He rose from his desk and called for a footman to ready his carriage, then thought better of it. Penderdale House wasn’t far, and he needed to move, to walk, to have a moment of fresh air. He would look to the future, and that future held one woman—Joan. He desperately wanted to see her, hear her voice, revel in the intelligent conversation and kind spirit that had utterly taken his soul captive. In a word, he needed her. Collecting his hat, umbrella, and coat, he stepped out the door and started down the elm-lined street toward Grosvenor Square.

As expected, the light English rain was cleansing and refreshing, wiping the air of all the soot and dust and leaving a gentle fragrance in its wake. The leaves of the elms quivered as the small drops landed on them, a soft pattering noise following his progress as the rain touched the sidewalk. In less than fifteen minutes, he paused in front of the Penderdale door, knocking once.

The butler answered quickly, stepping aside to allow him entrance. “Your Grace.”

Rowles nodded his appreciation. “Is Lady Joan receiving callers?”

With a nod, the butler led the way to the library. Rowles followed, his heart quickening with anticipation. He stepped into the well-lit room, and his soul immediately found peace as he took in her tender look.

“Your Grace,” she said, welcoming him, and approached from her perch on a chair. “I’ve been concerned. How are you?” She lifted an arm, perhaps to offer comfort, but drew back as if having second thoughts.

Instinctively, he reached out and grasped her withdrawing hand, capturing it and lacing their fingers together as he pulled her a few inches closer. It wasn’t exactly proper, but he didn’t care. In two weeks, they would be married and he could hold her, kiss her, and love her whenever he chose.

If that wasn’t heaven, he wasn’t sure what was.

Joan squeezed his hand. “I’ll have to adjust to being allowed to touch you, Your Grace.”

“Rowles, if you please.” He lifted her hand and kissed it softly. “I trust you’ll make the transition smoothly. I shall give you abundant practice,” he replied with a teasing grin. “It comforts my heart, seeing you.”

“I’ve been worried,” Joan confessed. “How are you, truly?”

Rowles shrugged. “As well as can be expected. I’m fighting more against my relief than my sorrow, and my guilt for feeling that way.”

Joan’s expression grew sympathetic. “You shouldn’t bear guilt for such feelings.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t make them less real.”

“Indeed. Is there any way I can help?” she asked, gesturing to a sofa and inviting him to sit. “Would you like tea?”

Rowles followed her to the sofa and took a seat beside her, thankful for the allowance of being so near her; betrothal had its benefits. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”

Joan rang for tea.