“But isn’t that the whole point of the Season?” Percival asked. “To find someone to marry?”
“For most young ladies, yes,” Joan agreed. “But I already had responsibilities. I was needed at home to help manage the household and look after my siblings. Marriage would have meant leaving them, and I couldn’t do that.”
“So you never danced with gentlemen?” Imogen asked, clearly trying to understand.
“Oh, I danced,” Joan said. “It would have been rude to refuse every invitation. But I made my lack of interest quite clear. Most gentlemen stopped asking after one dance.”
Victoria snorted. “That’s because you spent the entire dance discussing mathematics and philosophy. You terrified them.”
Joan smiled despite herself. “Perhaps. But better to be honest about my intentions than to encourage false hopes.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Imogen said suddenly, her eyes shining with something like awe.
Joan felt her throat tighten with unexpected emotion. “Thank you, darling.”
“Though,” Edmund added thoughtfully, “you did look very beautiful at the ball. And the Duke danced with you. Does that mean?—”
“It means nothing,” Joan said quickly, perhaps too quickly. “The Duke was simply being polite to a guest.”
Victoria’s grin suggested she believed no such thing, but mercifully she said nothing.
Movement at the doorway caught Joan’s attention. Damian stood there, leaning against the frame with a cookie in hand and a soft smile on his face. How long had he been watching?
Their eyes met, and Joan saw approval and affection in her brother’s gaze. She told him about the school she opened expecting some push back but he smiled and told her he was proud of her. She found herself smiling as she molded the cookies. If only things would remain this way.
The afternoon wore on in a pleasant haze of baking and laughter. When the last batch of cookies emerged from the oven, golden and perfect, the children helped pack them into boxes, each child receiving their own share to take home.
“Remember,” Joan said as she handed out the boxes, “these are to be shared with your families. And don’t forget your homework assignments!”
“We won’t, Miss Sinclair!” they chorused.
Victoria hugged each child goodbye, and Joan did the same, her heart full as she watched them race off toward their homes, chattering excitedly about their treasure of cookies.
The house fell quiet in their absence. Damian had retreated to the small parlor with a book, and Victoria was helping Sarah clean the kitchen. Joan stood in the entrance hall, watching the last rays of sunset paint the sky.
A knock at the door startled her from her reverie.
“I’ll get it!” Damian called from the parlor.
“No, no,” Joan said quickly. “It’s probably one of the children who forgot something. I’ll answer it.”
She opened the door, already smiling in anticipation of seeing which child had returned?—
And found herself staring at the Duke of Ashcroft.
Oh no.
He stood on her doorstep in his riding clothes, his dark hair slightly disheveled from the wind. His scars were visible in the fading light, severe and intimidating. But his eyes—those storm-dark eyes that had haunted her dreams—were fixed on her face with unmistakable intensity.
“Your Grace!” Joan’s voice came out higher than usual. “What are you—that is—I wasn’t expecting?—”
“Clearly.” His mouth curved into that infuriating smirk. “Given that you’re supposed to be ill with a cold.”
Joan coughed weakly. “Yes, well, I’m feeling somewhat better?—”
“Are you?” He leaned closer, and Joan’s breath caught at his proximity. “Or are you lying to avoid me?”
His voice dropped lower, intimate and knowing. “I think you’re lying, Miss Sinclair.”
