“Why are we going this way?” Josephine asked.

“There’s no other way to reach the stables.”

“I’m not going to the stables,” Josephine said, stopping in the middle of the path. “We were going to the boathouse.”

“We have to go to the stables first,” Martha said, trying to push back her irritation. “I have to move Father’s crates.”

Josephine grabbed her skirts and mumbled something under her breath. Martha caught only a few words, but it was enough to make her frown at her sister.

“It’s no good complaining,” she said. “I’m responsible for Father’s work.”

“Not anymore,” Josephine said. “You’ve given it to the duke and it’s his now.”

She didn’t bother trying to explain what had happened. Her sister simply didn’t care and attempting to make her understand would be a waste of time and effort.

Frederick had told her a footman would meet her at the stall and she could direct him to load the material into a handcart, the better to transport it to the boathouse. She hadn’t, however, thought Josephine would be following her, punctuating every step with another complaint.

The smell was horrid.

The flies were abominable.

You would think Josephine had never been around horses before when it was just the opposite. She rode every day, taking one of her three favorite horses out around Griffin House. Josephine never rode with a companion, saying no one could keep up with her. Martha wasn’t as good a horsewoman as her sister. She respected horses, but she could go for a long time without riding one.

Once inside the stables Josephine stopped to admire one of the duke’s stallions. Martha glanced at the name above the stall: Ercole.

“Aren’t you a beauty?” Josephine said, rubbing the horse’s nose.

Martha continued on to the stall, catching sight of both the stablemaster and a young man in dark blue livery.

“His Grace said to bring everything, Miss York,” the older man said. “Is there anything we should start with?”

She nodded, directing them to which crates she wanted loaded first.

Grabbing a small bag packed with the most recent notes she’d taken, she put it atop the handcart—a wagon pulled by a human being rather than a horse. Once the cart was filled, she followed the footman, a young man by the name of Ben, with bright red hair, a freckled face, and a pleasant smile, out of the stables and down the path to the boathouse.

Josephine had rejoined her by this time and was raving about the duke’s horses.

“I’m going to ride that stallion,” she said.

“You didn’t bring your habit,” Martha said. A second later she looked at her sister. “You didn’t, did you?”

“If I did?”

She didn’t know what to say. Had both Josephine and her grandmother planned for this visit to be something other than what she’d anticipated? This trip to Sedgebrook had been to carry out her father’s wishes, not to parade Josephine in front of the duke.

She wasn’t feeling betrayed as much as irritated by both her relatives.

“You’re going to have to remain silent while we’re working,” she said.

Josephine didn’t say anything, only sent her a quick look. She noted, however, that Josephine was also checking her appearance as they walked.

The dress her sister was wearing was a lovely blue on white print, the sash at her waist a matching blue. Her hat had a large brim to better shade her complexion from the sun and was secured by a ribbon Josephine had tied to one side under her chin.

She couldn’t help but wonder how many dresses Josephine had packed. The original plan was to stay overnight at an inn after delivering the wagon to Sedgebrook. She’d brought only one additional dress, the pale lavender garment she’d worn this morning. Nor had she bothered grabbing her bonnet before leaving the house. A bonnet only made her hair worse. Nothing would stop it from curling, especially being so close to the water.

She was being silly, almost like Josephine in wanting male approbation. Her sister flirted with every man in sight, even the tradesmen who appeared at Griffin House. Was it something she’d learned or inherited from her mother? Marie had been the same, exceptionally charming, but more so toward men.

It was as if she developed a separate personality when dealing with males. She’d seen Josephine change when a man walked into a room. The effect was startling and disconcerting. She was left wondering exactly which person was actually Josephine.

She had no doubt her sister would spend the whole time at the boathouse flirting with the duke. He would, no doubt, allow himself to be charmed like all of Josephine’s conquests.

Once they were in sight of the boathouse, the footman pulled off the path and let them precede him. Martha grabbed the valise and led the way, ignoring Josephine’s complaints about the weeds, the smell of the lake, and the blinding sun.

The door to the boathouse was open, but she knocked on the frame. When she heard the duke speak, she stepped inside, momentarily blinded until her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

“Your Grace?” Josephine called, her voice taking on the velvet tone she used when talking to men.

“Yes?”

Martha could finally see him, seated at the bench on the far side of the boathouse. He’d taken off his jacket again, revealing his white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

She’d never before admired a man’s arms. What was wrong with her?

“I’ve brought my father’s things,” Martha said.

“Our father,” Josephine interjected.

She sent Josephine a quick look, but her sister wasn’t paying any attention. Instead, Josephine had a smile on her face as she looked at the duke.

If he was still simply a naval officer, as he’d once been, would Josephine be so charming?

Pushing that disloyal thought away, she placed the valise she carried onto the workbench, opened it, and withdrew a sheaf of papers.

“These are the last of my father’s notes,” she said.

He nodded, but didn’t reach for the notes.

“What a lovely place you’ve made this,” Josephine said.

Martha glanced at her sister in disbelief.

The whole of the interior of the boathouse was shadowed. There were no flowers or other embellishments about the structure. The only thing “lovely” about the boathouse was its spaciousness and the lure of the bright afternoon in the glint of the sun off the lake.

Josephine, however, wasn’t finished.

“Not only are you the Duke of Roth, but you’re so clever, Your Grace.”

The duke turned on his stool and regarded Josephine with some interest. Next, he would say something about her appearance, how she made the boathouse brighter with her beauty. Then he’d smile at her and the two of them would be encased in a special bubble of mutual attraction.

Meanwhile, she’d feel unwanted and invisible.

“Not as clever as your father, Miss York,” he said. Surprisingly, he looked over at Martha. “I have your father’s latest letters,” he said, pulling a box forward. “Would it be any inconvenience for you to look through them?”

“You want to see if there’s anything he told you that I didn’t list in his notes?”

He nodded.

Actually, it was a wise idea. Her father meant to include ideas in his daily notes but sometimes forgot. She often had to ask him to fill in the gaps between days or even processes.

She took the box from him and looked around for a place to sit. He gestured to a stool not far away. She grabbed it with one hand, dragging it below a clear spot on the workbench.

“Well, I can certainly see you didn’t plan on visitors,” Josephine said on a trilling laugh. “Wherever shall I sit?”

Any of Josephine’s admirers would have immediately stood and offered his stool to her. The fact that the duke blatantly ignored her sister was not only startling, but it evidently infuriated Josephine.

“Shall I just stand here, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice losing its seductive timbre and carrying a note of irritation.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Miss York,” he said, not looking in Josephine’s direction. “I’ve not planned on visitors. Perhaps dinner would be a better place to converse.”

Martha didn’t turn when Josephine flounced out of the boathouse a few minutes later. She’d seen her sister’s tantrums often enough to be able to picture Josephine’s expression, the clenched fists on her skirts, and her stomping progress back to the house.

Neither of them spoke. The duke didn’t offer any explanations for his rudeness. Nor did she attempt to excuse Josephine’s behavior. Sometimes, silence was better than words.

Perhaps she should leave, too, demonstrating a loyalty to Josephine her sister honestly didn’t deserve in this instance. She knew, when she next saw her sister, that Josephine was going to criticize her for all the things she should have said, but didn’t. If she was going to bear the brunt of Josephine’s anger, she might as well do what she wanted first, spend some time with the surprising Duke of Roth.

She was startled to find that her father had written Hamilton more often than she realized. Although she’d read each of the duke’s letters, she’d rarely seen the letters her father had sent him.

Five years of letters were carefully arranged by date. Some letters were dated the same day. Each looked well-read. In addition, the duke had made notes in the margins. A great many times his comments had echoed her own thoughts. Sometimes he questioned things she’d never considered.

She found herself embarrassed about her father’s praise. He wrote about her in almost every letter, but his words weren’t limited to her assistance with his work. No, he even talked about her sense of humor, her penchant for laughing at the most awful jests, her frustration with being unable to make something work the way she wanted. To her horror, she discovered her father had even commented on her disastrous season.

I cannot think that Martha will find these entertainments to her liking. She does not suffer fools gladly, my daughter. She has, instead, a wish to engage people on intellectual pursuits and, in doing so, is often considered strange or odd.

She could only stare at the letter, the paper trembling in her hands just a little. Surely her father hadn’t meant those words to sound so cruel.

Without speaking, the duke pulled the letter from her hands and read it.

“Your feelings are hurt, I take it?” he said. “Foolish of you, if so.”

She glanced to the left and saw that he was studying her intently.

“Why foolish?”

“Your father obviously had the greatest admiration for you, Miss York. He merely meant you were too intelligent for most people. That’s not an insult.”

She blinked at him.

“Surely you’ve thought the same thing yourself,” he said. “Or will you deny it? Have you never found yourself in a group and felt alone?”

“Yes,” she said. “Not because of my great and magnificent intelligence, but because I was different.”

“Ah, but don’t you see? You’re different because of your great and magnificent intelligence. It’s been my experience that most people don’t want to think. They simply wish to be. But being isn’t enough, don’t you see? We were given our brains—even women—to use them. They’re not simply there to put a hat on and look pretty.”

“You needn’t say it like that. ‘Even women.’”

He only smiled at her, the expression so unexpectedly charming she was silenced.

“He loved you,” he softly said. “And he was proud of you.”

“Thank you,” she said, reaching out and taking the letter back.

She truly did appreciate his kindness, especially since she hadn’t expected it.

“He had the greatest admiration for you, too,” she added. “He always said how logical you were, how you made these leaps of thought that saved him days and weeks of worrying about a problem.”

“I liked him,” he said. “I respected him, but I found myself liking him, too. He had a sense of humor that showed in his writings. He was capable of poking fun at himself, which I found endearing.”

She would not look at him, especially since she was trying, desperately, to blink her tears away. His words brought back her father so strongly he might have been there in the boathouse with them.

After clearing her throat she said, “I’m sorry I said what I did earlier. I shouldn’t have. I know you would have been there if you could. I’m glad he had you for a friend. My father didn’t have many friends. He, too, didn’t suffer fools gladly.”

She glanced at him to find him looking at her. She smiled and he responded in kind.

She really shouldn’t be here alone with the duke. Not when her thoughts weren’t entirely on her father’s work.

Josephine avoided the worst of the brambles on the side of the path. This was a new dress, a garment her mother had sent her from France and she wouldn’t have it ruined. At least she cared about her appearance and her wardrobe.

Gran wouldn’t be pleased to hear how rude Martha had been. Nor had her sister done one thing to make the duke offer her somewhere to sit, or even ask her to remain. No, Martha had been insufferable and Gran would have something to say about her behavior.

What a pity Martha was too old to be sent to her room with only tea and crackers for supper. But if Gran was angry enough, perhaps she could keep Martha from attending the dinner with the duke and his friend. That would mean she’d be alone with two handsome men.

If her sister was, somehow, allowed to attend dinner then she would simply have to regale the two gentlemen with tales of Martha’s exploits. How Martha was not averse to wading into the lake with her dress tucked between her legs, trying to find something that had fallen off their father’s silly ship. Or how many times Martha had come home with her face all red from the sun or her dress covered in mud, unconcerned about how she looked, or smelled, for that matter. How many times she had returned to the house stinking of one of their father’s chemicals. Or, heaven forbid, with blistered hands from pounding copper.

Martha behaved just like a man and men didn’t care for such behavior.

“You have a cat’s smile. As if you’ve just eaten a defenseless bird.”

Looking up, she saw Reese Burthren standing there, leaning against the gate. She would have to pass him in order to get to the house. She pushed aside her irritation and smiled brightly at him instead, ignoring his rude remark.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Burthren. Isn’t it a lovely day?”

“Have you been visiting Jordan?”

She stopped in the middle of the path, clasping her hands together in front of her. Was he going to block her entrance to the walkway? If the price for getting past him was a few minutes of charm, she could certainly accomplish that.

“I accompanied my sister to the boathouse,” she said. “We delivered my father’s papers and experiments to the duke. Do you share an interest in his work?”

“Only tangentially,” he said, smiling slowly at her.

He truly did have a lovely smile. Men smiled for different reasons than women, her mother had told her. A woman will smile to hide something, but men always smiled to reveal themselves, especially when they were fascinated with a woman.

She returned his expression, thinking if the duke wasn’t around, she might reciprocate Mr. Burthren’s interest. For now, however, her main occupation was Jordan Hamilton. If she wanted him, he was hers. He may not know it yet, but he would.

“You don’t seem the type to be interested in torpedo ships,” he said.

“I’m not. I think men are more suited to such things.”

“Your sister doesn’t feel the same way.”

“No,” she said. “She doesn’t. Martha has no interest in feminine pursuits.”

“Ah, but if she did she’d be competition, wouldn’t she?”

His smile had changed character, become almost insulting.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Surely he could recognize that Martha was almost plain while she wasn’t. If he expected her to say something along those lines he was going to be disappointed. Maman had always told her men prefer a modest approach. Besides, it was better to let them think they’d come up with an idea with careful coaching.

If she cared enough about Reese Burthren, she’d make sure he decided she was the prettier of the two sisters. However, she didn’t, so his opinion mattered only a little.

“I understand you’ve been exploring Sedgebrook,” he said.

“If I have? Why is it any of your concern?”

“I’m told you made a few interesting comments. Things like what you would change or not.”

“How do you know that?”

She was not going to use Constance again if the maid told tales about her.

“Do you see yourself as the next Duchess of Roth, Miss York?”

She really did have to rid the man of his insulting smile.

“You are in my way, Mr. Burthren. I would like to return to the house.”

To her surprise, he stepped aside, still smiling. She had the feeling he watched her as she passed, but she didn’t look back.