Anger simmered within her. “Sorry for…ignoring me all evening? Or perhaps pretending to be my friend only to have that friendship when convenient for you. Or maybe—”

“All the above. But it’s necessary.”

“Enlighten me as to why, Your Grace,” she said with a clipped tone, then gathered her wits as she noted the attention on their conversation. “Never mind. I used to wish for those conversations we shared, to enjoy that…friendship we had. But I can see that it was my…naivete that kept me hopeful. You have more pressing matters than a friend’s younger sister. And while I imagined myself your friend, perhaps the truth was I was a convenient extension of the true friendship you have with my brother. So allow me to relieve you of putting forth any more effort.”

The waltz ended, she stepped back, and slowly walked to find her brother, lest anyone think she was storming from the dance floor. As soon as she found Morgan, she silently released a pent-up breath.

“I wish to go home.”

Morgan studied her, his look hesitant, before he agreed. “Very well, I’ll call for the carriage.”

Joan nodded and raised her chin, keeping a brave and graceful expression on her face.

Lord Archby nodded from across the room, and she waved back. Then as she saw a flicker of the duke, she turned and walked toward the hall.

The crowd was still conversing, unwilling to disperse because of the last dance, and Joan was thankful the hallway was mostly vacant, save for a few footmen lining the wall with perfect posture.

She took in deep breaths through her nose and went to stand outside the entrance, waiting for her brother. Feeling rather than hearing him, she glanced over her shoulder to see the duke standing a few feet from her. She looked away, angling her body in the opposite direction. It might be childish, but she wasn’t in the mood for more of his apologies or excuses.

As he stepped closer to her, she could hear his foot on the stone, feel his presence.

She refused to turn.

Keeping her eye on the far-off horizon, she caved slightly, allowing her other senses to take over as she breathed his presence in like air. The slight breeze carried a peppermint and spice scent that clung to his clothes. The air was warmer, his body heat radiating toward her in welcome. She closed her eyes.

“Joan,” he whispered.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her traitorous body turning.

“Joan.” Her name was a song.

The barest hint of a touch slid up her forearm, and she gasped, then looked to where her skin had caught fire. His gloved finger brushed lightly up her arm, his eyes following the movement before he glanced up and met her gaze.

“Rowles…” Joan breathed his name.