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absurd or extreme. None of them seemed to be free of problems and potential for disaster. When the idea struck she strode faster, her eyes darting furiously over an interior landscape only she could view.
    It was dangerous. It was unthinkable. But it was probably her only way out.
    The door opened and Ella backed through with a linen-draped tray in her hands. Turning, she stopped dead at the sight of Brien pacing between bed and window seat.
    “My lady, what are ye doing? Ye’ll catch yer death.” She quickly deposited the tray on a bedside table and hurried over to usher her mistress back into bed. “I spoke with ’is lordship a bit ago an’
    said ye were ailin’ an’ unable t’ go on t’ London for yer final fittings.”
    “On the contrary.” Brien resisted Ella’s pull and straightened, raising her chin. “My grievous indisposition will disappear in plenty of time for us to set out tomorrow for London, as planned.”
    “It will?” Ella scowled, puzzled by Brien’s emphatic forecast of her recovery.
    “It will. I need to get to London as quickly as possible.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “I need to get married.”
    Ella’s scowl deepened. “But ye will be married. In yon chapel. In three weeks.”
    Brien produced a fierce smile that contained equal parts of pain and determination. “I’ve decided I simply cannot wait that long.”

    Five
    IF YOU WALK OUT NOW, don’t bother ever coming back.”
    Aaron Durham paused with his hand on the polished brass knob.
    Go or stay. His father’s ultimatum had a tempting air of finality about it. Choose now, once and for all.
    However inviting that promise of finality might seem, it was in fact an illusion. He had lived long enough to know that if he chose what his father demanded, he would suffer this hollowing pain in his chest again and again . . . would revisit this cursed choice every day for the rest of his life. His heart would not let him do otherwise. The sight of ripples on a lake, the smell of the sea riding inland on the wind of a storm . . . a toy boat gliding across a garden pond . . . any sensation evoking water and movement would be a reminder of what might have been.
    His father must have read indecision in his pause by the door.
    Aaron could feel the old earl approaching, stopping behind him, searching for whatever might tip the balance in favor of rank and duty. What would it take to make his son abandon his absurd notion of working like some gritty little tradesman? What would it take to get his son to accept the marriage that had been arranged and redirect his energies into making an heir on the chit?
    “It would take more than you have, old man,” Aaron said, startling the earl with an answer to those unspoken questions.
    “A moment ago it would have taken a few thousand pounds,” the old man taunted.
    Aaron’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “A moment ago, all I wanted was for you to free my accounts so that I could finish my ship. Now I want to finish my ship, and do it as far away from you as possible.”

    “Ungrateful whelp!” The disdain in the old man’s voice raked him like claws. “This is a childish fancy . . . playing with boats!”
    “ Building ships. You’ll never understand the distinction, will you?” Frustration gripped Aaron’s chest so that he had to fight to draw breath enough to speak. “Because you can’t imagine what it is like to build something . . . to see your design, your brainchild take flesh and bone . . . to shape it with your own hands and test it against wind and sea. You’ve never produced anything in your life.”
    “Except a fool of a son.” The earl grabbed his shoulder and pulled, turning him partway. “You’ve had your last shilling from your mother’s legacy. You’re cut off and you’ll stay cut off. I’m the trustee; I have the legal right. Unless you agree to come back to Wiltshire right now and make plans to wed, you won’t see another penny.”
    “That money is mine.” Aaron