Though spoken in Ellen's mental voice, the description of John Peck originally comes from Howard Chapelle, a naval architect associated with the Smithsonian Institute. The Roscullen's have been created for this story but the characters and family history featured are pieced together from a variety of Irish and Welsh baronets and viscounts. Cheers!

Summer 1799

Apprenticing with a secretive, egotistical, easily discouraged naval architect had taught Ellen many things. Such as when to voice her thoughts and when to refrain, when to make her presence known, when to blend in with her surroundings, and how important access to food and drink was for creative geniuses. Presently, the access to food and drink drove her to leave the cooler corners of John Peck's harbor office and suffer the oppressive summer sun. Dressed in a simple ankle-length pale blue dress, with thick calf-height gaiters protecting her feet and her "modesty," Ellen tucked a pale blue cap over her unruly bun before pushing through the office door. The door was nearly closing when Ellen nudged it open again with her foot. Reaching inside, she grabbed her reticule off the side table closest to the door. Food and drink required money, not smiles, in payment.

A familiar voice sounded from the street behind her as she was locking up, "Have you given further consideration to my offer?"

Jolting, Ellen dropped the keys in surprise. She held in a curse as she watched the ring fall through the cracks in the wooden platform just outside the office. They teetered and wobbled until finally, they dropped into the dank dredges of harbor filth that collected beneath the platform.

"Allow me," his voice held tinges of amusement, "it seems we are making this a habit."

Not bothering to feign a protest, considering it was his fault she'd dropped the keys in the first place, Ellen moved down the steps to wait on the curb while he fetched them back.

"Which is the habit? Your surprising me, or my dropping things?" When she heard his responding chuckle, Ellen smiled. His laughter always seemed to bring a fresh sense of joy to her soul. At least, a unique element of joy that only built while in his presence.

Returning to the curb, dustier than when she'd first glanced him, he held out the keys for her retrieval, his smile growing when she fell for his ploy and reached for them but missed when he tipped his hand higher out of reach. Ellen didn't bother making a second attempt. He would hand them over when she had need of them. Let him carry their weight until then.

"Well, it seems both habits are so far intricately interconnected." Tucking the keys into a vest pocket, he offered his arm. "I know not where you are headed, but let me escort you nonetheless."

Ellen giggled as she accepted his arm and quickly fell into a comfortable gait beside him. Suddenly the oppressive heat transformed into a friendly warmth and the usual pungent scents of the harbor fell away as she caught the scent of leather and thyme, a unique blend she'd come to associate with him.

"Is that what it would be for the rest of our days should I accept your offer, viscount?"

With a feigned look of pain, he drew back, "Borlas, my dear. Not viscount. Mister Carney, if you insist on formalities. So long as I remain here, working with your mentor and uncle, I see no need for titles. Unless that title is that of 'husband' spoken from your lips."

"You truly are incorrigible." Ellen laughed, always impressed with Borlas' ability to twist and turn words to his benefit. "And I repeat my question, Mister Carney," in her peripherals she saw his exaggerated sigh, and her smile grew, "would you always give me leave to lead? Not so much in the social sense, but in my own endeavors? Would I be allowed to be true myself?"

Borlas paused in his steps, a sudden sense of age-related weight settling on his visage. Standing at over 193 centimeters, with a chest as wide as a door, hands that dwarfed her own, and a voice that could shake windows if he wanted, the 7th Viscount of Roscullen, Borlas Carney, had been blessed with youthful features and very few grey hairs. He rarely looked his age of forty-six yet her question seemed to have aged him. Ellen pulled her lower lip between her teeth, nibbling on it as she waited for his response.

"When I first met you at your uncle's home, you were nose-deep in research for new designs you wanted to share with Mister Peck. You were hiding in your uncle's library from the soiree your aunt was holding and completely unaware of my presence for a good five minutes." Borlas' smile turned melancholic, and he hesitated but a breath before reaching out with gloved fingers and began to tie the strings of her cap under her chin. Ellen blushed. She'd completely forgotten to tie them. "And even when you did notice me, you cared not a whit for who I was or why I was also hiding from the soiree. Instead, you invited me to study your drawings, asking for feedback as if I were a trusted member of your inner court."

Ellen remembered well their first meeting, and her blush deepened. She'd been so absorbed in her work she'd not heard the man flee into the library, exhausted from small talk and social machinations. A wealthy widower now connected with the Morris trading empire, Borlas cut quite the image at the party that evening, and to stumble upon a young girl ignorant of his past, or his social worth, had been refreshing.

Perhaps all her years working with Mister Peck had rendered her equally eccentric in her own fashion. Barely fit for polite society, her aunt often declared, though with a sparkle of mirth in her eyes. Her uncle always triumphantly smiled whenever his wife said such things, for in Ellen he saw what her father could have become had he not so impulsively indulged himself in hedonistic pursuits. For Ellen was driven by her passion for design, with a voracious intellect eager for knowledge and growth, humble enough to accept she did not know everything, and confident to inwardly add the caveat of "not YET."

Finished with his task, Borlas reluctantly pulled his hands away. He seemed at odds with himself, how to stand, where to look, and Ellen felt empathy for the man, for already she was the same. They would strike quite the pair to any passersby, shifting from one foot to another, simultaneously leaning forward, then tipping back as if unsure of gravity or one another.

"It would be inhumane to request or expect you to change any of what makes you that same unique woman I met all those weeks ago." Borlas' smile finally turned hopeful as he added mirthfully, "In fact, I would hope some of your youthful insights would rub off on me and grant me added longevity."

Ellen swatted at his shoulder as they both chuckled. He caught her hand and tucked it once more into the crook of his arm. Having resolved on a course, Borlas led the way along the road, their destination still uncertain, but it seemed the movement forward had calmed him.

"What about your family?" They had already spoken briefly on the topic when he'd first made her the surprising offer of marriage.

They'd been cooped up with Mister Peck, hashing out new plans for at least a week by then, sharing meals and teas in between haggling sessions over which new features were both economically and strategically sound, and it seemed that in that process, Borlas Carney fell in love with her. And in truth, Ellen had to admit, she had grown to respect, admire, and hold warm affection for him in return. It was unconventional. She was the illegitimate daughter of an illegitimate son, niece to a now wealthy and self-made man of equal illegitimate origins. He was a nobleman from England twenty-four years her senior, a widower with children almost her age residing in England, with connections to a myriad of landed families throughout Europe. What they held in common, few in society would understand or respect. While her immediate family and community had accepted and even encouraged her peculiarities, Ellen knew well enough that "out there" she would meet more challenges than ever, and she never wanted to bring shame to her family or her future husband.

Borlas sniffed, "They would accept in time. Jonathan may exhibit the greatest resistance, as he is already twenty and a man in his own right, but I believe Judith would welcome you with gleeful arms. She is an impressionable thirteen, and I believe your guidance would prove life-changing in the greatest of ways." He stopped once more, his free hand reaching over to cover hers as it lay on his arm. "My wife has been gone for many years now, Miss Morris, and there has been no one in my heart until I met you. You were the first to melt the ice that her death rent upon my soul, and even if you reject my offer, I thank you for that. I see the beauty and magnificence of this world anew, and knowing you, loving you, has aided in that development."

"I…" Ellen's mouth dropped open. It was not often that she was at a loss for words. Yet, it was unequally rare that she found herself in awe of a man's confession of love and adoration. In fact, this was her first.

Her aunt had been concerned Ellen would die a spinster, pushing twenty-two already without an offer. But neither nor her uncle had ever felt the same amount of concern, both too wrapped up in business and designs and possibilities to ponder the supposed lack in Ellen's life. For she'd always felt content with the love offered by her family, the purpose and meaning granted her with her apprenticeship and the excitement of learning from the men and woman she encountered through either her uncle's business or Mister Peck's office. But now, with Borlas' heartfelt confession still ringing in her ears, Ellen suddenly felt that lack her aunt had alluded to, and equally, she felt that Borlas was the man to fill that hole she'd just acknowledged.

"We can have a long engagement if you are worried about our not having a greater acquaintance with one another," Borlas spoke to fill her continued silence, his voice hopeful in way it had not been before, as if he sensed her unspoken realization passing in the air between them.

Ellen tipped forward as she brought his gloved hand up to meet her halfway. She pressed her lips to the soft bit of skin she spied just between his shirt cuff and his glove. When she stood again, she found a look of awe on Borlas' face awaiting her.

"What are your thoughts on a spring wedding?" His responding smile was equal to the sun in its brightness. "Pending my uncle's approval, of course."

The mentioning of her uncle did nothing to dim his smile, for they both knew he would give his blessing without hesitation.

"Of course, my dearest." Borlas leaned forward, then stopped himself. Looking up and down the street, he suddenly pulled off his hat to act as a momentary shield as he moved close to press a soft kiss against Ellen's brow. As he pulled back and returned his hat, Borlas added, "My love."

Ellen's cheeks flushed from his touch and his words. Leaning against him as he resumed their journey, now understood to be the inn for food and drink, Ellen pondered her burgeoning reality. She was an expert in many fields, compliments of her uncle and mentor, and yet she was only just now learning what it meant to be someone's love, and to love someone—romantically-in return. It seemed she was sailing into another realm of "not yet" in her knowledge accumulation. And that suited her just fine, so long as Borlas was at her side sailing with her.