Page 46 of The English Duke
He sometimes regretted what he’d done. This was one of the few cases where he wanted to make amends for an act he hadn’t performed. Yet he couldn’t have gone to Griffin House since he was in his own sickbed. Nor did he feel comfortable telling her that since it sounded as if he was begging for pity.
He reached out and touched her hand where it rested on the workbench, wordless comfort. Or perhaps an appeal for her understanding without him furnishing an explanation.
She turned her head and looked at him.
“Forgive me,” he said. Did she realize that it wasn’t the first time he said that to her?
She nodded, turning her hand over until their palms met. For a moment that’s how they remained: her standing, him sitting beside her, their hands and their gazes touching.
A sliver of time in which he had the curious thought that they communicated without words. He felt her pain and loss and wondered if she could sense his regret. Or understand his bruised pride that, even now, dictated that he offer no excuse.
She pulled her hand free and reached out to touch Bessie, her fingers smoothing over the copper as if she felt for tactile differences in the vessel.
He had a thought that had nothing to do with torpedoes, one that would have probably offended her had she known it.
What would her hands feel like on him?
“I suggest you install a wire to the stern,” she said, effectively cutting off his reverie. She pointed at the back of the ship where a small round circle had been welded. “I would have lost every single one of my vessels if I hadn’t.”
“A leash?”
“If you wish,” she said, smiling.
If he’d thought to do that, he wouldn’t have lost three of his ships and would’ve been able to reel it in when it sank. Nor would he have had to ask for volunteers among the footmen to dive for his vessel.
They treated the whole thing as a jest, which is probably how his entire staff viewed his preoccupation with a torpedo ship. The lame, penurious duke, attempting to recoup his family’s coffers by inventing a metal fish. Yet it was no more laughable than his brother traipsing through Italy armed with his brushes and his painting teacher.
He turned away, staring at the empty bays where his prototypes once rested.
By her competence she put his own incompetence into relief. He felt inept around her, an emotion he’d rarely experienced. He’d known failure before, but never this sudden need to explain his shortcomings.
He wanted her approval, a thought that startled him. He wanted Martha York to smile at him and say something in praise of his efforts or his thoughts or even his plans.
Matthew should have warned him.
My daughter is a treasure.He’d written those words more than once. He should have appended them.My daughter will befuddle you, Hamilton. She’ll make you laugh, shout, argue, and contemplate circumstances you have no business thinking.
Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t return to the boathouse. He’d muddle on without her. He’d examine Bessie at his leisure—alone—without her comments or constructive remarks. He’d done very well without Martha before. He could certainly do so again.
Why, then, did the idea of working by himself annoy him?
A pain streaking through his right side effectively silenced any contemplation of tomorrow. Smoothing his face of any expression, he moved his leg to stand. The knife had grown teeth over the past hour, gnawing into the muscles and bone.
He should have stopped working earlier. Hopefully, he hadn’t left it for too long. If he didn’t seek out Henry soon the pain was going to get worse.
Standing, he grabbed his walking stick, prayed that his leg would hold up, and looked at her.
“Shall we go?” he said.
He was being too abrupt, almost rude, but thankfully, she only nodded. Nor did she remark on the fact that his passage to the door of the boathouse was slower and more lumbering than before.
He didn’t want to look lame in front of her, damn it.
Once outside the boathouse, he realized that the day was more advanced than he’d thought. The sky was darkening to the east, a blaze of orange and red streaking across the western sky.
“It’s gotten later than I thought,” he said.
She didn’t look away, making him realize there wasn’t any compassion in her gaze. Nor was there pity. Instead, she regarded him the way a friend might look at another, without judgment.
