Page 15 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

H arry strolled into the Shaftoe ball wishing to be anywhere but here amongst the ton . He didn’t care for balls. Dancing wasn’t something he enjoyed, though he danced adequately after having taken lessons from a highly discreet tutor.

I shouldn’t have bothered.

Events such as these were rife with overly important people, all more worried about appearances and society’s rules than anything else.

Bland refreshments. Boring conversation.

He much preferred a smoky tavern, a meat pie, and a mug of ale, but tonight he’d have to settle for a glass of wine tasting of sour grapes.

Or worse, champagne, which he found barely tolerable.

His disdain for society was only rivaled by the ton’s dislike of him.

No one dared say a thing, of course, not when you were well-acquainted with two dukes, a marquess, and an earl; the censure was made clear instead with hooded looks and small sniffs of disdain.

Harry’s wealth made his presence mildly acceptable.

Still, a great part of the evening would be spent suppressing his low-born accent, so as not to offend the other guests with the origins of his birth.

Harry rolled his eyes.

The upper crust speech of Granby and Blythe had been perfected over years spent in their company, but at times he slipped.

The same with the overly polite manners which must be adhered to.

Harry had memorized the correct forms of address, the bowing and scraping, the proper bloody twist of his cravat, but those things did not come naturally to him.

As the son of a blacksmith who had thought his future in forges— well, that was still true wasn’t it?

—he hadn’t thought there would be any need to mingle to such a degree with his betters.

Thus, no reason to know which spoon was for soup. Or the fork used for fish.

A graceful hand floating over a knife at the dinner table. Eyes so blue it was like looking into the sky. A small, shy smile on those exquisite lips. He hadn’t even tasted the food.

A disgruntled sound escaped him as the vision flashed before him.

The dance floor was already packed with spinning couples, the hum of their voices echoing in Shaftoe’s ballroom.

Maybe he could play cards. Harry hadn’t had a good game of whist in some time.

But he had promised Mrs. Felicity Armstrong, his current paramour, that he would be in attendance this evening.

He spotted her, fluttering about in a stunning gown with a barely acceptable neckline.

If she leaned over too far, a breast might pop out.

Her dark hair gleamed in the light of the candles, making his fingers itch to tug at the strands.

Yes, but not inky. Not like a raven’s wing.

Harry snarled as he made his way to Felicity’s side, banishing once more the image his mind continued to taunt him with. This was entirely the fault of Granby’s duchess.

“There you are, Estwood,” Felicity purred, holding out her hand.

“Mrs. Armstrong.” He bowed and took her fingers.

As a close friend, he dined frequently with Granby and his duchess, the former Lady Andromeda Barrington, so when an invitation had arrived a few days ago, Harry had immediately accepted. He’d just come back from Hampshire, which was full of more than Blythe’s terrible woodworking skills.

I should have known the moment roast beef and rosemary potatoes were served.

Harry’s favorite meal, as Her Grace was well aware, which meant she required something of him.

The duchess wasn’t above bribery or manipulation, and in that, she was much like her brother, Leo Murphy, who ran a gambling hell.

So, when those striking eyes with their unusual ring of indigo had pierced him from across the table, fingers tapping to gain his attention, Harry hadn’t been the least surprised.

He’d just taken a bite of roast when the duchess had tossed out, far too casually, if he’d heard recently from that prick, Gerald Waterstone.

Harry sighed. Fine. Her Grace had not used those exact words, though since she was Leo Murphy’s sister, he was quite sure she wasn’t above the use of foul language.

He had put down his fork and knife.

The note he was mulling over, Her Grace informed him, had not come from Waterstone, but his daughter. Miss Waterstone needed to speak to Harry on an important matter. Urgently.

Harry took a deep breath through his nose before replying. There wasn’t anything, he’d stated calmly, that Waterstone’s snot of a daughter could say that was worth his hearing. Wasn’t she wed with a passel of well-bred brats? Then he’d waved over a footman for another serving of roast.

Her Grace did not back down. She rarely did. She saw herself as a champion, of sorts, for those who needed help, regardless of whether they deserved it. And Harry considered Lucy Waterstone to be counted with those who did not.

Her Grace insisted, rather forcefully, that Harry must listen to a proposal the little twit had for him.

He declined. What could be so important?

Her Grace, damn her , wouldn’t say what Miss Snobby Skirts wanted, only that Harry would regret not speaking to her.

A meeting could be arranged at Madame Dupree’s, the modiste shop— honestly, he’d completely forgotten Granby’s duchess was still going about designing gowns —at his earliest convenience.

Harry was not amused. He didn’t care for Miss Waterstone, finding her to be cut from the same cloth as her pompous father. Meet with her at the modiste shop? Respectfully, was the duchess out of her mind?

Granby made a low growl in his throat.

Harry retracted his statement. The duke worshipped his wife, to the point of distraction.

Always going about and speaking in Italian to her, making her blush.

Harry knew why the papers on Granby’s desk in his study were so often a mess.

He’d once spotted the edge of a petticoat sticking out a drawer.

Waterstone was devious, Harry declared, and would have absolutely no compunction whatsoever in using his daughter in one of his schemes.

Her Grace’s opinion of Miss Waterstone’s character was admirable, but Harry didn’t share it.

As it happened, he was in the midst of negotiating for the ironworks, Pendergast, and Waterstone was most likely using his snot of a daughter to distract Harry into paying more.

That he was already prepared to do so was not the point.

Her Grace countered. Miss Waterstone remained yet unwed and was being courted by the Earl of Dufton. Was that of any interest to Harry?

Bloody hell .

She knew damn well that it was. He didn’t get on with Dufton.

“Shall we?” Mrs. Armstrong’s slender fingers took hold of Harry’s sleeve. He’d nearly forgotten she was beside him, perfuming the air with some strong floral scent which made him hold back a sneeze.

“Of course,” he said graciously, though it took him a moment to realize what she wanted. A dance.

Felicity was a widow of moderate wealth and healthy sexual appetites with an affinity for choosing lovers considered ‘outside’ society.

Harry, low-born and self-made, certainly fit the bill.

They’d met when Harry had been walking down Oxford Street on the way to a meeting.

He’d halted suddenly, struck by the sharp contrast of all that dark hair and pale skin.

Blue eyes gleaming with interest when Harry had boldly introduced himself.

Felicity tugged his sleeve with a pout. “I sense I do not have all of your attention.” One breast brushed along his arm as he led her onto the ballroom floor.

“Apologies. A business matter,” Harry answered absently.

“Well…” One slender finger trailed along his arm. “I’ll expect your full attention later.”

Harry nodded with a smile, but he wasn’t thinking of Felicity, rather of Lucy Waterstone.

Again . Miss Waterstone had been in the park with Lord Dufton, which shouldn’t have bothered him, yet it had.

The sudden burst of violence at the sight of Dufton escorting her to his carriage had been…

unwelcome. And far too much of a coincidence to suit Harry.

Dufton had been seen in the Cleveland Hills. Had walked the park with Waterstone’s daughter while Harry was attempting to purchase Marsden. And, according to Granby’s duchess, was courting Miss Waterstone.

Which meant Dufton knew what was really beneath all that rock in north Yorkshire.

But the most unpleasant part of seeing the pair in the park wasn’t the realization Dufton knew about Marsden.

No, it had been the insistent pull in Lucy’s direction.

So vicious, it had torn at Harry’s skin.

Plucked at his clothing. He hated her for that.

Desiring a woman who found him so far beneath her tiny slippers she could barely speak to him was intolerable.

His forefinger rubbed along the missing edge of his pinky, a constant reminder of past unpleasantness.

“Estwood.” Felicity swatted him on the shoulder with her fan. “Whatever is more important than me and our dance at this moment? I demand your attention.”

“You have it. Well…” He glanced down at her. “Your bosom certainly does.”

She gave him a sly smile. “I thought so. The cut is rather scandalous. Even for me.”

“I admire your display, Mrs. Armstrong. As does nearly every other gentleman in the Shaftoe ballroom.” Felicity, at heart, was something of an exhibitionist. She adored attention. Craved it. If she’d ever had any modesty, it had long since vanished. He liked that about her.

Absently twirling Felicity, silently counting the steps in his head, Harry watched the way the silk of her gown, shot through with copper, swung about, showing her ankles.

She had her head thrown back, showing off a wide swath of milky skin, smiling not just at Harry, but every gentleman who caught her eye.