He stepped from the carriage and straightened his coat, then walked to the front steps. After a brisk knock, he waited for an answer.

In short order, the door swung inward.

“Your Grace.” The butler bowed and stepped aside to allow him entrance. “If you’ll follow me?” He indicated in the direction of the parlor down the hall and Rowles stepped after him.

In a few moments, he paused at the threshold of the parlor, his gaze taking in the scene. His heart deflated slightly as he noted that Joan wasn’t present. Morgan stood and greeted him, however.

“Rowles.” Morgan waved to a chair. “Would you like some whiskey?” He lifted his own glass of amber liquid.

“Yes, thank you.” Rowles took a seat on a settee and studied Morgan. Never had he been so ill at ease with his best friend. It was like sitting on pins or needles rather than a seat cushion.

The one question that continued to plague his mind was why? What did Morgan find so lacking in him that he didn’t consider him a suitable match for his sister? Was it, despite his words, the fear that Rowles’s mother’s malady was at work within him as well? Or was it that Morgan didn’t trust him enough to cherish Joan?

He wasn’t a monk, but he hadn’t kept a mistress nor had he dallied with the merry widows.

He was a professor of divinity; he knew the parameters God had set up for men, and he’d honored them.

He wasn’t one to teach and not implement the same facts in his own life, knowing that to do such was the greatest hypocrisy.

But all this reflection didn’t answer the pressing question.

Morgan handed him a crystal glass filled with whiskey, not meeting his eyes. It was on the tip of Rowles’s tongue to ask him, to speak the burning question aloud, but soft footsteps distracted him.

Turning his head, he noted the understated entrance of Joan.

The whiskey glass balanced in his hand, he stood and bowed at her entrance, drinking in the sight of her.

She was resplendent in a pale lemon-yellow dress, her skin glowing, but her eyes and smile were what captivated him.

His lips burned to feel hers, to taste the soft velvet of her mouth and know her flavor.

Blinking back the tempting thought, he greeted her. “Lady Joan.”

“Your Grace.” She curtsied and turned to her brother.

Rowles noted the way her brows puckered ever so slightly, as if concerned. “Morgan.”

“Joan.” He nodded his greeting.

The tension was thick, and Rowles was uncertain if he should try to dissipate it or allow it to run its course between the siblings.

It turned his stomach sour to think that he was the reason for the rift between them.