He turned and lifted her hand, then kissed it softly.

She parted her lips and gave a slight gasp at his words. And as if heaven were listening and writing the narrative, the strains of the waltz began to play, signaling his dance with her.

“May I?” He inclined his head toward the dance floor.

She nodded, wordlessly agreeing as he escorted her among the swirling dancers. Again, his body unwound from any earlier tension as he pulled her close, a feeling of home centering him.

“You needn’t worry,” she said as they danced.

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, from Joan of Lorraine by 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.