Jordan normally woke with the dawn. He’d always done so, eager to get a start on the day. In the past year, however, his early rising was because he hadn’t slept well. Last night had been a difficult one because he’d refused to take the elixir that dulled his mind yet gave him a respite from the almost constant pain in his leg.

Dr. Reynolds had not, unfortunately, been able to give him any reassurance the pain would ease. But, then, he’d grown accustomed to ignoring a physician’s recommendations or cautions. Therefore, he wasn’t going to base his hopes on what Dr. Reynolds said or didn’t say. After all, what did the man know? He wasn’t supposed to walk again. The future was like a vast ocean in front of him. He was the one who would plot his course.

Thankfully, none of his servants were around to watch him descend the grand staircase in a slow but dogged fashion. What he lacked in coordination he made up for in determination. Finally, he was at the bottom and made his way to the Morning Parlor, only to be disconcerted by the presence of Josephine York.

“You’re up early, Miss York,” he said in greeting.

He would not allow himself to limp to his favorite chair at the head of the table, but it was close.

Her dress was a pale yellow, embroidered with bunches of pink-and-purple flowers. For someone who’d been unexpectedly waylaid by her grandmother’s illness, Miss York had a varied and extensive wardrobe.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Martha was going to wear her lavender dress today.

“Will your sister be joining us?” he asked.

The last thing he wanted to encounter first thing in the morning was Josephine’s artificial brightness. She was like a great many women he’d met since ascending to the title. He’d been invisible to them as a naval officer, but the minute he became the 11th Duke of Roth, he was suddenly charming, witty, and erudite.

That kind of shallowness irritated him on a base level.

“I’m afraid not,” she said, smiling at him. She gave him a sideways look, no doubt presenting her best profile. Was he supposed to be overcome by her attractiveness?

He supposed she was pretty, in a way that would fade quickly.

“Will Mr. Burthren be joining us?” she asked.

“I suspect not,” he said. “Normally Reese avoids breakfast.”

“A pity, then. We shall have to entertain each other.”

He couldn’t imagine a more hideous scenario. What was he supposed to say? Regale her with tales of the latest play he’d attended? He hadn’t left Sedgebrook in a year. Was she bookish? Perhaps he should ask her what she’d read lately.

“I’ve seen Ercole,” she said. “What a beautiful horse he is. Are you certain you want to sell him?”

He didn’t want to discuss his brother’s stallion.

“I can direct you to my factor,” he said. “If you’re interested in the horse.”

His comment seemed to silence her, at least for the moment.

He served himself breakfast, his appetite gone.

Why the hell hadn’t Martha showed up? At least with her he could discuss something that interested him. Even their silences were more comfortable than what he was experiencing at the moment.

Martha didn’t simper at him, either. She didn’t act coy. And she most assuredly did not stink up the room with some ghastly perfume smelling of dead flowers in a hothouse.

Had Josephine no idea of how overpowering the scent was?

“We missed you at dinner last night, Your Grace.”

“Yes.” He wasn’t going to go into why he hadn’t been in attendance.

But she, however, was not to be denied.

“I understand you didn’t feel well.”

Good God, was the woman going to pry even further? Common decency would have silenced most people before this, but Josephine evidently thought herself above the fray.

“Have you always been lame, Your Grace?”

He turned his head slowly, regarding her like he would if she was an experiment gone awry in a way he hadn’t expected.

She was smiling faintly, her green eyes soft. No doubt she thought her beauty gave her license to say anything she wished. Had she no inner barrier? No sense of decency? Or, at the very least, no concept of decorum?

“No, Miss York,” he said, the words spoken with studied care. “I haven’t always been ‘lame,’ as you say. It’s a recent acquisition of mine.”

He stood, desperate to leave the room and be quit of Josephine York. This time, he didn’t give a flying farthing if he limped because he held his walking stick almost like a club. If nothing else, if she approached him, he’d brandish the damn thing like a weapon.

Martha woke late, drank her tea in her bedroom, skipped breakfast, and went straight to the boathouse.

Her eagerness was unseemly, no doubt. If anyone had asked, she would’ve told them she wanted to help the duke. She might even say her assistance was something her father would’ve wanted.

The fact that the Duke of Roth was an extraordinarily handsome man did not enter into her thoughts.

Yesterday, he’d asked her questions and seemed to value her opinion. She had the feeling, if someone annoyed him, he would make his thoughts known, regardless of whether the individual was male or female.

Look at how he had behaved around Josephine.

When she was almost at the boathouse, her footsteps slowed. Would he be there? Or would his leg be paining him? Did he ever stop working because of his discomfort? Would he welcome her? Or would he ask her to leave?

She had too many questions and no answers.

Still, she was cautious when she opened the door and peered inside.

He was already there, sitting at the workbench, the morning sun making the window beside him glow with golden light.

She stood there for a moment.

The lingering scent of water and fish perfumed the air. Another odor reached her, something reminding her of the flux her father used when closing a seam. There was no fireplace here, only a small unlit brazier in the corner.

He glanced toward the doorway.

“Are you coming in?” he asked. “Or are you going to stand there gaping at me?”

“I don’t gape,” she said, entering the boathouse. “I might stare,” she added. “Or peruse. But gaping implies awe and I’m rarely awed.”

He half turned to watch her walk toward him.

“Have you nothing else to wear? Your sister seems to have planned for this extemporaneous visit. She was in another dress at breakfast.”

“You had breakfast with her?” she asked, surprised. “Josephine normally doesn’t rise early.”

“It’s because I’m a duke,” he said.

The comment startled her.

“You breakfasted with my sister because you’re a duke?”

“She went out of her way to breakfast with me,” he said. “It’s the title. It has a life of its own. I often think of it as a ghost, a filmy specter folding around me like a cloak.”

He glanced at her, his smile slightly crooked. “I haven’t the slightest idea why I told you that. I’ve occasionally thought it, but I had no intention of confessing the notion. The fact is, people sometimes go out of their way to accommodate me, simply because of my title. I suspect your sister is one of those people. You aren’t.”

“How do you know I’m not? Perhaps I wasn’t hungry this morning.” She wasn’t going to tell him that she woke late, that her night had been filled with dreams of him.

“By the fact that you’re arguing and not trying to charm me,” he said.

He really shouldn’t smile at her. It did something to her insides.

And she has her sights set on you, Your Grace. Perhaps she should have warned him about Josephine, but what good would it do?

“Is that the only dress you have?” he asked. “Or perhaps you just like lavender.”

“I have my dark blue traveling dress,” she said, finding it odd to be discussing her wardrobe with the Duke of Roth. “It has an overskirt and a small bustle. It’s fancier than this one, but if this dress offends you, I can always change.”

“Oh, but that would be accommodating me. Perhaps even making an effort to charm me.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “True.”

“Did you simply not plan for this extended visit?”

“No,” she said, approaching the workbench. She pulled out the stool and sat on it. “But Josephine has a greater interest in fashion than I do. I’m not surprised she packed more garments than she needed. We only planned to visit with you long enough to deliver my father’s bequest, then stay at an inn and return to Griffin House the next day.”

He sent her a sharp look. “How is your grandmother feeling?”

When she’d seen Gran this morning, she’d been sitting up in bed, eating her breakfast with a hearty appetite.

“Better. I don’t doubt we shall be leaving in a day or two.”

Why did that thought instantly alter her mood and not in a good way?

“I wasn’t arguing with you, by the way,” she said. “I don’t actually argue much. I’m normally amenable.”

“I think you’re wrong in your assessment of yourself, Martha. I think, perhaps, when you disagree with people you simply retreat into your own thoughts. Arguing is often a waste of time and I suspect you don’t spend a great deal of time on idiotic pursuits.”

Never before had anyone assumed a knowledge of her character. She didn’t know how to respond.

When she remained silent, he reached over and put something in front of her.

“What is wrong with that?” he asked. “Can you tell?”

“It’s part of a pendulum,” she said.

She picked it up and studied it, turning it back and forth in her hand. “It’s weighted differently.”

“That it is. Your father and I had discussed whether or not it would matter.”

She closed her eyes, the better to see the complex arrangement of gears, wires, and chains found in the guidance system. The pendulum was located in the middle, toward the rear.

Opening her eyes, she looked at him. “It would pull too far on the left rudder chain,” she said. “It might even cause the ship to be nose-heavy.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, merely studied her.

She wanted to ask if he really did object to the lavender dress. She had more freedom to move in this garment, but it wasn’t fashionable. Yet she didn’t want to have to worry about what she was wearing when it normally didn’t concern her.

“You’re an unusual woman,” he said.

She’d heard those words before, but they hadn’t been a compliment.

“Is it a bad thing? Are you saying I’m odd?”

He smiled again and although the expression didn’t look mocking, she held herself still, waiting for his words.

“You know a great deal about forming copper, pendulums and the like, and compressors.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand, turning it over to examine the palm.

“Your father told me about how you got this scar,” he said, tracing a small mark at the base of her thumb. “You were trying to force a piston back into place when it slipped.”

She pulled her hand free, embarrassed in a way she hadn’t been for a long time. Ever since her season in London, as a matter of fact.

It was him, of course. She’d never met a man who was so supremely male. She felt fluttery and feminine when she was nothing of the sort. Once she was dressed in the morning, it was the last time she concerned herself with her appearance. She didn’t stop in front of a mirror or worry about what she looked like.

Until she’d met him. Now she was all too aware of her flaws.

“I’m easily bored,” she said, giving him the truth. “I haven’t the slightest interest in fashion or how to arrange my hair. I detest shopping, except when it comes to material we need. It seems to me my time is better spent seeking sources of copper tubing and sheathing than in selecting hats and gloves.”

“And for that I thank you,” he said, startling her again. “I find you almost the perfect companion, Martha.”

She stared down at the pendulum, picked it up again, and concentrated on it even though she was more focused on the man beside her. A bright happiness flooded through her, making the shadowed boathouse seem sun-filled.

Yes, she was being foolish. Yes, he was much more handsome than any other man she’d ever known. Yes, he was no doubt a danger to her peace of mind.

But she wouldn’t have traded being here for anything.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Reese said, smiling at Josephine.

He turned back to Ercole’s stall.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she asked, moving to his side.

Ercole. This was the horse she wanted. What a beauty he was.

Reese glanced at her, surveying her from the top of her hair to the tip of her shoes. Her dress flattered her and he was smart enough to note it. Not perceptive enough, however, to make a comment on it. He should have praised her appearance at least.

Instead, he only walked across the stable to stand at another stall.

“This is Jessamine,” he said, and recited the mare’s bloodline.

“She isn’t the match of Ercole,” she said.

A faint smile played on his lips, making her wonder if he ridiculed her.

“I want him,” she said. “I’m an excellent rider,” she added. “I could control him.”

“Do you always get what you want?” he asked, his laughter borderline insulting.

She didn’t allow her smile to falter.

“He’s already spoken for and I doubt you’ll convince the earl not to take ownership of him.”

“But as the duke’s friend, you could change his mind, couldn’t you, Reese?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “If I cared enough to make the effort.”

“If I promised to make it worth your while?”

“Do you make the same promise to all the men you know? Do they stumble over themselves to do what you want?”

“Most of them,” she said, smiling. “If I let you kiss me, would you speak to the duke?”

He laughed, grabbed her hand, and kissed her fingers.

“No,” he said, and then did the one thing she hadn’t expected. He walked away, leaving her standing there looking after him.

Jordan found himself bemused by Martha York. He hadn’t lied. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. She hadn’t batted her eyelashes at him once. Nor had she pretended to be helpless.

Her voice was normal, neither breathy or high-pitched. A little on the low side, it was definitely fascinating. He found himself listening carefully when she spoke.

The first day they’d worked together she’d called him “Your Grace” a great many times. Today, he noted, she didn’t, almost as if they were becoming friends. He had a feeling his title was an impediment to Martha and not an asset.

For the first time, he wished he’d met her when he was in the navy.

He found himself wanting to ask her opinion about a great many things. Did she think his boathouse was arranged in the most practical manner? From which sources did she acquire her materials? Would she be interested in helping him relaunch his ship when it was found?

All questions he might’ve asked of Matthew York if he was sitting here. But he doubted if he would have been as fascinated with the older man’s appearance as he was his daughter’s.

He shouldn’t have mentioned her dress. But lavender didn’t favor her. She needed to be attired in something bold, deep greens or blues, a shade to compliment her porcelain complexion and dark brown eyes.

She was wearing her hair in a bun again, but recalcitrant tendrils had escaped to frame her face. Her curly hair was another fascination. He wanted to touch it, see if it was as soft as it appeared.

He wanted, in a way unlike him, to hear her laugh, to see her eyes sparkle with humor.

All thoughts that had nothing to do with a torpedo ship.

He should have sent her away. In the past few months he’d gotten good at banishing people. All he had to do was act ducal and arrogant. Or dismiss them with a look. Instead, he worked beside her, discussing the merits of using brass versus copper, tooling methods, and various polishing formulations.

Matthew was quoted often in those hours, but they didn’t discuss anything else of a personal nature. She didn’t ask him why he changed position from time to time, as if she knew his leg was beginning to bother him. He said nothing about how often she patted her hair into place, as if it was an annoyance.

From time to time she propped her elbow on the workbench, supporting her chin on her hand. She’d be intently focused on his actions, whether it was cleaning a part or crimping the link of the chain, and sometimes comment on what he was doing incorrectly.

He retaliated by giving her some parts to polish and remarking on spots she missed.

They worked in perfect accord for hours, the passing time deepening what he was considering a friendship, one he’d never before experienced with a woman.

When the maid came, at noon, to bring him his meal as she did every day, she was obviously surprised to find Martha with him. When he would have asked Polly to fetch a meal for her, Martha demurred.

“I should be returning to the house,” she said, getting up from the stool. “I need to check on Gran.”

He found himself wanting to keep her there, but was constrained in his speech by Polly’s presence.

“Will you come back?”

They exchanged a look. He wasn’t going to beg her. The fact that he was close to marshaling his arguments was enough to keep him silent.

“I don’t wish to be an imposition,” she said.

“You’re not. I’ve enjoyed your companionship. Not to mention your assistance.”

She smiled, the expression lighting up her face. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll come back.”

This afternoon her hair might come free of its punishing bun. She might laugh. The sun would tint her cheeks a soft pink.

She left the boathouse accompanied by Polly.

A thought occurred to him as he glanced over and saw the box containing Matthew’s letters. Had she read all of his to her father? The thought was disturbing. He wished he could remember everything he’d divulged to Matthew over the past five years. No doubt some of his insecurities or his longing for his previous job. He’d enjoyed his tasks at the War Office. Few people knew he was that Hamilton, related to the Duke of Roth. Nor did he go around telling anyone.

The day he’d been informed of his brother’s death had been strange and disconcerting. He remembered writing Matthew about how he’d felt. He and Simon had rarely seen each other in the past few years. His first thought was that the damn fool wouldn’t have contracted cholera if he hadn’t been in Italy. His second thought was amazement that he was the new Duke of Roth. He was so stunned by that realization that he could only stare at his solicitor for a few moments.

He hadn’t wanted to be duke. He remembered writing Matthew that, too. He had delayed his arrival at Sedgebrook for weeks before finally feeling compelled to come home. The house was too big, echoing with memories of a boy who wanted to be noticed and appreciated and loved but who had been joyfully ignored. He probably would have been a different person had his mother lived. But he’d been reared by a nurse, a nanny, the tutor, and then rushed off to school.

His father had been a shadow during most of his childhood and when he died Jordan had attended the services in the family chapel feeling strangely cheated. Who had Harold Hamilton been? What was his personality? His likes, dislikes, acquaintances, and friends—all questions he had.

He tried, once, to ask Simon about their father. His brother had dismissed his curiosity with a wave of his hand. He couldn’t help but wonder if Harold was a shadow to Simon as well.

If Martha had read his letters, she knew more about him than anyone else. He hadn’t minded the revelations to Matthew. If anything, the older man had almost taken on the role of parent. But Martha knowing everything?

He felt more vulnerable than he’d ever felt. The boathouse was suddenly darker and the silence too deep.

He ate his solitary meal, abruptly aware of his own loneliness.