by Karen Ranney
I cannot think that Martha will find these entertainments to her liking. She does not suffer fools gladly, my daughter. She has, instead, a wish to engage people on intellectual pursuits and, in doing so, is often considered strange or odd.
She could only stare at the letter, the paper trembling in her hands just a little. Surely her father hadn’t meant those words to sound so cruel.
Without speaking, the duke pulled the letter from her hands and read it.
“Your feelings are hurt, I take it?” he said. “Foolish of you, if so.”
She glanced to the left and saw that he was studying her intently.
“Why foolish?”
“Your father obviously had the greatest admiration for you, Miss York. He merely meant you were too intelligent for most people. That’s not an insult.”
She blinked at him.
“Surely you’ve thought the same thing yourself,” he said. “Or will you deny it? Have you never found yourself in a group and felt alone?”
“Yes,” she said. “Not because of my great and magnificent intelligence, but because I was different.”
“Ah, but don’t you see? You’re different because of your great and magnificent intelligence. It’s been my experience that most people don’t want to think. They simply wish to be. But being isn’t enough, don’t you see? We were given our brains—even women—to use them. They’re not simply there to put a hat on and look pretty.”
“You needn’t say it like that. ‘Even women.’”
He only smiled at her, the expression so unexpectedly charming she was silenced.
“He loved you,” he softly said. “And he was proud of you.”
“Thank you,” she said, reaching out and taking the letter back.
She truly did appreciate his kindness, especially since she hadn’t expected it.
“He had the greatest admiration for you, too,” she added. “He always said how logical you were, how you made these leaps of thought that saved him days and weeks of worrying about a problem.”
“I liked him,” he said. “I respected him, but I found myself liking him, too. He had a sense of humor that showed in his writings. He was capable of poking fun at himself, which I found endearing.”
She would not look at him, especially since she was trying, desperately, to blink her tears away. His words brought back her father so strongly he might have been there in the boathouse with them.
After clearing her throat she said, “I’m sorry I said what I did earlier. I shouldn’t have. I know you would have been there if you could. I’m glad he had you for a friend. My father didn’t have many friends. He, too, didn’t suffer fools gladly.”
She glanced at him to find him looking at her. She smiled and he responded in kind.
She really shouldn’t be here alone with the duke. Not when her thoughts weren’t entirely on her father’s work.
Josephine avoided the worst of the brambles on the side of the path. This was a new dress, a garment her mother had sent her from France and she wouldn’t have it ruined. At least she cared about her appearance and her wardrobe.
Gran wouldn’t be pleased to hear how rude Martha had been. Nor had her sister done one thing to make the duke offer her somewhere to sit, or even ask her to remain. No, Martha had been insufferable and Gran would have something to say about her behavior.
What a pity Martha was too old to be sent to her room with only tea and crackers for supper. But if Gran was angry enough, perhaps she could keep Martha from attending the dinner with the duke and his friend. That would mean she’d be alone with two handsome men.
If her sister was, somehow, allowed to attend dinner then she would simply have to regale the two gentlemen with tales of Martha’s exploits. How Martha was not averse to wading into the lake with her dress tucked between her legs, trying to find something that had fallen off their father’s silly ship. Or how many times Martha had come home with her face all red from the sun or her dress covered in mud, unconcerned about how she looked, or smelled, for that matter. How many times she had returned to the house stinking of one of their father’s chemicals. Or, heaven forbid, with blistered hands from pounding copper.
Martha behaved just like a man and men didn’t care for such behavior.
“You have a cat’s smile. As if you’ve just eaten a defenseless bird.”
Looking up, she saw Reese Burthren standing there, leaning against the gate. She would have to pass him in order to get to the house. She pushed aside her irritation and smiled brightly at him instead, ignoring his rude remark.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Burthren. Isn’t it a lovely day?”
“Have you been visiting Jordan?”
She stopped in the middle of the path, clasping her hands together in front of her. Was he going to block her entrance to the walkway? If the price for getting past him was a few minutes of charm, she could certainly accomplish that.
“I accompanied my sister to the boathouse,” she said. “We delivered my father’s papers and experiments to the duke. Do you share an interest in his work?”
“Only tangentially,” he said, smiling slowly at her.
He truly did have a lovely smile. Men smiled for different reasons than women, her mother had told her. A woman will smile to hide something, but men always smiled to reveal themselves, especially when they were fascinated with a woman.
She returned his expression, thinking if the duke wasn’t around, she might reciprocate Mr. Burthren’s interest. For now, however, her main occupation was Jordan Hamilton. If she wanted him, he was hers. He may not know it yet, but he would.
“You don’t seem the type to be interested in torpedo ships,” he said.
“I’m not. I think men are more suited to such things.”
“Your sister doesn’t feel the same way.”
“No,” she said. “She doesn’t. Martha has no interest in feminine pursuits.”
“Ah, but if she did she’d be competition, wouldn’t she?”
His smile had changed character, become almost insulting.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Surely he could recognize that Martha was almost plain while she wasn’t. If he expected her to say something along those lines he was going to be disappointed. Maman had always told her men prefer a modest approach. Besides, it was better to let them think they’d come up with an idea with careful coaching.
If she cared enough about Reese Burthren, she’d make sure he decided she was the prettier of the two sisters. However, she didn’t, so his opinion mattered only a little.
“I understand you’ve been exploring Sedgebrook,” he said.
“If I have? Why is it any of your concern?”
“I’m told you made a few interesting comments. Things like what you would change or not.”
“How do you know that?”
She was not going to use Constance again if the maid told tales about her.
“Do you see yourself as the next Duchess of Roth, Miss York?”
She really did have to rid the man of his insulting smile.
“You are in my way, Mr. Burthren. I would like to return to the house.”
To her surprise, he stepped aside, still smiling. She had the feeling he watched her as she passed, but she didn’t look back.
Chapter 10
Martha decided it was best to put aside her father’s letters for now. Perhaps she would revisit them later when her emotions were more stable and she didn’t feel like weeping.
“How did you become interested in torpedo ships, Your Grace?” she asked.
“The same way your father did, I think,” he said. “The Crimean War.”
“My father didn’t speak of the war with much fondness, Your Grace. I know he was appalled at the loss of life. Especially in the hospitals.”
“And because of the mines,” he said. “My first captain had been aboard a ship approaching Sevastopol, sailing directly into one of those mines. He considered them an abomin
ation.”
She tilted her head a little and regarded him.
“I thought of them as a challenge,” he continued. “How could we defend against them? We had to have something more effective than men stationed in the bow as lookouts. Then, I became interested in the idea of a mobile mine we could develop. My first idea was for a type of weapon that could lower and raise itself, depending on whether the approaching vessel was friend or foe.”
She smiled in admiration. “What an excellent idea. Have you done anything with it?”
“No,” he said. “I proposed it to someone in the War Office. He told me about your father’s idea, to make a moving mine. A torpedo ship.”
“And that’s when your correspondence began,” she said, smiling. “I remember my father’s reaction to your first letter. He was quite impressed. He came to me and waved it in front of me and said, ‘Martha, here is a young man who wishes to learn. A naval man. He wants to know my thoughts, can you believe it?’”
“He was a great inspiration, Miss York. I found myself wanting to impress him, just to see him write, ‘Hamilton, you have it!’” He shook himself a little as if to dismiss his reverie. “I don’t think we’ll see his like again.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Your Grace,” she said, studying him. “Perhaps you’re more like him than you know.”
It wasn’t a specious compliment she gave him. Jordan Hamilton asked questions few people asked. He saw the world as a curiosity, something offering up endless possibilities for change, adaptation, and even invention.
Her father had the same openness. He’d once told her, To live with wonder, Martha, is to be given a great gift. To wake each morning and want to find out why—now there’s a life’s full pursuit.
She’d felt that wonder working beside him. His excitement and enthusiasm had been infectious. She, too, wanted to know why something wouldn’t work or, conversely, why it did. The idea that two minds could work independently on a problem to find a solution had always fascinated her. So, too, the easy sharing of ideas, like the letters between her father and Jordan.
“Did you like your time in the navy?”
She was curious about every aspect of his life, something she probably should hide.
He glanced at her and hesitated. Did he wonder why she wished to know? Or was he trying to find a way to keep information about himself private? Was he going to tell her to restrain her interest, that he had no attention of divulging details about his life to a woman who was little more than a stranger?
Except that he didn’t feel like a stranger to her. She’d read his letters to her father until it felt as if she knew him like a dear friend. Not a comment she was going to make.
“I did, yes,” he said, surprising her with his answer. “I liked the order, the symmetry of it. You knew what was going to happen from one day to the next, as far as routines and drills and duties. Granted, the world around you could change, but you knew a certain watch had to begin on time. Each man had his duties and everyone knew the rules and the punishment for not obeying them.”
“Do you like rules, then?”
Before he could answer, she spoke again.
“I hate rules, myself. They seem to constrain thinking. At least creative thinking.”
He studied her in the dim light.
“What rules do you find constraining?” he asked.
“Those doled out by society,” she said instantly. “What sort of clothes and hats you have to wear. Who can speak to whom. What you have to say. I’m afraid society and I don’t often agree.”
“That’s not altogether a bad thing,” he said. “It leaves you better able to think great thoughts.”
She smiled at him, delighted at his comment. “I doubt my thoughts are great,” she said. “But I would rather think of anything but clothes and hats.”
“Your sister is a fashionable woman.”
“Yes, she is,” she said, feeling a disappointment at his comment.
“Does she have many suitors?”
“She does. Probably too many to be considered proper. She hasn’t yet had her season. I’ll be sure to convey your admiration to my sister,” she added. “I’m sure she’ll thank you for it this evening at dinner.”
Why did every man lose his mind around Josephine?
Why was she jealous when she’d only rarely felt the emotion? She certainly didn’t want the Duke of Roth for herself. He was not for the likes of her. She had absolutely no desire to become a duchess.
First of all, she wasn’t as pretty as Josephine.
Second, she had absolutely no interest in fashion, witness the plain lavender dress she was wearing. She hadn’t bothered to order a new wardrobe after their mourning period had expired. Besides, Josephine had kept the seamstress so busy she probably didn’t have time to work on any other garments.
Third, she wasn’t interested in flirting or telling a man what she thought he wanted to hear. Let the truth suffice. Let there be a meeting of rational minds. Why must she bat her eyelashes and act coy? Why must she wilt against him like a fragile flower? Why must she talk in a breathy little voice as if her lungs were suddenly not working correctly in his presence? Why, oh why, did she have to say idiotic things to him as if she had no mind of her own?
She’d watched her stepmother act in idiotic ways around men. She’d heard Marie’s admonitions to Josephine. None of those rules made any sense to her. The only time she’d expressed her reservations to her father he’d stopped what he was doing, put down the clock parts and magnifying glass, and studied her.
“I would prefer, Martha,” he’d said in that somber tone of his, “if you’d remain just as you are. Yourself.”
“I’ve been told I should never express my curiosity around a man. That it’s off-putting.”
He hadn’t asked her the source of that advice. Nor had she ever confessed to him that Marie ridiculed her for reading so much and asking too many questions.
“A man who does not wish to hear what you have to say is not for you, my dear daughter.”
Now his words came back to her. A caution she should remember. The Duke of Roth was not for her, even if he did want to know her thoughts occasionally.
No, she simply wasn’t for him. Nor was he for her.
He was too good-looking. No doubt he knew how handsome he was. He probably looked in the mirror more than once a day or studied his reflection in the morning, marveling at himself.
He was too stubborn. She knew that from his letters. He refused to give up. While that might be an admirable trait in itself, coupled with his arrogance it meant that Jordan Hamilton had the potential to be insufferable. She needed to remember that.
She reached for the letters again, curtailing her curiosity. When the duke began to examine a group of gears and chains, she didn’t ask one question. The afternoon passed in silence, the time strangely companionable.
The fact that she enjoyed his company even when they didn’t talk was worrying. She really shouldn’t be here.
He wasn’t for her. She wasn’t for him.
Finally, she stood and walked to the door.
“I shall see you at dinner, Miss York.”
“I am feeling slightly indisposed, Your Grace,” she said, lying. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I take a tray in my room.”
She wished she could have frozen the look on his face to study it more closely. It was half-resigned, half-horrified.
“I doubt anyone would think it proper for your sister to attend dinner alone in the company of two bachelors,” he said.
In addition, Josephine would hate her if she couldn’t go to dinner with the duke. Worse, she’d complain endlessly.
“Very well,” she said crossly. “Perhaps I’ll feel well enough to join you for dinner.”
“I look forward to seeing you both,” he said, giving her a small bow.
She didn’t say good-bye as she left, plus she pushed the door a little too hard so it made a resounding thud as it closed.
>
Her father should have warned her about him. He should have put a caution in the letter he left her, the one asking her to ensure the Duke of Roth had his bequest. In addition to explaining that he admired Hamilton’s curious mind and questioning thoughts, he should have said something along the lines of: Daughter, guard yourself. He is an extraordinarily handsome man who will cause you to think thoughts that are not necessarily maidenly. In addition, he will incite your curiosity as well as your compassion. You will find yourself wanting to know more about him and such curiosity could be dangerous to your peace of mind.
Of course, her father had said nothing of the sort.
What a pity.
He’d been sitting too long. Normally, Jordan stood every half hour or so, stomping through the boathouse to ensure his leg didn’t cramp. But with Martha there he’d remained sitting.
For some reason, he was averse to demonstrating his weakness to her.
He didn’t doubt she would have been compassionate if not genuinely concerned. The problem was he didn’t want either her compassion or her concern. He didn’t want her lovely brown eyes to soften in pity. Or her hands to reach out to help him in any way.
He wasn’t an invalid, damn it, although it had been only a few months since he’d thought he would be one for the rest of his life.
He made it back to his room managing not to limp too badly. Henry was, blessedly, waiting for him.
“You’ve overdone it,” the man said with the lack of tact for which he was renowned.
He didn’t argue, merely made it to the adapted sofa in the dressing room. Henry had the carpenter raise the sofa, remove both ends, and create what was essentially a fainting couch. When he’d made that comment, Henry had disagreed, saying it was a masculine fainting couch.
At the moment he was damned close to fainting.
“I’ve overdone it,” he agreed, removing his jacket. “The damned leg is making its displeasure known.”
“Shall I get the elixir?”
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
