Page 19 of The English Duke
“Where does the duke work?” she asked, trying to contain herself. “Where is his laboratory?”
“Miss?”
“Where does he spend his days?”
He looked toward the main house.
“Does he never go out on the lake?” Had she misunderstood everything? Did the man have no interest in the torpedo ship?
“Oh, yes, miss. Or he’s in the boathouse.”
“Where is it?”
He gave her the directions and she thanked him, grateful she’d been able to be civil before emotion overtook her.
The path to the boathouse was wide and graveled, but a far distance from the main house. Each step seemed to push against the boundaries of her anger.
How dare he?
How dare he treat her father’s bequest so shabbily?
How dare he insult her father’s memory in such a way?
Being the Duke of Roth did not give him the right to impugn the honor of another human being, especially not such a good man as Matthew York.
Her father was well respected in scientific circles, in business, and as the head of the company bearing their name. His invention could save lives, could end wars early, could help England retain its dominance over the seas.
And what had the Duke of Roth done? Thrown it away. Treated it as if it was nothing more than a child’s old toy, well-worn and broken.
If she hadn’t been so angry, she might have stopped to marvel at the view of Sedgebrook’s lake, the lawn manicured down to the banks, the blooming wildflowers along the path, and the breeze smelling of water and fish. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to reach the duke, she might have even taken advantage of one of the benches situated at a picturesque spot and taken in the scene.
Instead, she increased her pace when she saw the boathouse. The structure sat on a small rise, the dock jutting from the first floor out into the lake. The second floor was dotted with windows, a terrace, and a white ornamental railing.
She marched to the door of the building and opened it, quickly taking in the workbenches and shelves filled with material and equipment. The area was neat and orderly, unlike her father’s cottage when he was deeply involved in a project. It became a function of her day to go behind him and straighten up his mess.
Do you need this, Father? Shall I put this up? Can we throw this in the rubbish?
She was not going to cry. She was most definitely not going to cry in front of the arrogant, unkind, beastly Duke of Roth.
“What are you doing here, Miss York?”
She heard him before she could see him, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom after the bright summer morning.
He was sitting at the long workbench stretching the width of the room. Next to him sat Mr. Burthren.
“How could you?” she asked. “How could you simply toss all my father’s work away?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You should,” she said, nodding emphatically. “You truly should. You’ve been very kind when it came to my grandmother, Your Grace, and I appreciate your hospitality. But you’ve been beastly about my father and his work and I don’t appreciate it one whit. How could you?”
He didn’t say a word. Not one word. Not one word of explanation. Not one single syllable to try to make her understand or to defend himself. He simply kept silent, looking at her with his handsome face stern and unmoving.
“I could hate you at this moment,” she heard herself saying. “I could. Do you know that on his deathbed my father spoke of you? Some of his last words were for you. ‘Have you heard from Hamilton? Has he written?’ But you didn’t write. You didn’t come. And now, Your Grace, now you’ve done the worst you could do. You’ve thrown all his work into a stall in your stable.”
Turning, she left the boathouse, her anger spent, tears she’d pushed back now winning the battle. She brushed them off her cheeks, overwhelmed by grief.
“Miss York!”
