“Tomorrow, maybe, if I’m alone and not bothered by anyone.” She nodded toward Rowles.

“I’ll let you enjoy your tea then.” Rowles took a step back, earning an apologetic expression from the nurse. A maid came into the room carrying a tray set up with tea and biscuits, the scent inviting.

“Don’t come back unless you’re taking me home,” his mother called out as he started toward the door.

Rowles opened his mouth, but to say what, he was unsure. How did a son respond? Agree? Heavens no, but to disagree would bring more harm than good. So with a bow, he bid her good day.

Bloody pity, it would be the death of him.

The carriage swaying as it conveyed him home, he was assaulted by another black thought. Because rather than have some sort of anticipation for the evening, he had none.

In a perfect world, he would arrive at the Rathbone rout, secure a waltz from Joan, and delight in her dazzling company, sure in his confidence in a pursuit for her hand. Yet, it was far from a perfect world, so he would do the right thing, the harder thing, and stay away. If anything, the afternoon with his mother proved his earlier assessments, and those of Morgan, correct.

Who would subject a potential wife to such a mother-in-law?

To such a bloodline?

Not him. Never him.

Which meant he could never pursue Joan.

And that thought, that realization, was far more painful than any of the words his mother had said.

And every bit as condemning.

Because loneliness was a wicked master, and he had no option but to surrender to it.

Sixteen

Joan offered a welcome to the approaching Lord Blackwood. More than a few years her senior, he bowed with a stiff movement and asked for her next available dance.

“Of course, Lord Blackwood. I have a reel available,” she offered, wondering if he’d be up to the challenge of such a spirited dance.

“Allow me.” He took her card and signed his name, his attention shifting from the card to her décolletage and then back to the card, clearly assuming she wouldn’t notice.

Her opinion of him wasn’t favorable and had not improved. He gave another bow and left, promising to return for his dance.

“That one is all mouth and trousers.” Morgan’s amused chuckle broke through her distaste.

Joan choked on a laugh of surprise as she turned to study her brother. He was sipping claret and staring straight ahead, dodging her scrutiny.

“If you don’t stop staring at me, people will guess I delivered a witty remark about your visitor,” he challenged.

Joan turned away. “It was a very well-placed barb, I must say.”

“And true.”

“Indeed,” Joan replied. She scanned the room once more, searching the faces for one in particular. “I thought the duke said he’d be in attendance tonight.”