Page 1 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

The Barrow, Duke of Granby’s Estate

M iss Lucy Waterstone sat atop a blanket, carefully pulling her skirts from the grass while delicately munching on a grape.

The guests of the house party, all gathered for a picnic near a circle of burial stones, a barrow, for which the duke’s estate was named, milled about the grass.

Conversation swirled around her. Laughter.

Some whispered secrets. None of which Lucy participated in, and after a time, few chose to engage her.

Which was fine, really, since she rarely spoke more than a few words in public. Father insisted.

Do not speak unless spoken to, and then, only in a whisper.

Lucy’s tongue, for lack of a better explanation, was lazy.

Sticking to the back of her teeth at the most inopportune times, resulting in what Father deemed a horrifying impediment.

The lisp would be barely noticeable for days but then suddenly rear its ugly stuttering head, putting Gerald Waterstone in a foul mood for days.

So Lucy stayed silent.

A burst of rich masculine laughter sounded to her left. She turned her chin, discreetly viewing the group of gentlemen nearby as the breeze ruffled the hair of one.

The only one, Lucy’s heart whispered.

Mr. Harrison Estwood. Hair the exact color of a glass of sherry. Object of every one of Lucy’s romantic fantasies.

He was being teased for his love of fossils, burial mounds, and ancient weaponry, an interest the duke and Lord Haven didn’t share.

Lucy waited, breathless, to hear him respond so she could drink in the rough voice laced with an accent that did more than hint at his low birth.

His speech had the cadence of a working man, when he wasn’t trying to hide it. Not a gentleman.

Because Estwood wasn’t one.

Her heart fluttered softly as he replied.

Ah, there it is.

Lucy kept her head down, though her eyes drew over Estwood, taking note of his large, capable hands, the fingers flexing as he spoke. Her gaze fixated on those hands, which she knew weren’t soft because he’d touched her once and Estwood didn’t care for gloves.

He twisted and tilted his head back, laughing once more, and Lucy watched in fascination as the fabric of his coat stretched over bunched muscles with the movement.

Though lean, he had the shoulders and arms of a laborer, all that rippling sinew pulling at the stitching of his fine coat.

There was a rawness to Estwood, a physicality that made Lucy sure he could load a cart of barrels or plow a field as easily as he calculated streams of numbers in his head.

He carried himself in a manner that would give other, softer males pause.

A polite punch to the nose wouldn’t suffice for Estwood if there was a disagreement, for instance—only a beating would do the job.

That brutality, more survival instinct, considering how far he had risen from being a blacksmith’s son, gave away his birth origins as nothing else did.

But it was Estwood’s utter brilliance, his dazzling intelligence, that set him apart.

Lucy had seen all of it at meeting him for the first time. The ruthless nature, the desire to succeed no matter the cost. The intellect that was his greatest weapon.

A tiny, delicious shiver coursed through her.

The Duke of Granby and Father were involved in a handful of business ventures together: railways, a textile factory which Lucy thought would soon become profitable with new contracts in place, a string of warehouses.

She was often present when the duke dined with Father because Gerald Waterstone had some ridiculous belief that Granby, if Lucy was in his orbit, might exhibit some interest.

Not likely.

The night Estwood had first appeared in her life, Father had still clung to that hope. Lucy had entered Granby’s drawing room in London, fully prepared to spend another evening silent and unnoticed, while Father tried to coax the duke into yet another one of his business schemes.

Granby had become reticent as of late. Some of Father’s investments had failed.

“May I introduce an associate of mine, Mr. Harrison Estwood,” the duke had said, gesturing to a man standing in the shadows of the drawing room.

Estwood had come forward, sucking up every bit of air around Lucy, smelling of clean linen and ambition. Eyes like a thundercloud, gleaming with intelligence.

She had immediately lowered her gaze, complying, as always, with her father’s expectations.

A lady does not look a gentleman in the eye. Such boldness is reserved for trollops.

“Miss Waterstone,” Estwood said, the soft rumble of him tickling along her skin as he took her hand. His regard of her was blunt, calculated, and rather… impolite , were she to be honest.

As was the edge of his thumb trailing improperly along her palm before he released her.

Lucy’s heart nearly burst from her chest.

Seated directly across from Estwood during dinner, Lucy listened to him speak and heard the carefully cultivated upper-class accent slip.

She watched as he fumbled over the correct fork or spoon to use as each course was brought out.

Sensing his embarrassment, she carefully cleared her throat to draw his attention and gently caressed the correct piece of silverware as they were served the fish course.

Thankfully, Father didn’t notice—he was too busy discussing one of the new railway stations being built. But Estwood saw her deliberate movements. At first, those silver eyes darkened with muted anger, assuming Lucy mocked him.

But as the meal continued, he took her lead, watching her fingers drift over the correct fork, spoon or knife, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself. His foot gently nudged her slipper as he mouthed ‘thank you’ to her, a half-smile on his lips.

When Estwood asked her a direct question, Lucy thought she might swoon.

Unfortunately, Father overheard. He regarded Estwood with the same disdain he reserved for a beggar on the street and decided a good insult was in order.

You sound very much like one of my grooms, Mr. Estwood.

Lucy never even had the chance to reply.

Estwood, for his part, remained polite, though Lucy could see the annoyance coiling inside him.

The duke’s stoic expression grew icy. Estwood, she surmised, was more than a business associate to the Duke of Granby.

The two men were friends. And the duke did not care to have his friend insulted at his dinner table.

When the discussion turned to iron, quarries, and, of all things, sewers, Father laughed, palm slapping the table as he insisted no gentleman would invest in such enterprises.

The evening came to a rapid close after Father made the poor decision to offer Estwood employment. As his secretary.

The duke was not amused. Gerald Waterstone hadn’t been invited to dinner since.

Glancing at the other guests at the picnic, Lucy considered that given the ever-growing distance between Father and the Duke of Granby, it was a wonder they had been invited to this house party at all.

Never one to admit to his own faults, Father blamed the chilliness of his relationship with the duke on Estwood, whom he considered little better than a mongrel.

As if he knew she was thinking of him, Estwood deliberately turned to regard Lucy.

Her heart sped up again, and she pressed a palm to her chest, begging for it to stop. She immediately dropped her gaze, conscious that while Father wasn’t on this particular outing, Lord and Lady Foxwood were.

Lady Foxwood observed Lucy from her place beneath the erected tent, sipping on champagne.

She’d already noted that Estwood had been seated in the same carriage as Lucy on the way to the picnic and would report any further misstep to Father.

The Foxwoods shared Gerald Waterstone’s opinion of Harry Estwood.

Lady Andromeda Barrington strolled through the grass, eyed Lucy, and plopped down on the blanket beside her.

She smiled shyly at her new friend—though Father had made his feelings about Andromeda clear. Duke’s daughter or not, Lucy should seek friendship elsewhere. But Andromeda—or Romy, as she liked to be addressed—was everything Lucy wished to be. Brave. Forthright. Confident.

“Mr. Estwood seems to be very informed about the area,” Andromeda said, referring to the conversation during the carriage ride to the picnic.

“Doesn’t he, Miss Waterstone?” The blue of Andromeda’s eyes blazed at her with their unusual ring of indigo.

“Finds those stones to be rather fascinating.” She tilted her head in the direction of the barrow. “I can’t say I’m intrigued.”

“I find his intellect to be stimulating.” Lady Mildred joined them, turning her parasol at an angle to keep her homely features out of the sun. “Mr. Estwood is rather attractive.”

Poor Mildred . Lucy had few suitors, but Mildred’s were non-existent.

“I agree.” Andromeda gave Lucy a pointed look. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to escort both of you about the stones and relate all he knows. Completely wasted on me, as I’ve little interest. There’s a path that winds around the burial mound. Entirely proper. You might ask him.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Lucy demurred softly, relieved the lisp was barely discernible.

Even if Lucy had a shred of bravery, which she did not, Father had expressly forbidden her from going anywhere near Estwood after the dinner at the duke’s home. He’d been most apoplectic to find Estwood at the house party.

“Then I most certainly will,” Mildred stated firmly. “I like him. He is wealthy and well-connected. I don’t care that he wasn’t born a gentleman.” Standing, she declared, “I’ve no reservations about asking. Nothing is achieved without a bit of boldness.”