Martha slipped outside her room, closing the door softly behind her. She stood there for a moment before crossing the hall and knocking softly on her sister’s door.

When Josephine didn’t answer she knocked again. When there was still no response, she grabbed the door handle and entered the room. The lamp was burning on the bedside table, but Josephine wasn’t there.

In the time she was talking to Amy, Josephine had evidently put her plan into action.

Now what did she do? Dear God, what? She’d never been the type to panic, but she was cold with fear.

Had Josephine gone to the duke’s suite?

She had to stop her.

She hadn’t explored Sedgebrook like Josephine. She reasoned, however, that Jordan’s suite would be among the larger bedchambers in the house, which meant they’d be at the end of the wing. There was no room at the end of this corridor, so she kept walking. Thankfully, she didn’t encounter any servants as she passed the staircase and entered the other wing, coming to a set of double doors.

She tapped on the right door, but no one answered.

Her sister had behaved with forethought, determination, and cunning. But she doubted Josephine would be punished for this act or anything else. People like her sister never were. Instead, they were given excuses, their bad behavior accepted or brushed away.

As she waited, her fear turned to anger. She couldn’t help but recall all those moments when Josephine had gotten away with something egregious. The excuses ran the gamut: It’s because she’s so much younger than you, Martha. It’s because Matthew rarely notices her. It’s because she’s half-French. It’s because she has a less serious nature.

What excuse would people give for Josephine’s behavior tonight? She couldn’t imagine one that made any sense, other than: It’s because Josephine was greedy. It’s because Josephine saw something she wanted and she went after it.

At another time, in another circumstance, she might have admired her sister’s single-minded determination, but not now.

The duke wouldn’t marry her; she knew that. Regardless of Josephine’s behavior, it wouldn’t result in her becoming the Duchess of Roth. Instead, her actions were certain to ruin her and cause gossip to swirl around the family.

Her stomach felt as if it was twisted in knots. Another emotion to lay at Josephine’s feet. She didn’t know if she was more afraid than she was angry or more angry than afraid.

She knocked again, her stomach churning.

Dear God, please help me do this.

Would God understand? Would He send a lightning bolt to strike them both, the sinning sister and the one who wanted to sin? What was worse? To feel envy? Or be bubbling with resentment against Josephine?

What was she going to say when the duke answered the door?

Is my sister here?

Have you seduced her yet?

She prayed the right words would come to her when he opened the door.

Except he didn’t.

Finally, she pushed down on the latch and entered the duke’s suite.

The sitting room was illuminated by a gas lamp and, like the guest chambers, was adorned with a mural. This one took up the whole of the far wall and portrayed scenes of Rome she recognized from stereoscope pictures of the city.

“Hello?”

No one answered.

Please, don’t let them be in the bedroom, so occupied in their actions they didn’t hear her. Could anything be worse than that?

Taking a few steps toward the closed door, she wondered if it was wise to continue. Wondering, too, in a self-examination proving to be acutely painful, if she was here because of sisterly loyalty or womanly jealousy.

It might be a little of both.

She crossed the room until she stood in front of the door. She was trembling as she gripped the handle. A moment later she drew back her hand, her heart pounding so loudly she thought anyone on the other side of the door could hear it.

She said a prayer, not unlike the ones she’d uttered earlier. Please, don’t let her be here. She was nearly sick to her stomach when she grabbed the handle again and made herself open the door.

The room was dark.

She didn’t advance, merely stood in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.

No one demanded she leave. No stern ducal voice questioned her presence.

The relief she felt at the sight of the empty bed, turned down for the night, was so overwhelming she was nearly faint.

Josephine wasn’t here. Neither was the duke. She needn’t explain anything. She didn’t need to save Josephine. Thoughts she had for the expanse of only a few seconds, no more than that. The sound of a door opening sent her catapulting back into panic.

She didn’t think, only reacted. She pulled the door closed and slipped behind a screen concealing the door to the bathing chamber, nearly tripping on a metal plant holder.

If Josephine wasn’t with the duke, she would announce her presence and explain she had gotten lost. An idiotic excuse, but the only thing that came to mind.

At the moment, she wasn’t thinking at all. She was only feeling. Terror, panic, regret, embarrassment, shame—they were all cascading through her.

Her heart was beating fiercely, her pulse racing. She could barely breathe. It wasn’t going to be Josephine who made a laughingstock of the family. It was her. Rock-steady Martha, practical Martha, boring Martha who would rather study plans and calculate measurements than do anything shocking or untoward.

Perhaps one day she’d be exciting. Perhaps she’d shock everyone who knew her by doing something entirely unlike her.

Not tonight, however. Please God, not now.

The ceiling shifted above him as Jordan made his way down the corridor to the staircase. Halfway up the long stretch of steps, the whole of the foyer abruptly altered position, causing him to grip the banister to keep from falling.

Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to take the grand staircase after all, but he didn’t want to use the servants’ stairs since so many of them were making for their beds. He didn’t want to be seen weaving like a drunkard.

The elixir had hit him hard tonight. No doubt a result of the wine he’d had in the library while waiting for the bricks to work. What a fool he’d been for combining the two.

At least his leg wasn’t hurting. He couldn’t feel much of anything, including his nose. He couldn’t test the theory, however, since his right hand was currently holding on to the banister and the left was carrying his walking stick.

Damnable thing, that. He hated the tangible proof of his injury. A constant reminder of his own fallacy. He’d been a fool to take Ercole out that day. He wasn’t the horseman his brother had been.

He wasn’t a lot of things his brother had been, including profligate and hedonistic. No, he was the proper son, the dutiful and honorable child of the wildly popular 9th Duke of Roth. A boy shuttled off to school when he got old enough, given enough funds to purchase a commission when he’d reached his majority.

He’d never done anything to attract the wrong kind of attention, but neither did he have that spark, that something that compelled people’s interest. His father had it. Simon had it. Reese had it. Even the annoying Josephine York had it.

He wasn’t dangerous or demanding or dictatorial. He wanted peace and contentment and order around him. He wanted to be able to give his mind room to breathe, to function, to examine and detect.

The landing abruptly tilted, making him idly wonder if he was going to tumble down the stairs. The Duke of Roth found at the bottom of the grand staircase, limbs shattered, mind lost, a fool dead before his time.

He gripped the banister even tighter, refusing to lose his footing. That’s one thing he had for which he’d never been given credit—a stubbornness filling every part of him. He wouldn’t give up. He would never surrender. Not to infirmity. Not to circumstances. Not to the mind-altering effects of the elixir.

Finally, he was done with the stairs, walking with some difficulty down the corridor. He stretched out his left hand as a guide, his fingers brushing against the wall to keep him centered on the runner.

He thought he heard laughter. Or it might be the elixir, bringing him taunting sounds and images as it normally did. He lived in a cloud of his own imagination when forced to take the stuff. He saw fantastical animals, colors, and shapes. Nothing was tethered to the earth but seemed to float slightly above the ground.

Not far now. Only a little way. Once in his room he would collapse on his bed and let the hallucinations continue. He’d allow himself to become part of them, the god on the clouds, Neptune of the sea, a bee buzzing in the Duchess’s Garden.

Thank God he was almost to his suite.

The bedroom was dark, the only light spilling in from the sitting room. She moved back behind the screen as the duke entered the suite. The door closed hard behind him, the noise loud in the silence of the night.

Was he angry?

She hoped not, because she needed to come out from behind the screen and announce herself. How could she explain being in his living quarters without him summarily banishing them tomorrow? Coupled with Josephine’s outrageous actions, they’d hardly been the perfect houseguests, had they? Whether or not Gran felt up to the journey, there was every chance they would be asked to leave.

She heard halting footsteps near, so close she held her breath.

Now, Martha. Step out now and explain yourself.

“Who’s there?”

His voice was odd, the speech slurred. Had he spent the time since dinner imbibing more spirits?

She peered out from behind the screen to encounter Jordan standing only a foot or two away from her.

His hand reached out and touched her, his fingers brushing against her bodice.

“What the devil?”

She swallowed with difficulty, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, they were trapped in her throat.

What could she possibly say?

He was suddenly closer. She raised one hand and encountered his shirt. In the past few hours he’d taken off his jacket, appearing as he had in the boathouse.

She was trembling. Could he feel it?

He took another step. His shoe edged hers, a curious mating.

He bent his head, his breath on her forehead.

“A dream,” he muttered. “A fevered wish granted.”

She didn’t understand, but she thought he might be intoxicated.

Her heart felt as if it was skipping beats. She was breathless as if she’d been running in the past few minutes instead of hiding in his room.

Her hand moved, the fingers splaying. She closed her eyes, the better to sense him. Although she had sketched out her father’s plans, she had no talent at drawing. For the first time, she wished she could take charcoal and paper and draw him as she felt him.

No doubt it was the influence of the mural of Rome, but she saw him as a gladiator, naked but for strips of leather, his eyes deadly intent. This man would fight for his life, would combat anything or anyone set against him.

He frightened her at the same time he excited something in her, a wish, a desire, a need to be someone different. Daring Martha. Beautiful Martha. Martha, who incited a man’s yearning.

His breath was on her cheek now and she knew she should step away. Instead, she held herself still.

“Shall I kiss you, creature of my dreams?”

She should tell him who she was. She should inform him that she was the plain Martha with whom he had worked this afternoon. The same woman who’d been half in love with him before she ever met him.

His breath was on her lips now.

Josephine would have taken advantage of the moment. Josephine would have reached up, put her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to his kiss.

She wasn’t Josephine.

But she did the same, standing on tiptoe, stretching both hands up to link behind his neck, waiting. Her first kiss and she desperately wanted it to be with him.

Suddenly, his mouth was on hers and she gasped in wonder. Every part of her body felt as if it was tingling, from her toes to the warmth inside her.

His lips tasted of wine, but that was only the first surprise.

No one had ever hinted about a kiss. Nor had anything she ever read explained it would harness your breath and send your heart catapulting. Your mind would be emptied of all thoughts until it felt as if light spread through you. Your body became a stained-glass window, vibrant colors appearing behind your closed lids.

Her hands tightened behind his neck as she began to tremble. His arms went around her, linking at her back, pulling her even tighter to him.

Could he feel her breasts?

She wanted him to touch her, which was only one of the shocking thoughts she had in the next few minutes. He didn’t release her and she didn’t struggle against him.

When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard.

“You feel real,” he said, his voice different. Lower, perhaps, or slower, as if the words had been carefully considered and deliberately spoken.

She was shocking herself, but she didn’t want to leave. Not yet. Give her a moment or two more of this bliss, please, enough to last her for a lifetime of memories.

“You can’t be real.”

Oh, but she was. More to the point, so was he. So real, so warm, and so close.

His fingers trailed over the edge of her collar. No one had ever told her that her neck would be so sensitive, or that a man’s fingers would bring fire in their wake. No, not any man, only this man.

Had he had a great deal of experience in seduction? It seemed as if he had, because he bent to kiss her again and her whole body felt as if it was inflamed.

If anyone saw her now, she’d be ruined. Worse, she would be ridiculed. Who did she think she was? A true beauty, or a seductress—someone who could enchant the Duke of Roth? No, she was only Martha York, the girl who worked with her father, who could always be found out on the lake. Never in a ducal apartment adrift in passion.

She really had to leave. She had to escape, now, before anything else untoward happened. She was not going to continue to press herself against his body, marvel at his physique, or compare him to other men she’d seen.

She’d never been this close to a man or allowed one to take liberties with her. Not once had she encouraged a kiss or hoped he would touch her.

How shameful was she? She wanted to see him without his clothes. She chastised herself mentally for her forwardness but she didn’t move away. She couldn’t remember ever having that wish about anyone, but it seemed so natural and so right to want to place her hands on his bare shoulders, marvel at the play of muscles she could feel beneath the shirt. Please, give her a few minutes to flatten her hands against his chest, allow her fingers to trail through the hair there, then dance across his flat stomach.

Her thoughts weren’t the least virginal. She wished she had more experience instead of having only witnessed the act on a shadowed terrace.

A button on his shirt slipped free. Two fingers slid into the placket, her fingertips resting against the skin of his chest. By her actions she’d broken some kind of barrier, one of thought and will.

Slowly she undid two more buttons until her hand slipped inside his shirt. She felt as if she’d done this before, as if she knew him in an elemental way. As if kissing him was natural and so were her explorations.

His fast breathing was an echo of hers. Was his heart beating as rapidly? Were his thoughts as chaotic?

She knew what she was doing was wrong, could never be explained to another soul. Yet, at the same time, it felt right and ordained. She was supposed to be here with him in this shadowed bedroom. She was destined to touch him, ramping up the wonder and passion she felt.

He didn’t move. She continued until all the buttons were open and she could push the edges of the shirt wide.

Stepping forward, she placed her lips on his chest, a kiss of benediction, of wonder, and possibly of supplication.

She knew what she wanted to do next, continue disrobing him, revealing him in all his beauty. She wanted to run her hands over his skin, rejoicing in the symmetry and perfection of his body.

She didn’t get the chance.