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.

At the moment, however, he was concerned with just being polite.

His damnable leg was hurting, which always made him short-tempered. Martha did not deserve his irritation. Nor was he annoyed in any way with her. The past hours had been surprisingly pleasant in a manner he’d never expected.

However, he needed to move. He stood, walked around a bit, then made his way to the workbench and sat heavily, closing his eyes at the pain. Sometimes it felt as if he was walking on a knife. The hilt was at his foot and the point his hip, the entire length of his leg sliced open with each step.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He opened his eyes. “No, I’m not. I am, as your sister has so aptly stated, ‘lame.’”

“Did she really say such a thing?” she asked, her tone one of horror mixed with surprise.

He turned his head to look at her. “She did. At breakfast.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, then startled him by asking, “Would you be more inclined to like Josephine if she hadn’t made that remark?”

By being too damn wise, she added another layer to his conundrum. He’d not only shared his thoughts with the woman, but he was coming close to liking her. Perhaps even admiring her. No, the admiration had started the moment she’d begun talking about weight ratios and propellers. He would have been content to listen to her lecture him for hours.

“No,” he said, answering her question about Josephine. “I don’t think I would. She isn’t the type of female who interests me.”

She pulled the stool closer to him, pulling her skirts aside so they didn’t touch his trousers. How proper their clothes were, never touching or even daring to brush next to each other.

“Have you ever been disappointed in love?” he asked, the question so out of context that they both stared at each other.

“Why would you ask such a thing?” she said.

“Because I’m curious. I know about your season. When I read your father’s words my first thought was that your emotions had already been taken. I thought you were pining for someone.”

When she didn’t speak he raised one eyebrow. “Then it’s true. I’ve found when people refuse to answer a question it’s because the answer’s obvious.”

“No,” she said, frowning at him. “It isn’t true. If you must know, I don’t have much faith in love. It doesn’t seem to be a kind emotion. Oh, it is when you say you love a dog or a horse or a kitten. But not people. When you love people, you’re almost asking to be harmed.”

How curious that they shared the same feelings.

“My stepmother, Marie,” she continued, “says love is as necessary as air. It’s the glue holding everything together.” She glanced at him. “She’s passionate about things. She wants to experience every moment of life to its fullest.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, feeling his way through the maze of words.

“Your father didn’t mention her often.”

“I noticed,” she said.

“I got the impression the marriage wasn’t a happy one.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Marie liked to stay in London a great deal. Or travel to France. When she finally came home she always appeared to be happy to see Father. He came out of his cottage long enough to notice he had a family and a wife.”

“Is that why you started to work with him? So he’d notice you?”

She shook her head. “He was the most interesting person I knew. He was always thinking different thoughts. He could think of something in the middle of the night and make it real by the next day. He always seemed to be doing something more interesting than needlepoint. Or talking about fashion.” She smiled faintly. “He didn’t worry about getting dirty. He waded through the lake. He invented things. Who wouldn’t want to be around someone like that?”

“Have you invented anything?”

“A new propeller design,” she said. “Nothing as important as my father’s ship.”

“Don’t you worry about creating a weapon?”

“A weapon?”

“Surely you know the torpedo ship is a weapon? The nose will be filled with gunpowder. That’s the reason why the directional capabilities have to be so precise.”

“Of course I know the nose will be filled with gunpowder. It’s just that I disagree with the label you’ve given it. The torpedo ship is a defensive piece of armament, a way to protect our ships. Better to use a torpedo than be rammed amidships.”

The nautical term surprised him, but it shouldn’t have. York Armaments was an important supplier of all types of weapons—however much Martha might dislike the label—and they furnished the navy with a great many cannon. She’d probably grown up knowing a vocabulary not shared by other young misses.

“So it doesn’t bother you that you’re creating something that can cause death and destruction?”

She thought about it for a moment, then answered. “Almost anything can cause death and destruction if it’s used in the wrong way. A knitting needle. A kitchen knife.” She glanced down at the workbench before picking up a sizable piece of slate he kept there as a paperweight. “I could throw this at you and strike you in the head,” she said. “You could die from the blow.”

His right leg chose that moment to send him a signal, lightning traveling from his hip down to his ankle. Just a reminder in case he forgot.

“You aren’t going to throw that at me are you, Martha? I can’t outrun you.”

She dropped the slate back on the bench and looked at him, a woman with intelligence blazing from her eyes and determination in the set of her smile.

“Will you ever be able to run again?”

No one had ever come out and asked him such a question, one oddly similar to that he asked of his physician.

“I don’t know,” he said, giving her a gift of his honesty. With anyone else he might have said something like, it’s none of your concern. Or he might have simply ignored the question completely. But she was a brave creature, one who saw nothing untoward with telling him when he was wrong, or at least when she believed he was wrong.

They’d already gotten into a number of arguments. He’d forgotten his composure and raised his voice. She’d done the same. Strangely, he liked arguing with Martha York. He found it to be exhilarating in the extreme.

He wanted to know a great deal about her, but he didn’t tell her that his curiosity surprised him. He’d gone for months without feeling a scintilla of interest in another human being. The fact he could admit to his insularity shamed him a little. He’d been too involved in himself.

One day, not too long ago, he’d awakened feeling a bone-deep fatigue. He didn’t want to think about himself, worry about himself, or even concern himself with any facet of Jordan Hamilton. It was the day he’d come back to the boathouse, immersing himself in his work.

It was also the day he’d finally read all the letters Martha had written him.

“Did you know that my father could make light follow a waterfall?”

He shook his head.

“He had one whole wall of inventions. Whenever I asked him why he didn’t finish one, it was because he’d gotten word someone else was working on a similar machine or process. You’re the only one with whom he ever corresponded. He didn’t seem to mind you were mirroring his work.”

“Not mirroring,” he said, then wondered why he was so quick to correct her.

Was his pride so great he had to be first? Perhaps it was, an answer that surprised him.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Some days I was behind him. Sometimes I was ahead.”

She nodded. “I think you were almost at the same place,” she said. “At least from his letters. I’m surprised he told you so much.”

He noted that she didn’t mention Matthew’s comments about his family. His remarks were always said in fondness, but Jordan realized now how correct they were. Josephine was described as being overly concerned with the world around her while Martha never seemed to notice. Josephine wanted pretty baubles. Martha wanted answers.

Matthew had also mentioned his mother often in his letters, but strangely rarely commented about his wife.

How odd that he could remember almost everything his mentor had said about Martha. He wished, however, that Matthew had explained her a little more. What was her favorite color, her most treasured book? What annoyed her—other than anyone who slighted her father in any way?

She sat half in shadow. Behind her sunlight beckoned through the boathouse window. He wanted to study her for a while, but how strange would the request sound?

Stay right where you are, Martha, while I marvel at the perfect oval of your face and the direct, penetrating look from your brown eyes. You have the faint beginnings of a frown line between your brows, as if you’ve often contemplated something difficult to comprehend. And there’s a small indentation at the right corner of your mouth leading me to think humor is not a stranger to you.

What would she say if he continued his thoughts aloud?

I like your curly mop of hair. I imagine it gives you fits and makes you long for something more fashionable. I like the dramatic arch of your brows that seem to convey your thoughts so easily. Right at the moment they’re slightly elevated as if you’re wondering at my interest.

I’m wondering, too.

I like that you cared so much for your father, that your grief is there in your eyes for anyone to see. I admire the patience you’ve demonstrated around your sister, but I suspect it’s hard-won and often lost. I also admire your love for your grandmother, the care and concern you have for an old woman with the skills of Machiavelli.

Martha, your grandmother is lying.

I also appreciate that you’re not wearing scent, other than what I suspect is your soap. A faint rose scent, if I’m not mistaken, but nothing else. Unlike your sister, who seems to drench herself in a perfume better worn by a mature woman of the world.

He wished he danced. He wished he could dance. He had the strangest wish to stand, take her hand, hum some waltz he’d heard, and whirl her around the boathouse. He wanted to see her smile, watch her cheeks blossom with color.

A sign of his incipient insanity. He should banish her from his presence.

He did no such thing.

“They’ve been together for almost the whole day?” Susan York asked her maid.

Amy nodded. “They seem to be quite companionable, Mrs. York. Of course, I heard raised voices, too.”

“Oh, dear. You mean Martha was shouting?”

“Not just her, Mrs. York. It was the duke, too.”

“Oh.”

Susan wondered what to make of this development.

In the great reckoning to come—which wasn’t, unfortunately, all that far off—she would be called upon to explain her actions. Namely, her numerous prevarications (her nature flinched at the word lies), her sloth in remaining in bed playing cards with her maid, and eating all sorts of delicious biscuits (she really must get the recipes from Sedgebrook’s cook).

There was a reason for her actions, but she doubted the Almighty would excuse her easily. Wasn’t there some parable about doing the right thing for the wrong reason? She wasn’t certain, but surely she would be forgiven.

Being at Sedgebrook was fortuitous; she couldn’t overlook the opportunity she’d been given. How many times had she heard her darling son talk about the Duke of Roth?

Yes, she’d been guilty of planning. Yes, she’d taken the future into her hands. Yes, she’d no doubt abused the Duke of Roth’s hospitality.

She’d arranged their meeting, just as Matthew had wanted. He’d often told her how alike Martha and the duke were.

“I am not the type to matchmake, Mother, but they have the same nature, the same kind of mind.”

She’d promised him, on his deathbed, to somehow arrange a meeting. When the moment had come, she’d acted on it. And, from what Amy had learned—bless the woman, she could ferret out anyone’s secrets—the duke and Martha were faring well.

Would it do any good to tell Martha about her father’s thoughts?

“They’d suit, Mother. Both of them are determined, focused, and have a mind for mechanics. Jordan is as reserved as Martha and, I think, as lonely.”

Had the duke known she was healthy as a horse? Susan suspected the doctor had, even though she’d acted faint and moaned more than once during his examination. She was not given to theatrics normally, but it seemed easy enough to emulate her dear mother-in-law. The poor woman had declared herself ill with so many different ailments that when she succumbed to heart problems it had been a true shock.

The only thing she hadn’t done was plan Martha’s wardrobe. The unfortunate lavender dress didn’t bring out her delightful coloring. But, that could be construed as an asset as well. If the duke found himself entranced with Martha, she’d know it wasn’t for her attire but despite it.

Should she hint at the fact that Martha was an heiress? No, she’d leave that little tidbit for later, just in case the duke needed some urging.

All she needed now was to give Martha and the duke a little time. And somehow curb Josephine’s curiosity and more acquisitive tendencies. The girl coveted. That was the word for it. Despite never having to worry about money she sometimes wanted what other people had. Heaven forbid someone has a prettier dress or a more accomplished horse.

Unfortunately, from what Amy said, Sedgebrook had captured her attention. Perhaps she should move up her plans for Josephine’s season. That would certainly keep her granddaughter occupied with thoughts of a new wardrobe and appropriate jewels.

As far as Martha, perhaps they should remain here a few more days than she’d originally scheduled. She could always relapse, feel faint again.

For now, she was content to allow nature to take its course.

She smiled and reached for her book and another biscuit.