The carriage inched forward, then rolled to a stop as he continued to wait. Torches lined the short circular driveway, and if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could hear the barest whisper of music from the main hall. Surely the doors on the balcony were open, allowing air in and music out. It would be a crush, he was certain of it, and already a trickle of sweat slid down his back at the thought. Of the two of them, his brother had been the one who enjoyed social gatherings. Rowles missed him. But life moved forward at a faster pace than the carriage, and didn’t halt for emotions or pain. It carried on.

And so must he.

At last his carriage stopped before the grand entrance. Footmen swung open the carriage door and waited for Rowles to disembark. As his feet hit the gravel, he straightened his spine and drew a fortifying breath. Women with feathery hats and men in shining Hessian boots filed through the door, the dull roar of conversation already welcoming Rowles into the mayhem of a more crowded ballroom. Nodding to several men he knew, he took the stone steps to the door and passed through, the scent of beeswax and humanity greeting him.

The sound of music carried over the buzz of conversation, and he followed the long hall, illuminated by hundreds of candles and reflected by mirrors that lined the wall. Even if he wished to avoid the ballroom, the methodical flow of foot traffic toward the grand room would have made it impossible to do anything but follow. As he entered the room, a footman passed by with a silver tray of claret. Rowles lifted a glass and sipped it slowly. It wasn’t his drink of choice, but it was a far cry better than nothing at all.

The stares of hungry matchmaking mamas made his skin itch under his evening attire. The prospect of a duke for a son-in-law overcame the stigma of him having an infirm mother, apparently. Avoiding their predatory looks, he scanned the room for Morgan. Being tall, he had an advantage in searching. After a few moments, and several nods to familiar faces, he made his way to the opposite corner of the room where Lady Joan was holding court and Morgan was dutifully standing by. As the Earl of Penderdale, his place was beside his family, presenting his sister.

Rowles understood the weight of responsibility, and a rush of kinship with his friend washed over him. Sipping the tepid liquid from his glass, he snaked around the milling people and skirted the ballroom floor where a Scottish reel was being danced. He ignored the stealthy attention from several others and kept his focus ahead.

“Ah, Your Grace.” Morgan bowed, but his brown eyes sparkled with relief.

“Penderdale.” Rowles nodded, then went to stand beside his friend and whispered, “Damn and blast, I hate it when you call me ‘Your Grace.’”