“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 him professor was 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.”

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.”