If I ever do escape, no one shall reproach me with having broken or violated my faith, not having given my word to any one, whosoever it may be.

—Joan of Arc

Joan had finished breaking her fast and was walking down the hall when the butler answered the door. Curious, she lingered to see who was paying a visit at such an unsociable hour. It must be some emergency or pressing business, perhaps from the War Office? Her thoughts tumbled as she walked toward the door to see what was transpiring.

“The earl is not at home, Your Grace,” the butler replied, looking quite uncomfortable at turning down a duke, if his posture were any indication.

Joan stepped forward. “Ah, Your Grace,” she greeted, then hesitated upon noticing the purplish bruise circling his eye. “Merciful heavens,” she said breathlessly, then collected herself. “Come in, won’t you?” She turned to the butler. “Please have tea sent into the red parlor, along with Mrs. Hiddleman.” The housekeeper would serve as chaperone.

“Right away, my lady,” the butler replied and left to do her bidding.

“Will you follow me?” Joan asked, gesturing to the hall.

“Thank you,” the Duke of Westmore replied softly.

Joan silently led him to the east-facing parlor. Early-morning sunshine filtered through the sheer curtains and filled the room with light, making the red settee and chairs seem to glow. “Will you sit? Tea will be in shortly,” she said conversationally.

“Thank you,” the duke repeated.

After Joan took a seat, she leaned forward. “So, who looks worse? You or my brother?”

The duke blinked, then the tips of his ears flushed with color as he sighed. “That is the nature of my early social call, Lady Joan.”

“Ah.” She offered pleasantly, “That is an interesting shade of purple.”

He chuckled. “I thought I looked dashing and dangerous, like a pirate.”

Joan giggled softly. “Certainly like a pirate. And my brother will look like one, too, I’m assuming?”

“Possibly. Though he tends to bruise less than me. Unfair if you ask me, since I usually won the fistfights.”

Joan shook her head. “And what caused the altercation?” She leaned back into the settee.

The duke paused, his amused expression shifting to uncertainty. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. What I think we were fighting about doesn’t seem to be the real reason. Not that any of this makes sense.” He shrugged. “Nonetheless, we shouldn’t have come to blows.”

“No, you probably shouldn’t have. You’ll both cause talk, and somehow I’m sure Morgan will find a reason for it to come back to me.” She sighed.

“Pardon?”

Joan worried her lip, torn between wanting to tell the truth and not disclosing too much information. It was always a fine line, one for which she rarely found the middle ground.

“It’s only that he can be very protective of family.”

“Of you,” the duke stated.

She nodded.