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…especially from themselves.

But the Duke of Westmore was different.

Oh, there was confusion and uncertainty—that was clear in his expression, in the way his eyes scanned the room for those judging him, in the way he held his back perfectly straight as if daring any accusations to try to hit a target—but he wasn’t intentionally trying to hide his soul.

It was as if he’d been at peace with it.

But there was one tightening of his expression that bespoke of a concern, a hint of pain that ran deep.

Fear.