And the shock of recognition brought her to her knees.
It’s him.
The man from the carriage. The aristocrat who had blocked their path on the road to Fairfax Manor. The man whose eyes had stared at her with such piercing intensity that she had felt stripped bare under his gaze.
But she hadn’t seen—hadn’t noticed in the brief moments of their encounter—the scars.
They traced from his temples down toward his eyes, pink and puckered with relatively recent healing. The scars were intimidating, but there was something almost… endearing about them. They made him seem less like an untouchable duke and more like a man who had suffered and survived.
I’ve offended him twice now, Joan thought desperately.First on the road, and now this. He’ll never help me. He’ll probably have me thrown off his estate entirely.
She pressed her forehead nearly to the floor in the deepest curtsy she could manage, hiding her burning face.
“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice strangled. “I apologize. Thank you for granting me an audience. I should not have—that is, I had no right to?—”
She scrambled to her feet, not daring to look at him, and turned toward the door. She needed to leave. Before she made an even bigger fool of herself.
“It’s you. The lady who asked me to turn back.”
The words stopped her mid-flight. Joan forced herself to turn back, though she kept her eyes lowered. She dropped into another curtsy.
“Your Grace,” she said quickly, “you have already been so generous. You allowed me to see you without an appointment. I should not have troubled you with such petty demands. I will find another hall. I’m certain there must be some other suitable location in the village?—”
She was backing toward the door as she spoke, ready to bolt.
“Wait.”
Joan froze.
The Duke tossed his walking stick aside and it clattered against the floor with a sharp crack and closed the distance between them in three long strides.
He reached out and caught her wrist before she could evade him.
His grip was firm but not painful. She could feel his pulse beating against her skin, or perhaps that was her own heart racing out of control.
He was younger than she had expected—perhaps thirty-four or thirty-five. His features were aristocratic and severe: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as though it rarely smiled. His hair was dark brown, slightly too long, falling across his forehead in a way that softened his otherwise harsh appearance.
But there was something unfocused about his gaze. He was looking at her, yes, but not quite meeting her eyes. As though he could see her shape, her outline, but not the details of her features.
He leaned closer, much closer than propriety allowed. So close that Joan could smell the faint scent of sandalwood.
Joan’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered so hard she was certain he must be able to hear it.
“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice emerging as barely more than a whisper. “This—this is not appropriate. A man and a woman should not stand so close.”
“And yet you came here alone,” he said softly. He paused, and his mouth curved into something that might have been a smile. “Anyone who saw you enter might think we had been engaged in rather… improper activities.”
Heat flooded Joan’s face. He stepped back suddenly, putting a more respectable distance between them. He gestured toward where his walking stick lay on the floor.
“Would you retrieve that for me, Miss Sinclair?”
Still dazed, Joan moved automatically. She crossed to where the stick had fallen and picked it up. The wood was smooth and polished beneath her fingers, clearly of excellent quality.
She walked back to him and held it out.
The Duke reached for it but instead of taking the stick, his hand closed around hers. He pulled gently but firmly, drawing her closer until they stood nearly as close as they had been moments before.
Joan’s heart skipped a beat then another. She stared up at him, unable to look away from those intense, slightly unfocused eyes.
