She blinked, her greedy stare drinking in the sight of him. She couldn’t see his blue eyes from across the room, but she imagined their color from memory. His knee breeches and white cravat were dignified, less dandy and more masculine. The air whooshed from her lungs when he turned, as if feeling her attention from across the room.

He paused, his head tipped ever so slightly before he took a step in their direction.

“Did you know?” Joan asked, then turned to her brother.

Morgan frowned, then as her eyes shifted from the duke, then back to her brother, he followed and then nodded. “Yes.”

He wasn’t lying. She could see that, but there was still something deeper he wasn’t disclosing. She could feel it like an itchy undergarment, driving her mad.

The duke skirted the dance floor and paused before them, bowing in greeting.

“Penderdale, Lady Joan.”

The sound of his voice melted though her, and it was embarrassingly painful to realize how much she’d missed the sound of it. His eyes met hers, and whatever truth lay there flashed and changed so quickly she couldn’t capture its meaning before he turned to Morgan.

“Don’t you look dandy with your chapeau bras.”

“No more so than you,” Morgan countered.

The air buzzed around them, and Joan glanced about, noticing the whispers and attention their little party was drawing.

Blast the Tattler for making such a story concerning her friendship with the duke.

Or at least she hoped they still had a friendship. It seemed so…strained at the moment.

The duke had regarded her once and then kept his attention on her brother, as if choosing to be near her but not engage her in conversation.

Oh, how she missed their conversations.

“Tell me, Your Grace, how have you been?” she asked, wanting his attention, needing to see his expression and know what lurked in its depths.

“I’m afraid I’ve been terribly busy. We’ve made some adjustments in the estate and I’m to travel soon, so it’s consumed much of my time.” He met her eyes unflinchingly.

“I hope nothing is amiss?” Joan inquired, then regretted her invasive question. But rather than apologize, she waited to see how he would answer.

“Well, I think the best answer is to say it’s all being addressed, Lady Joan.”

Joan almost corrected him playfully, but then remembered their setting and nodded.

Someone approached from her side, and she turned, curtsying to a bowing Lord Archby. “Lady Joan, may I have the next dance?”

Joan nodded and offered her dance card. She noted his selection of the cotillion. Archby had been one of her first callers, and she studied him with curious interest as he bowed to the duke and her brother, then took his leave.

“Archby is still scratching at the door,” Morgan whispered softly.