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“Your Grace,” she said, welcoming him, and approached from her perch on a chair. “I’ve been concerned. How are you?” She lifted an arm, perhaps to offer comfort, but drew back as if having second thoughts.
Instinctively, he reached out and grasped her withdrawing hand, capturing it and lacing their fingers together as he pulled her a few inches closer. It wasn’t exactly proper, but he didn’t care. In two weeks, they would be married and he could hold her, kiss her, and love her whenever he chose.
If that wasn’t heaven, he wasn’t sure what was.
Joan squeezed his hand. “I’ll have to adjust to being allowed to touch you, Your Grace.”
“Rowles, if you please.” He lifted her hand and kissed it softly. “I trust you’ll make the transition smoothly. I shall give you abundant practice,” he replied with a teasing grin. “It comforts my heart, seeing you.”
“I’ve been worried,” Joan confessed. “How are you, truly?”
Rowles shrugged. “As well as can be expected. I’m fighting more against my relief than my sorrow, and my guilt for feeling that way.”
Joan’s expression grew sympathetic. “You shouldn’t bear guilt for such feelings.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t make them less real.”
“Indeed. Is there any way I can help?” she asked, gesturing to a sofa and inviting him to sit. “Would you like tea?”
Rowles followed her to the sofa and took a seat beside her, thankful for the allowance of being so near her; betrothal had its benefits. “Yes, tea would be lovely.”
Joan rang for tea.
“Now, you were about to tell me how I can help.”
“Was I?” Rowles asked, distracted by her perfect lips and the fragrance of lemons that clung to her skin.
“Yes. When is the funeral? You said two days, but I wasn’t sure if that changed between now and then.”
The subject of the funeral was like icy water poured on his head, instantly cooling his amorous thoughts. “Yes, I’ve already taken care of all the details and hired those who will address those details.”
“So tomorrow night?” Joan asked.
“Yes.” Rowles answered.
“I want to go,” she stated, her shoulders straightening with resolve.
Rowles paused. “It’s…not usually an event women attend.” He treaded cautiously, knowing she was certain of her own mind. But the thought of her out at night, with all the potential pickpockets and ruffians who would target such a large group of mourners, set his protective streak on fire.
“I’m more than able to take care of myself, and I won’t leave your side, regardless.” She patted his hand, providing immeasurable comfort.
He drew a deep breath. “You might be one of the only women in attendance who is not a hired mourner.” He needed to make certain she understood the full scope of her request.
“I’m aware. I attended my brother’s and parents’ funerals, I’m familiar,” she asserted with a firm nod.
In truth, he wanted her to attend as well. To have her bolstering presence beside him as he walked the final steps in saying goodbye to his mother. It was a blessing he hadn’t even thought to ask for, yet she gave it. “Very well, thank you. It will be a great comfort to have you there.”
Her shoulders relaxed, and she nodded once. “I don’t wish for you to walk through it alone. Not if I can help it. Thank you…for hearing me out.”
“I will always…at least try,” he amended with a lopsided grin, “to hear you out.”
“I couldn’t ask for more.” Joan paused, then lifted his hand to her cheek.
His heart pounded at such a simple gesture that set his body on fire. “Joan.” He whispered her name, his attention darting to her lips as he inched forward.
“Ah, Rowles!” Morgan’s voice was like the second bucket of cold water tossed on him in the span of ten minutes. Biting back a growl, he gave an apologetic shrug to Joan and turned to his friend, who had a knowing smirk on his smug face. Rowles had never been more tempted to add a black eye to that arrangement.
“Good day to you as well,” Rowles answered.
