Page 21 of The English Duke
She shook her head. “He was saving the information for the duke. That’s why giving him my father’s notes wouldn’t constitute any advantage. The information isn’t there.”
“Then perhaps you could tell him that.”
“I see no reason to have to explain anything to the man.”
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Miss York. The torpedo ship has been the one thing occupying him for the last year.”
She wanted to ask about the duke’s accident and why he walked with a limp, but she didn’t. First of all, she didn’t want Mr. Burthren to know of her interest. Second, it would be rude to talk about the man behind his back—just as they were currently doing.
“Perhaps you could add your expertise to Jordan’s work,” he said. “As long as you’re here. It might be a form of collaboration.”
She glanced at him, wondering if he was being sarcastic. Not many men would welcome a female into his sphere of work.
“He truly wants to apologize.”
“He has no intention of apologizing,” she said, certain of it.
“He told me, ‘Go and get her, Reese. I have to explain.’”
“That doesn’t constitute an apology.”
He didn’t answer.
If she returned to the boathouse it would be for her father and not the duke.
Taking a deep breath, she brushed the remnants of tears from her face and nodded.
“For a moment,” she said. “Just a moment.”
He didn’t say a word, merely kept her company as they retraced their steps. At the door to the boathouse he stayed back.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.
Once more she nodded, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Chapter 7
This time when Martha entered the boathouse she made more of a study of the interior. The ceiling was high, the beams overhead soaring into darkness even on this bright summer morning. Rows and rows of shelves were carefully labeled with the contents and dates. Near the door to the dock, now open to the sparkling water of a sun-drenched lake, were copper forms she recognized as the initial stages of a torpedo ship.
The workbench had two lanterns set on either end. Now extinguished, they served as proof of long nights spent in experimentation.
There was nothing about the boathouse leading her to believe the duke enjoyed spending time on the lake. No boats sat in the bays. No fishing gear stood in the corner, ready to be used. This structure was surprisingly like her father’s cottage in its dedication to a task, that of invention and discovery.
“Thank you for coming back,” he said.
She turned her head slowly. He was still seated at the workbench, his right hand holding a curling tool. His left held a piece of copper fixed with a small set of gears.
“Mr. Burthren said you wanted to apologize. I told him I didn’t think you would.”
“Would you have spoken that way to him?” he asked, not looking at her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you have said the same things to him that you did to me?” He studied the part in his hand, crimped a flange of metal, then examined his work.
“I don’t know,” she said, confused. She hadn’t expected the question.
“Women don’t. They see something in Reese’s eyes, I suppose. They think him kind. Or compassionate. Or understanding. Something I lack.”
