by Karen Ranney
“Someone is,” Gran said, glancing up at the entrance to Sedgebrook.
As a tall man came down the steps, Josephine pushed forward.
The man who approached them had an agreeable-looking face, one disposed to smiling as he was doing now. Although his hair was brown, it was a lighter shade hinting at blond. His deep brown eyes were warm, making Martha wonder if his character was kind.
He was certainly a fine specimen of manhood with his broad shoulders and long legs.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Josephine said, making a spectacle of herself by performing a deep curtsy better served for the queen.
To her surprise, the man laughed. “I’m not the duke, miss.”
“York,” Josephine said. “Miss Josephine York.”
“I’m Reese Burthren, His Grace’s friend. May I escort you inside?”
Martha looked up at the top of the steps. Now another tall figure stood there.
Did he think himself too important to descend the staircase or could he simply not be bothered to greet visitors?
She couldn’t imagine the man’s arrogance, standing as he was at the top of the steps, a pasha waiting for her to approach him.
Very well, if the mountain would not come to her, then she would go to the mountain. Brushing past Mr. Burthren, Martha approached the staircase. After grabbing her skirt with one hand, her other on the wide banister, she mounted the twenty-six steps, her head bent to gauge her footing. She didn’t pay any attention to the landing, at least not until the last three steps. Then she raised her head to find him watching her.
She almost fell down the stairs.
As it was, she was certain her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. The man standing there was the most handsome creature she’d ever seen.
Her pulse was behaving in a bizarre fashion, leaping and racing. She felt as if she’d been running, not merely climbing a few steps.
She wanted to be able to manage time, to keep the moments still so that she could study him. His hair was black and thick, cut shorter than was fashionable. He was clean shaven. His flashing blue eyes looked capable of shooting sparks of disdain at her. If she could really halt time, she’d press her fingers against his high cheekbones and the hollows they created. His face was stern, those full lips bracketed by lines, his jaw squared. Each feature was perfect, but together they formed a magnificent face, one as commanding as a bust of Julius Caesar, but far more attractive.
Never once had she considered what a man might look like naked. Not even her three suitors. If she had, no doubt she would have been struck dumb with revulsion. But this man gave her thoughts of those scandalous statues in the London museum she visited last year. She’d almost wanted to reach out and touch the cold marble, feel the musculature of the thigh, cup a buttock with her palm. Her own reaction had been so scandalous that she’d been ashamed of herself, exactly as she felt right at the moment.
Here she was, standing at the top of the steps of Sedgebrook, staring at a stranger and wondering if he was as handsome without his clothes as he was attired in a severe black suit.
The color favored him, but Lucifer probably looked good in black.
“You must be the Duke of Roth, are you not?” Josephine said breathlessly.
Martha glanced to her left to find Josephine standing there. She must have raced up the steps in order to be the first to greet the duke.
“How utterly delightful to meet you,” she said. “We’re here to bring you Father’s bequest,” she continued, further irritating Martha. “We couldn’t possibly send it by messenger, and although everyone employed at Griffin House is reputable, we would be beside ourselves if anything happened to all his work.”
Josephine had not once expressed an interest in what their father did when he was alive. In fact, Martha was certain that if she mentioned the York Torpedo Ship Josephine would only look at her blankly and have absolutely no idea what it was.
The duke bowed slightly. “Thank you, Miss York, but I don’t want your father’s work.”
Was he truly the unbearably insufferable creature he seemed to be? What a shame to have such a loathsome character living inside such a delightful package.
Martha stepped forward, her hand on Josephine’s arm, poised to pull her sister back if she dared to interrupt.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Martha said. “The wagon will be here shortly. I don’t know if you know this, Your Grace, but my father held you in great esteem.” She sent him a look she hoped he understood: she didn’t. “His last words were of you. He spoke glowingly of your friendship, yet you couldn’t be bothered to send condolences when he died.”
“Miss Martha York, I presume,” the duke said, his voice a low baritone.
She was not going to allow him to know that even his voice affected her.
What was wrong with her? She was being as foolish as those girls she’d met in London during her season, giggling over a man, whispering about his attributes—and they hadn’t been speaking of his fortune.
“I’m afraid His Grace was ill,” Mr. Burthren said from behind her. “For some time.”
The duke shook his head. “It’s all right, Reese. I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
What an odd way to put it. She was not engaged in a battle with the duke; she was just pinning his ears back because he’d been insufferably rude. In addition, his actions had hurt her father, which was unpardonable.
Mr. Burthren stepped forward, Gran’s hand on his arm. Evidently, he’d been assisting her up the steps, something she’d not thought to do.
“This is Mrs. Susannah York,” Mr. Burthren said. “Accompanied by her granddaughters Miss Martha York and Miss Josephine York.”
“You’ve made an outing of it, I see,” the duke said.
“Hardly an outing, Your Grace,” Martha said. “We’ve traveled one whole day to get here.”
“A train trip is only an hour or so, Miss York. Are you given to much exaggeration?”
Her grandmother disliked trains, thinking them a blight on the countryside, noisy, dirty, and beneath the dignity of York women. An irony, considering a great deal of their wealth came from railroads. Gran ignored that fact as well as the main source of their income: armaments.
She was not going to explain her grandmother’s idiosyncrasies to the duke.
“Regardless of the distance or the time,” he said, “the trip was wholly unnecessary.”
“To you, perhaps, Your Grace. I am simply fulfilling my father’s wish. He wanted you to have his research, his papers, and the latest prototype of the York Torpedo Ship. Had I known he wanted you to have everything, I would have counseled against it. I would’ve added my powers of persuasion, such as they are, to change his mind.”
“Do you not think me worthy?”
Oh dear, why had she made that remark? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“You don’t even seem to care he died.”
If she hadn’t been studying him so intently, she might have missed the slight change of expression in his eyes. Just for a moment it looked as if she saw regret behind the flatness of his gaze. Or she could simply be mistaken.
“You must accept my apologies, Mrs. York,” he said, turning slightly to address her grandmother. “Mr. Burthren was correct. I was unwell and didn’t know your son had passed.”
Gran nodded, but instead of speaking, she placed her hand flat against the middle of her chest and let out a slight gasp.
“Gran?”
Martha stepped closer as Gran moaned.
“What is it?”
She placed her arm behind her grandmother, supporting her.
“She needs to sit down,” she said, glancing toward the duke.
“I fear the stairs were too much for me,” Gran said, her voice sounding breathless.
Her grandmother was looking entirely too pale, almost the same color as Amy who came up the steps behind her. Gran was not a young woman and the past year had
been a difficult one for her, with her son’s death and her daughter-in-law’s abdication of any responsibility.
Amy moved to assist her grandmother while Josephine still stood there smiling at the duke like a dolt.
“Please,” Martha said.
She half expected the duke to forbid them admittance to his home. Instead, he nodded toward Reese.
“Would you see them to a convenient parlor?”
Thankfully, Josephine stopped staring, goggle-eyed, at the duke. Reese offered his arm to Gran again and she placed her hand on it, allowing him to lead her into the house through the massive double doors. Josephine followed, smiling brightly up at a portly servant in a dark blue suit who stood as still and as straight as a statue.
Martha followed, glancing back at the duke.
A man’s character was revealed within moments of meeting him. The trick was to pay attention, listen, and make judgments based on what he said and how he acted. She understood everything there was to know about the Duke of Roth within seconds of their greeting. He was an arrogant, miserable person, rude, and unconcerned for anyone but himself.
Unless she’d been completely wrong.
The duke followed them, but slowly and obviously painfully. He was using a walking stick she hadn’t seen until now and leaning heavily on it. His left leg seemed to be fine, but his right dragged behind him.
She stopped herself from offering help even as the words trembled on her lips.
He glanced up to find her staring at him. His face firmed. He straightened, his shoulders squaring, but he didn’t look away.
The glance they shared was strangely intimate, as if she’d come upon him at his most vulnerable. The moment elongated, became almost painfully awkward. She wanted to ask what had happened. He said he’d been unwell. Had he been referring to his leg?
She wanted to apologize, but wasn’t sure why. For seeing him limp so badly? For misjudging him? The lines bracketing his mouth were evidently not caused by disdain as much as pain.
“Thank you,” she said, wanting to connect with him in some way. “A few minutes is all we need. Just time for Gran to rest. The wagon will be here shortly with my father’s things. As soon as it’s unloaded, we’ll be gone.”
He didn’t offer a comment in response. Instead, he only nodded.
She understood, finally, that he wasn’t going to move as long as she was watching him. She turned and followed Gran and Josephine inside the house.
Bloody damn hell and all the saints. The last thing he’d wanted was for Martha York and her family to show up on his doorstep.
She’s an invaluable asset to me, Hamilton, her father had often written. Martha knows as much about the York Torpedo as I do.
Bloody damn hell. He didn’t need her here. He didn’t need York’s work. Not his notes. Not his insight. Nothing. He’d do it on his own, damn it, or die trying.
He stood there, his leg throbbing, forever reminding him of his limitations.
Now he had four of them in his house. Plus Reese.
One of the reasons he’d enjoyed York’s friendship so much was because the man hadn’t made any demands on him. He might write and suggest an answer to a problem Jordan was experiencing, but he wouldn’t expect an answer immediately. Nor would he have descended on Sedgebrook as his family had done.
One thing he had to say about Martha York, she didn’t give up. When she’d first written him, he’d been surprised. He’d never corresponded with any of Matthew’s relatives. Perhaps he’d suspected the news she wrote and didn’t want to face it. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to be bothered with anyone else—recovering from his injuries had made him insular and centered in his own misery. He’d ignored each of her letters until he’d finally opened one. His immediate emotion on reading her words was shame. What he’d suspected was true. Matthew had died. His second feeling was a deep sadness. If anything, the older man was a mentor, understanding his need to know why, to create.
Yet he didn’t want Matthew’s bequest. Perhaps part of it was a vague feeling he didn’t deserve to be the recipient of the man’s intelligence and talent. A greater part was a desire to accomplish the development of his invention on his own.
He’d been labeled since birth, a spoke in a wheel, a cog in the whole. He was a Hamilton of Sedgebrook, a second son still expected to make a difference in the world, to matter. He was a naval officer with a purchased commission, but still required by his own sense of honor to accomplish and achieve.
His invention was the one thing solely his, belonging to no one else but him. Granted, Matthew had steered him in the right direction several times, but he’d put in the long hours, redone the calculations hundreds of times, experimented with various types of pendulum devices.
“Are you coming in?” Reese asked from the doorway. “I’ve settled them in the Rococo Parlor and ordered refreshments.”
Jordan nodded and took another step. Reese couldn’t stop himself from sending him a look of sympathy. He didn’t know what was worse, pity from his boyhood friend or his home being invaded.
Chapter 4
“How are you feeling, Gran?” Martha asked, moving to sit on the odd-shaped sofa next to her grandmother.
Gran was leaning her head back against the carved wood, her eyes closed. In that moment she looked older than her years.
She should never have decided to come. If anything happened to Gran it would be her fault.
“Tea would help,” Gran said, opening her eyes and smiling at Martha. “It’s nothing, child. I’m simply a little worn-out. That’s to be expected. If I could only rest for a bit, I’ll be fine.”
Mr. Burthren had escorted them here, smiled broadly, and then excused himself saying he would order refreshments. If they weren’t delivered in a few minutes, she would go in search of something for Gran herself.
“It’s an odd room,” Gran said, looking around her. “What did Mr. Burthren call it?”
“The Rococo Parlor,” Josephine said, taking one of the chairs near the sofa.
Martha stared up at the ceiling. An entire fresco was painted there, one of an elderly man leading a crowd of scantily clad women toward a mountain. Beneath the fresco, white stucco in fantastical shapes formed a border around the room, ending at columns on all four corners. The pale blue silk walls were decorated by a half dozen paintings, each a landscape filled with people either picnicking or resting beside a tree or near a brook.
Everywhere she looked, the detail was slightly more than she expected: statues of shepherdesses holding their skirts high as they beckoned sheep with tiny little horns, fanciful birds with long brass feathers adorning the tools next to the fireplace.
“It’s French, I think,” Gran said. After a quick look at Josephine, she didn’t say anything further.
“I think it’s a delectable room,” Josephine said, looking around her like a child who’d been granted entrance to a confectioner’s shop and told she could have anything she wished.
Would the duke join them? Martha doubted it. He’d not been pleased by their appearance and probably wished they’d disappear as quickly.
The poor man. She doubted he’d be happy about her compassion, either.
Gran suddenly moaned and slumped to her side.
“Gran? Gran? What’s wrong?”
She grabbed her grandmother’s wrist, felt a strong pulse, but wasn’t reassured because the older woman moaned again.
“What is it?” Josephine asked, coming to stand in front of Gran. “Is she sick?”
Her sister was always in command of the obvious. Martha bit back her annoyance and looked around the room.
“Go summon someone, please,” she said to Amy, gesturing to where the bellpull hung from the ceiling.
She bent and placed Gran’s feet up on the sofa. She rested her hand on her grandmother’s ankle, wishing she had a pillow and something to cover her. Wishing, too, that she wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed by fear.
Jordan made his way slowly—since
it was his only speed of late—to the Rococo Parlor.
The room had been a present from his grandfather to his wife, who’d evidently cherished both the gesture and the place. It was one of the smaller rooms at Sedgebrook and the decorations only made it seem more crowded.
Ever since he was a boy he avoided the room. Reese, for some reason, liked the parlor. Just because they were best friends didn’t mean they agreed on everything. Lately, they found common ground in precious little.
The grandmother was on the ornate couch being fanned by her maid. Both granddaughters turned to look at him when he entered.
Mary, one of the Sedgebrook maids, hesitated at the doorway. He moved out of her way, allowing her to enter with a tray of tea and refreshments. Mary was a good sort, an affable girl, someone who always smiled at him. Not once did she send him a glance of pity and unless he asked she didn’t offer to help him in any way.
His passage through the corridors and rooms of Sedgebrook was done like an arthritic octogenarian, but at least his servants didn’t look as if they were going to cry when viewing him.
Like Martha York was doing right now.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. York?” he asked.
She didn’t answer him. Instead, Martha spoke up.
“She isn’t feeling well at all, Your Grace.”
Martha had a curious voice. A little lower than normal, almost slumberous in tone, reminding him of a woman on waking in the morning. What a fool he was. There was no reason for him to think of rumpled sheets and marathon bouts of lovemaking, especially around the York woman.
He looked away and decided he wouldn’t glance in her direction again.
The younger girl—what was her name again?—stood and approached him.
“I’m afraid Gran is feeling poorly, Your Grace. Whatever shall we do?”
Good manners dictated he offer accommodation, a meal or two, and time for the older woman to recuperate from the journey. He felt as far from good manners as he was from understanding why it was that all of them had descended on him.