Page 11 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“My dear,” Father said in a softer tone.

“Rest assured, if I have to feed her laudanum until she’s barely conscious to force her before Dufton and a vicar, I will do so.

” His voice grew tight. “I will not live in poverty. Nor will you. And Lucy will be a countess, which will only elevate our own place in society. I’ve given her a roof over her head for years.

This is the least she can do. And…” His voice hardened. “She will marry Dufton.”

Lucy didn’t raise her head from the rug, pressing so forcefully to keep herself silent, she was certain the outline of every fiber would be embedded in her forehead. To say that her father’s words cut deeply would be an understatement. Her heart felt as if it were bleeding in her chest.

I am no more than a thing to Father .

One which finally had a use. Not his daughter. Not his beloved child. But something of moderate value to be traded.

This was far worse than finding out he’d taken her dowry. Or forbidding her to speak. Or forgetting her stupid birthday.

She bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood.

“His lordship requested I escort Lucy to the modiste tomorrow. He wants her to have a new wardrobe. Suitable gowns, especially one for the Shaftoe ball, where she’ll be introduced to the dowager countess,” Sally informed him.

“Do not let her out of your sight. I assume Dufton will be paying the modiste bill—because I refuse to spend another farthing on her. She’s lived on my charity for years.”

Because you wouldn’t let anyone court me. Because you stole my dowry. My inheritance.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Generous of Dufton. Now…” Father’s voice dropped to a purr. “Allow me to put your mind at ease, wife.” Silence, except for the smacking of lips. “We should celebrate our good fortune.”

Sally giggled. “But not here, Mr. Waterstone. If you’ll recall, this sofa isn’t quite wide enough to be comfortable.”

Thank God.

A few more moments passed, in which Lucy was subjected to another soft moan and more giggles from Sally before they finally exited the study.

She waited, listening to the clock on Father’s desk tick away the minutes until she was sure she was alone.

Clutching the edge of the sofa, Lucy forced herself to stand on unsteady legs.

Exhaling slowly, she returned to the drawing room still in a state of shock from the conversation she’d overheard.

She couldn’t bear to go upstairs and risk overhearing Father and Sally.

Marsden—and why Dufton chose me—is no longer a mystery, at any rate. I’m to be bartered for Father’s debts and river access.

The girl who’d been following her about arrived with tea, setting the tray down on the low table before the settee.

Lucy didn’t bother to acknowledge her. She clasped her hands and looked out across the tangle of the gardens once more, trying to bring forth memories of the father who had once chased her small, giggling form around the maple tree.

Father wasn’t always so terrible.

Perhaps not. But once Mama had left?—

She clutched a fist to the ache stretching over her chest, hoping to stifle the sob hovering at the edge of her lips. Father didn’t love her. He couldn’t . Not if he was willing to force her into Dufton’s arms. Had she always been nothing more than a burden to him?

Glancing at the tea tray, she noted the steaming pot and nothing else. No biscuits. No scones. Not even honey.

Of course not. I’m just a dumb dog who doesn’t deserve any sweetness in my life.

Lucy hadn’t shed a tear after that horrible outing with Dufton, but the fact she wasn’t even allowed a drizzle of honey in her tea had a tear sliding down one cheek.

Calm yourself. Deep breaths.

Miss Capwitch would be distressed to know Lucy was still lisping and stuttering through life.

Doomed to forever spend her days merely an unwelcome, flawed thing.

A pathetic creature who craved affection from the very person who would never give it, no matter how she was put through her paces.

A bloody horse was of more import to Gerald Waterstone than his own daughter.

Years of struggling to be the most obedient, perfect, ladylike…

Stop it, Lucy .

She sat for quite a while on the settee, taking some satisfaction in pulling at the tiny tear in the cushion and making it larger.

Sipping her rapidly cooling tea, Lucy hoped Miss Capwitch was well.

The governess had been her friend, a rarity in Lucy’s life.

She considered all the friendships she might have had but did not.

All the bloody lemon torte she’d missed out on over the years.

Of glorious Harry Estwood, who loathed her.

Lucy took a sharp breath of air.

And the betrayal of the one person in all the world who should have cared for her.

Yes, well. I’m not a bloody prize gelding, am I?

Footsteps sounded in the hall, heralding the approach of Sally and Father, who’d taken far less time ‘celebrating’ their good fortune than she’d anticipated. The very idea made her stomach lurch.

Compose yourself, Miss Capwitch’s voice whispered.

Lucy made sure her cheeks were dry. Took a deep, welcome breath. Instructed her hands to stop shaking. Stayed still. Nothing would be gained by allowing them to see her distress. Not only would they not care, but Lucy wished to do nothing to rouse their suspicion and give away that she knew…

Everything .

When Father strolled in, that condescending smile on his lips, the one she used to believe was loving, Lucy was completely serene. Sally followed, eyeing her for any sign of defiance, and finding none, perched on the edge of a chair.

Lucy inhaled slowly, though inside she howled and shrieked. Screamed out at them both. She presented the picture of a perfectly obedient daughter, a witless ornament—or perhaps the dog her father had likened her to.

A ferocious surge of anger welled just beneath her skin.

I am none of those things.