Joanne was laughing now—soft, sweet laughter that mingled with the low hum of conversation around the living room. Robert V had drawn her into a lighthearted exchange, recounting an old family story about how Philip I, his great-great-great-grandfather once punched a Viscount in Oxford over a misaddressed invitation.
She was in her element—curious, gracious, quick to laugh, but never losing that quiet edge of intelligence in her eyes. And more importantly, she was being seen, truly seen by the Winchesters, not as the outsider farm girl, but as a woman who had held her own ground with dignity and fire.
Jeffrey watched from where he stood near the fireplace, nursing a glass of red wine and nodding at something Christina whispered to him. But his eyes, as always, kept drifting to her.
