Rowles’s eyes shifted to Joan, only for a split second, and then he turned back to her brother. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Indeed.” Morgan nodded, and then gestured for her to follow him up the steps and into their home.

Ivy climbed the stone face of the town house, adding life to the otherwise stark gray stone. As they entered the foyer, Morgan turned to her, then lowered his eyes and spoke in a soft but warning tone. “I meant what I said earlier. He is not…” He paused. “There are better options, and we shall find them. Do not let your attachment grow.” He speared her with his unflinching stare, then stepped back, heading toward his study.

Joan released the breath she’d been holding.

What he asked was nearly impossible.

She climbed the stairs to the second floor. As she passed through the hall toward her rooms, she blew out an exasperated sigh. She went into her chamber and closed the door softly, leaning her back against it as she closed her eyes.

It wasn’t as if she’d cultivated these feelings, this attachment.

It was involuntary.

But real, insistent, and growing.

How did one extinguish an attachment when she wasn’t even sure how it had started?

She looked to the bed, noting the gown her maid had laid out for the Rathbone ball that evening, reminding her that she needed a change of clothing at present as well. After ringing for her maid, she was alone with her thoughts once more. With a lack of charity, she half suspected her brother would cancel their plans tonight since the duke planned to attend.

Her chest tightened as she considered her brother’s earlier words.

Would the duke, in fact, count her among the ranks of his mother if he knew her true talents? Would he not believe her? Think her insane or of warped mind? Her heart fractured at the thought, a slight pinch, but nonetheless real. She couldn’t imagine how it would pain her if it were real. If she were to walk that path only to find the most terrible of heartbreak at the end of it.

By his hand, no less.

Maybe her brother was right.

Maybe she should listen to him.

Maybe her heart should listen to the reason of her mind. Yet, wasn’t that exactly the problem?

Distraction. She needed a distraction from all the heavy thoughts that plagued her mind. She noticed the window, spilling in the sunshine as it spread to her writing desk. Remembering the missive she was to send to Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital and the new friend she’d made from interest in that facility, she squared her shoulders and strode to the desk. Withdrawing her quill and ink, she set about sending a message to both.