Page 12 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“ G ood day, miss. May I be of assistance?”

The blue silk Lucy gripped as if her life depended on it slid from between her fingers. “I have an appointment with Madame Dupree.” Her voice was barely above a whisper to hide the lisp. “Miss Waterstone.”

The modiste shop was busy this morning, crowded with mothers and daughters laughing gaily as they studied fabric swatches and bits of lace.

Bonnets and ribbons. Lucy hadn’t been to Madame Dupree’s in some time, since Sally preferred Madame Lucien’s.

Also, Sally had declared it a ridiculous endeavor to order Lucy new clothing when she rarely went anywhere.

She pressed a finger to the ache in her temple.

Sleep had proven fruitless the previous night as she alternated between a horrible, burning anger towards her father and the most overwhelming pain at his lack of affection.

In between, Lucy had chastised herself for her own stupidity at not seeing the signs earlier of Father’s impending penury.

Daring to poke about Father’s study once more, she’d searched for the exact location of Marsden.

Close to Pendergast, she’d surmised, given Colm’s input, but that was the only clue.

There was nothing more to help her, not even the name of Joshua Marsden’s solicitor.

It isn’t as if I intend to consult that fraud Hopps.

“Miss Waterstone, of course. You are expected.” The girl bobbed politely. “I am Marisol, one of Madame’s assistants. A moment, miss, while I see if she is ready for you.” She smiled and bustled through the groups of other ladies waiting and disappeared behind a curtain.

Laughter came from the other side of the shop, where laces, ribbons, and bits of piping were on display.

She didn’t bother to turn in her stepmother’s direction. Sally was busy gossiping with her friends, eyes flitting in Lucy’s direction every so often. Watching Lucy for potential rebellion.

Perhaps you should have put a leash on me, Sally.

Not one word had been uttered between them on the carriage ride to Madame Dupree’s.

Her stepmother had merely smiled, smug and secure in Father’s little scheme, because she believed Lucy was an idiot and far too cowardly to do anything about her fate.

Gerald Waterstone most certainly did know the sort of man he was selling his daughter to; he just didn’t care.

“This way, miss.” Marisol returned and ushered Lucy to the back of the shop, but instead of taking her into the main fitting room, the girl darted to the left, leading Lucy down yet another hall before swinging open the door. “Here, Miss Waterstone.”

Lucy took a step inside. Marisol had brought her to a workroom, not the area used for fittings.

A woman, hair a lustrous deep brown, was bent over a long table drumming her fingers as she rapidly sketched out something on a piece of paper.

Bolts of fabric were strewn about the room as well as designs for gowns, riding habits, several hats, and what looked to be hair clips.

The woman was humming to herself, something slightly bawdy and inappropriate.

Hope had struck Lucy earlier at the mention of Madame Dupree’s, an establishment Father had prohibited her from visiting for years. He certainly wouldn’t approve of her being here now.

“Your Grace,” Marisol said with a bow. “I’ve brought Miss Waterstone.”

The most magnificent blue eyes, so famous in London that a particular shade of paint had been named for the color, raised to meet Lucy’s.

“Ah, there you are.”

The rumors of Andromeda Barrington designing gowns before her marriage to the Duke of Granby had been a mild scandal several years ago—and entirely true, though neither the Barringtons nor Granby had ever admitted to as much.

But here was absolute proof that becoming a duchess hadn’t stopped Andromeda from practicing her talents.

Lucy’s knees buckled with relief at the sight of her former friend.

Andromeda dropped the nub of pencil she’d been using with a small exclamation of delight. Striding forward with a smile, she took Lucy’s fingers before pulling her into a warm embrace.

“How delighted I am to see you.” She hugged her tight.

The prospect that Andromeda would be here had been optimistic at best. The friendship had withered when Father had fallen out of favor with the Duke of Granby. Lucy had written to Andromeda, but her friend had been traveling with her new husband and never replied.

“I saw you’d booked an appointment today, and I decided I should do your fitting and not Madame Dupree. I hope you’ll forgive me.” Andromeda pulled back with a wink. “Are you surprised I am still designing gowns, given I’m now a duchess? David could not hope to win that argument.”

David? Oh, she meant Granby. The duke. Lucy had never considered what his given name might be. Or that he even had one.

“ Thank you, Marisol.” Andromeda gave the assistant a little wave. “I’ll find you when Miss Waterstone is ready to depart.” She pulled Lucy forward. “I’m so pleased to see you. It has been far too long.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

“ You are to address me as Romy. We are still friends, I hope?”

“Most assuredly.” Lucy smiled back at her.

“Much better. Now, I must apologize for not meeting you in the fitting room. But the duke”—she tapped her chin—“actually both dukes,” Romy said meaning her husband and brother, the Duke of Averell, “insist on absolute discretion if I am to continue with my creations. Which is somewhat ridiculous, given I’m positive anyone with half a brain realizes I’m still working with Madame Dupree.

” She lowered her voice. “Partners, actually. Don’t tell anyone. ”

“I won’t.”

“But to please David, I am relegated to lurking about in the back of Madame’s shop among the bolts of fabric.

Unseen,” she said dramatically. “And unsung. Nevertheless, I informed David it is in his best interests, should he wish a happy union, to allow me my work. My schedule is greatly reduced now that I have a son.” Her face took on a look of adoration.

“You must meet him, Lucy.” Romy gave her a knowing look.

“Which, had you responded to any of my letters, you might have already.”

“You wrote to me?” Of course, she had. Lucy should never had doubted it. Father must have taken the letters.

“I sense Gerald Waterstone’s hand in this.

You wrote to me as well, did you not?” At Lucy’s nod, she said, “Don’t you dare apologize or make excuses for him.

I’m well aware of what he thinks of me and my family.

He isn’t the only one, after all.” Her lips pressed tight.

“I suspected as much when I was turned away at your door once we returned to London.”

“You called?” Lucy was appalled. The anger towards Father reared its head once more, and she pushed it down. Sally and her father had turned away a duchess.

“After our return from Rome. I was turned away twice. I should have insisted I see you, but I was with child and not well.” She waved a hand.

“David insisted we return to The Barrow. My brother Leo opened his grand hotel in New York and…I couldn’t even make the journey.

Then matters occurred within my family that required my attention. ”

“I’m thorry about?—”

“Do not apologize for him, Lucy. Haven’t I said as much? I knew it wasn’t your fault. And stop that whispering. I can barely hear you.” Romy’s eyes, that magnificent blue with a ring of indigo, flashed at her. “Speak louder, Lucy. I wish to hear you.”

She looked down at her hands, biting her lip. No one had encouraged Lucy to speak in ages.

“You must speak, for instance, to give your opinion on this.” Romy gestured towards a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner, draped in an exquisitely patterned silk of a vivid blue with subtle hints of purple.

“I understand you need a splendid gown within the week for the Shaftoe ball, at least according to Madame’s notes.

” There was a question hovering in Romy’s eyes. “And an entire new wardrobe to follow.”

Lucy studied the half-finished gown. “It’s beautiful.” Romy was an artist. But instead of paints, she used fabric. There was a reason the finest gowns in all of London came from Madame Dupree’s—because her friend was designing them.

“I find your father’s sudden generosity to be suspect,” Romy stated bluntly.

“Very unlike him.” She turned Lucy gently, helping her out of her dress, and then dropped the half-finished gown over her shoulders.

“Up.” Romy gestured at the small block, holding Lucy’s hand to steady her. “I need to check the hem.”

Lucy did as bidden, standing still while Romy wielded her pins and notes.

“I had your measurements from before,” she said. “Which have barely changed, save your waist is smaller.”

Because Romy had made the gown Lucy had worn to the ball at Granby’s house party, though she hadn’t realized at the time her friend had designed that gorgeous confection.

She’d thought it all the work of Madame Dupree.

“I remember. The gown was lovely.” She smiled down at Romy. “You had butterflies in your hair.”

“Hair clips. I still have them. All save one.” She mumbled through a mouthful of pins. “David carries one about in his pocket. I’ve no idea why.”

Granby adored his duchess. Loved her beyond measure.

Lucy suspected he held on to that clip like a talisman because it was a piece of Romy.

Father liked to snarl that the austere Duke of Granby had been brought to his knees by a Barrington.

He’d said many unkind things about Romy and her family, deliberately, waiting for Lucy to object.

Which, of course, she shamefully had not.

Such devotion as the duke had for his duchess wasn’t in Lucy’s future. She knew that. But escape from the fate awaiting her as Dufton’s bride was still possible.

A chill went through her at the thought of wedding the earl.