“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.

Reese would say he was being rude. He was being rude. He didn’t wish them to be his houseguests. He didn’t want them here. He didn’t want his life or his routine disrupted, especially by people he’d not invited to his home.

People he’d tried his best to avoid.

He glanced over to find Martha frowning at him, an expression he found preferable to her look of pity. He was damned if she was going to feel sorry for him.

He was the Duke of Roth, after all. The owner of Sedgebrook, one of the finest houses in Britain. Weren’t those the two points the solicitor had emphasized when Jordan had unexpectedly ascended to the title?

“Of course, Your Grace, the coffers aren’t quite as full as they once were,” he’d added.

Any fool knew what profligate spenders his father and brother had been. What he’d inherited was a ruinously expensive house, a title, and hell all else. The disposition, turning nastier by the day, was all his. Perhaps he did have a reason for it, but the angels of his better nature appealed to him to at least remember his manners.

Stop being an arse.

“You will stay with us, then, at least until you’re feeling better,” he found himself saying. He forced an agreeable expression to his face and wondered if he looked as pained as he felt.

Mrs. York lifted her hand, evidently with some effort, and waved it in his direction.

“We couldn’t possibly be an imposition, Your Grace,” she said weakly.

Josephine smiled.

Martha stared up at the ceiling.

“Of course you must,” he said. “I won’t hear of your leaving until you’re back to yourself. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll go and make arrangements now.”

He wanted away from them. As far away as he could get, knowing that politeness—drilled into him by his nurses and nanny—would dictate he saw them again shortly to ensure they were comfortably settled.

Turning, he made his way out of the room and down the corridor, knowing his peaceful life had been irreparably destroyed, at least for the next few days.

“Your Grace.”

He stopped, halted by Frederick’s appearance.

“The wagon is here, sir.”

The wagon. Oh, yes, the bequest he didn’t want.

“Send it around to the stables, Frederick,” he said.

The sooner he accepted the gift, the sooner the three of them would be gone. With any luck, Mrs. York would recover quickly and yearn for home posthaste.

“Shall I have it unpacked, sir?”

“Yes, but leave it in one of the unused stalls.”

He never went to the stables anymore. Putting the contents of the wagon there would mean he didn’t have to see any of York’s work.

Frederick bowed slightly to him as he always did, taking his look of consternation off down the corridor.

She’d taken away the pleasure he’d felt in his invention. Did she know it? Did the sober and pitying Martha York know she’d single-handedly ruined the whole of it for him?

He didn’t know who he was angrier at, her or York for going and dying on him.

Dear God, please don’t let the grandmother die, too. He could just imagine the chaos that event would induce.

When Martha learned of the duke’s arrangements, she almost threw her hands up in exasperation. Her grandmother was feeling faint. The last thing she needed to do was to climb yet another set of stairs to the guest suites located on the second floor.

The duke, however, exonerated himself by sending the housekeeper and four footmen to the parlor. Gran was convinced to lie down on a contraption of canvas sheeting supported by two poles. In that manner, her grandmother was carried up the gilded sweeping stairs.

“We put your grandmother in the Florence room,” the housekeeper said as they followed at a sedate pace behind the footmen.

The woman had introduced herself minutes earlier as Mrs. Browning. A singular name, since it seemed everything about the woman was brown. She had curly brown hair, warm brown eyes, and wore a dark brown dress with brown shoes. At her neck was a cameo, again in shades of brown, revealing the silhouette of a young woman.

“I’m having the Palermo and Naples rooms prepared for you and your sister, unless you would prefer to share a room.”

The last was said in the form of the question. Martha shook her head.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” she said. “Two rooms would be fine.”

She’d never shared a room with Josephine and she didn’t want to start now, even in difficult circumstances. Josephine was a chatterbox intent on sharing her opinion about a great many subjects, including anything she saw or felt. Unfortunately, a great many of those opinions were complaints. Nothing was quite as perfect as Josephine thought it should be.

The fact that Josephine had not said one word since the duke had left them was an aberration, one that had her glancing back at her sister. Josephine’s eyes were wide as she was taking in their progress up the stairs and down the corridor. Evidently Sedgebrook had done for her what no amount of pleading could: made her cease complaining.

“His Grace has sent for the physician,” Mrs. Browning was saying. “Dr. Reynolds doesn’t live far away.”

Her estimation of the duke’s character went up another notch. “Please convey my thanks to him for that. I’m sorry we’re such an imposition.”

The housekeeper didn’t disagree with Martha’s assessment, only smiled gently.

“These things happen, don’t they? I’m sure your grandmother will be fine in a day or so. And then you’ll have all this to look back on as an adventure.”

She would just as soon have stayed at Griffin House, but she didn’t explain to the housekeeper why they were here. Nor did she say a word about the duke and his stubbornness. If he’d agreed to come and get her father’s bequest, she wouldn’t have had to travel here in the first place. Consequently, Gran wouldn’t have been worn-out.

At least half of the blame was his, a comment she didn’t make.

The footmen hesitated halfway down the hall. Mrs. Browning made her way to a door, opening it to reveal the guest chamber set aside for Gran.

The room was richly appointed, with rust-colored curtains matching the bed drapes and counterpane. All of the furniture was beautifully carved mahogany and looked as if it would endure for hundreds of years.

She thought she understood why the rooms were named after cities in Italy when she saw the mural painted along one wall of the Florence room. Her suspicion was verified when Mrs. Browning escorted her to the room assigned to be hers. Here one wall was decorated with scenes of the Mediterranean and the Bay of Naples.

She stood there for a moment, marveling at the detail the artist had provided. Clotheslines stretched between the buildings, so realistically drawn she could almost hear the flapping of the shirts in the afternoon breeze.

“The 10th Duke of Roth painted all of these. His Grace’s brother. He so loved Italy. It’s where the poor soul died. I think he would have painted every room at Sedgebrook, but he was taken from us too soon.”

She wanted to ask more about the artist duke, but thought any questions would be too intrusive. After all, she was only a guest and a reluctantly hosted one.

“We keep country hours at Sedgebrook,” the housekeeper said at the door. “Dinner is at seven. Would you like me to send a maid to direct you to the dining room? Or would you prefer trays in your rooms?”

Dinner in their rooms would entail extra effort on the part of the staff and she didn’t want to be any more of a burden. When she said as much to the housekeeper, the woman smiled.

“It’s one and the same, miss. Either a place at the dining table or a tray, it’s no bother. It’s what you prefer.”

“A tray would be ideal, then, Mrs. Browning.”

She wished they weren’t a day away from Griffin House. If Gran didn’t hate trains so much, Martha would have made the arrangements for all of them to return home in a private car, leaving Charles to bring the carriage at his own pace. She didn’t want to agitate Gran, however, so it was best if she just bided her time, and was patient—as difficult as it was—allowing circumstances to play out.

After the housekeeper left, she went to the room across the hall.

Josephine answered her knock with a broad smile.

“Isn’t Sedgebrook the most wonderful place in the whole wide world, Martha? Can’t you just imagine the balls we could have here? People would come from all over England to attend. It’s so empty-feeling now, as if it wants to be filled with people.”

“Gran is ill,” she said. “That’s where your thoughts should be, Josephine.”

“Why should I worry? You do it so well for both of us.”

She didn’t have a response to Josephine’s barb, but it didn’t matter. Her sister carried on with her self-absorbed monologue.

“Of course, the duke is lame, but a title could go a long way to making a woman forget certain things. What a pity he isn’t as handsome as Mr. Burthren.”

Josephine was wrong. The duke wasn’t lame. How rude of her to call him so. He’d been injured, which was obvious. He was in pain, which was a certainty as well, at least to anyone who cared to look. He was also proud and didn’t like for people to see him maneuver with his walking stick.

What had happened to him?

Her father had told her that Hamilton had recently come into the dukedom at the unexpected death of his older brother. She didn’t know any more than that. Nor had she ever considered he might be handsome or arresting. Or that she would have such a profound reaction to him.

“I’m going to go sit with Gran,” Martha said, determined not to think of the duke any further. “I’ve asked the housekeeper to bring us a dinner tray.”

“I think that would be the height of rudeness, Martha. I think we should take dinner with our host.”

She didn’t remind Josephine that the Duke of Roth wasn’t happy about them being there. Insisting on sharing a meal with him would be like poking a stick in the eye of a wounded bear. No, it was best if they simply kept to themselves.

Josephine, however, wasn’t happy about her decision. She sent her more than one annoyed glance as they made their way down the corridor to the Florence room.

To her surprise, her grandmother was sitting up in bed, watching as Amy was unpacking a trunk.

“When did you have a trunk loaded onto the coach?” Martha asked, surprised.

“One must always plan for contingencies, Martha.”

“It looks as if you’ve planned for a week, Gran, if not a fortnight.”

Her grandmother only smiled at her, the color back in her cheeks.

“Are you feeling better?”

“A trifle,” Gran said.

Attired in one of her lace-trimmed nightgowns, her grandmother looked none the worse for wear propped up in the grand Italian-style bed. The mahogany headboard behind her was richly carved with grapes and vines, the dark wood a perfect backdrop for her snowy white hair and blue eyes.

If she didn’t know any better, she would think Gran was feigning illness. Yet it would be so unlike her grandmother that Martha immediately dismissed the thought. Perhaps the trunk was only a sign of Gran’s practicality showing once again.

When the knock came, Martha answered the door. A maid stood there with a tray of tea and crackers.

“I was feeling a bit peckish,” Gran explained. “It will tide me over until dinner.”

Josephine plopped down on the chair next to the window.

“She won’t let us go down to dinner with the duke,” she said. “She’s a martinet, Gran. You have to do something about her.”

“We haven’t been invited to dinner, Josephine,” Martha said, conscious of the maid’s presence in the room.

Thankfully, Josephine didn’t continue with her complaints. Instead, she began to describe the wonders of her room to Gran, who listened with great interest.

Gran really did look as if she felt better. Had the spell at the top of the steps been something temporary or had it been a warning sign of another, more serious, condition? Hopefully, the duke’s doctor would allay her fears and they could return home to Griffin House tomorrow.

“He’s not married, is he?” Josephine asked. “I’m certain we would have heard about a duchess if he were. Of course, there’s his atrocious limp.”

Truly, didn’t Josephine notice the maid?

The girl left, no doubt ready to tell tales of the York women and their gossip.

“Surely His Grace will ask you to dinner soon enough, Josephine,” Gran said as Martha returned from the door. “And find you charming.”

The imp of suspicion popped its head up again. She studied her grandmother, but Gran avoided her look, choosing to lean back against the pillows, place her linked hands on her chest, and smile at Josephine.

Was this Gran’s idea of matchmaking? Surely not. Yet a great many things had happened in the past year she would never have considered, such as her stepmother leaving Griffin House for France without a backward glance and the strange bequest she’d tried for a year to honor.

She hoped the physician arrived quickly. She’d pull him aside and ask if there was any way her grandmother could travel. With any luck the physician would agree that the train would be acceptable and they could be quit of Sedgebrook as soon as possible.

“I’m sure I shan’t like what they serve for dinner,” Josephine was saying now.

Josephine would complain about Heaven. Dear God, could the feathers of my wings be a little whiter? There’s gold near the tips. Could we have more fluff in that cloud over there? Does St. Peter have to announce the names of the newly arrived in such a loud voice?

“I’m sure if you don’t like what they serve we could ask for something else,” she said. “Perhaps some broth, or toast.”

“No lamb,” Josephine said. “I shall never eat lamb.”

Martha only nodded. “No lamb.”

The knock on the door was a reprieve and when she went to open it found the housekeeper standing beside a tall thin man in a blue suit. His beard was cut close to his face, but his mustache was easily twice the width of his mouth and curled up on the ends. His brown eyes were kind and amused, as if he found the world a delightful, if puzzling, place.

“Miss York, this is Dr. Reynolds.”

Thank heavens. They were one more step closer to getting home.