Page 41 of The English Duke
He wanted, in a way unlike him, to hear her laugh, to see her eyes sparkle with humor.
All thoughts that had nothing to do with a torpedo ship.
He should have sent her away. In the past few months he’d gotten good at banishing people. All he had to do was act ducal and arrogant. Or dismiss them with a look. Instead, he worked beside her, discussing the merits of using brass versus copper, tooling methods, and various polishing formulations.
Matthew was quoted often in those hours, but they didn’t discuss anything else of a personal nature. She didn’t ask him why he changed position from time to time, as if she knew his leg was beginning to bother him. He said nothing about how often she patted her hair into place, as if it was an annoyance.
From time to time she propped her elbow on the workbench, supporting her chin on her hand. She’d be intently focused on his actions, whether it was cleaning a part or crimping the link of the chain, and sometimes comment on what he was doing incorrectly.
He retaliated by giving her some parts to polish and remarking on spots she missed.
They worked in perfect accord for hours, the passing time deepening what he was considering a friendship, one he’d never before experienced with a woman.
When the maid came, at noon, to bring him his meal as she did every day, she was obviously surprised to find Martha with him. When he would have asked Polly to fetch a meal for her, Martha demurred.
“I should be returning to the house,” she said, getting up from the stool. “I need to check on Gran.”
He found himself wanting to keep her there, but was constrained in his speech by Polly’s presence.
“Will you come back?”
They exchanged a look. He wasn’t going to beg her. The fact that he was close to marshaling his arguments was enough to keep him silent.
“I don’t wish to be an imposition,” she said.
“You’re not. I’ve enjoyed your companionship. Not to mention your assistance.”
She smiled, the expression lighting up her face. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll come back.”
This afternoon her hair might come free of its punishing bun. She might laugh. The sun would tint her cheeks a soft pink.
She left the boathouse accompanied by Polly.
A thought occurred to him as he glanced over and saw the box containing Matthew’s letters. Had she read all of his to her father? The thought was disturbing. He wished he could remember everything he’d divulged to Matthew over the past five years. No doubt some of his insecurities or his longing for his previous job. He’d enjoyed his tasks at the War Office. Few people knew he wasthatHamilton, related to the Duke of Roth. Nor did he go around telling anyone.
The day he’d been informed of his brother’s death had been strange and disconcerting. He remembered writing Matthew about how he’d felt. He and Simon had rarely seen each other in the past few years. His first thought was that the damn fool wouldn’t have contracted cholera if he hadn’t been in Italy. His second thought was amazement that he was the new Duke of Roth. He was so stunned by that realization that he could only stare at his solicitor for a few moments.
He hadn’t wanted to be duke. He remembered writing Matthew that, too. He had delayed his arrival at Sedgebrook for weeks before finally feeling compelled to come home. The house was too big, echoing with memories of a boy who wanted to be noticed and appreciated and loved but who had been joyfully ignored. He probably would have been a different person had his mother lived. But he’d been reared by a nurse, a nanny, the tutor, and then rushed off to school.
His father had been a shadow during most of his childhood and when he died Jordan had attended the services in the family chapel feeling strangely cheated. Who had Harold Hamilton been? What was his personality? His likes, dislikes, acquaintances, and friends—all questions he had.
He tried, once, to ask Simon about their father. His brother had dismissed his curiosity with a wave of his hand. He couldn’t help but wonder if Harold was a shadow to Simon as well.
If Martha had read his letters, she knew more about him than anyone else. He hadn’t minded the revelations to Matthew. If anything, the older man had almost taken on the role of parent. But Martha knowing everything?
He felt more vulnerable than he’d ever felt. The boathouse was suddenly darker and the silence too deep.
He ate his solitary meal, abruptly aware of his own loneliness.
Chapter 12
In the afternoon they continued to work together in harmony.
Martha had taken up her father’s letters again. From time to time she would press her fingers to Matthew’s signature, carefully smoothing out the well-read pages. Did she think to capture her father’s spirit? He wanted to tell her that Matthew would always live on, just not in a way she’d probably considered.
His ideas would incite interest in others, encourage thought, conversation, wonder, and speculation. Matthew York was a great mind, a thoughtful person, and a generous soul.
If he could be half the man Matthew had been, he’d count himself fortunate.
