Page 8 of The English Duke
No one greeted them as the carriage stopped. Finally, Charles descended from his driver’s perch, came around to the door and opened it, holding out his arm.
Martha left the vehicle first so she could help Gran.
“What should we do?” she asked after Josephine joined them. “Do you think he’s home?”
“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.”
