didn’t mean she should tell others what she saw when evaluating them.
Did it?
Joan tossed in her bed, unable to find a comfortable position in the midst of her mental turmoil. It had been the perfect evening, save that one trespass. The lights and music were dazzling, and her dress was ethereal and angelic—several gentlemen had said as much. And each and every dance had been partnered. The event was a success in every way, except for her ability to keep her thoughts to herself.
Maybe her brother was right; maybe she wasn’t quite ready.
Yet, even as she berated herself, part of her wasn’t sorry at all. If there was one thing she’d learned in her study, it was that people often went to great lengths to hide the truth.
Even…especiallyfrom themselves.
But the Duke of Westmore was different.