Page 16 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

Harry found he didn’t mind. Felicity had lasted longer than most, but his relationships were, more often than not, short-lived. He’d been contemplating the demise of their association since his return from Hampshire.

“So…” Felicity paused, running the edge of her tongue along the top of her lip in a practiced move. “You do approve of the gown.”

“Haven’t I already said so?” He was far more annoyed with her than he should be. Another reason to end things between them.

A satisfied smile turned her lips as a curl fell over her ear. “I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

Harry spun her about and caught sight of a young lady across the crowded ballroom, wearing a gown of indigo, with alternating panels of deep purple that flashed in the light of the chandeliers.

The colors of the silk set off her hair, black as pitch, drawing attention to the pale slope of neck and shoulders.

Her form, still and unyielding in her partner’s arms, flashed in and out as the crowd of dancers parted, her face averted.

Chin tilted down. A curl dangled by one ear.

He drew in a slow breath. He knew that delicate profile. Dreamt of it.

Lucy.

Harry studied her a moment longer before forcing his attention back to Felicity.

Oh, bloody hell.

Miss Waterstone’s lovely features were achingly similar to Felicity’s, save for the shape of the nose. The same thick, curling mass of hair, though Felicity’s wasn’t the color of ink. Blue-eyed not the exact hue of cornflowers. Close. But?—

The resemblance, now that the two women were in the same ballroom, was apparent.

His mind ran through every woman he’d bedded in the last few years—there weren’t a great many, he simply didn’t have the time.

But they all possessed the same features.

Coloring. Some even had Miss Waterstone’s refined air of elegance.

This was nearly worse than Dufton sniffing about Marsden.

How did I not notice?

Harry’s foot nearly smashed Felicity’s toes.

She glared at him.

He murmured an apology. He hadn’t expected to see Miss Waterstone this evening, though he should have guessed, after seeing her in the park.

A few years had gone by since Granby’s house party, and Harry hadn’t caught sight of her even once.

But now…well, Miss Waterstone was popping up in parks and over roast beef. And balls.

Lucy kept her eyes cast down, watching her slippers as she was swung about, so forcefully, Harry thought, she might shatter like the fine porcelain he often imagined her to be. The crowd parted again, long enough for Harry to see the gentleman who partnered Miss Waterstone.

Dufton .

He shouldn’t have been surprised, given the duchess had claimed Waterstone had arranged the match. And he’d seen them in the park together. It wasn’t any affair of his if Miss Waterstone wanted to be a countess.

Jerking his gaze away from Lucy, Harry decided he would choose his bed partners with more care in the future. Blondes only. Possibly a redhead or two for variety.

“Estwood? Whatever is wrong with you this evening?” Felicity said. “You seem inordinately angry about something.”

Ice settled along his skin when considering Miss Waterstone across the ballroom. There was also humiliation. Longing. Dislike. And the sort of arousal that had his cock aching in his trousers.

“I think I’ll play some cards.” Harry led Felicity off the floor as the dance ended to a waiting group of her friends.

“Cards?” she sniffed. “You prefer a game of whist to me?” Felicity lifted her chin, lips pursed. “Since cards take up your thoughts at present and not me.” She rolled her shoulders, nearly forcing her breasts out of their pathetic confinement, hoping to make him look.

Harry did not.

“I fear your disinterest will lead me to seek another escort home this evening.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Armstrong.” He bowed politely, ignoring her gasp of outrage. She liked threatening Harry with taking another lover whenever he didn’t accede to her wishes.

“I mean it, Estwood. You will no longer be welcome in my bed if you?—”

“Then I wish you all the best.” Harry interrupted her tirade, then turned and strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom, not the least perturbed by Felicity’s threats.

He’d play a hand or two of cards so the evening wouldn’t be a complete loss and then take his leave.

Glancing to the right, Harry caught sight of Miss Waterstone once more, at the far corner of the room.

Slightly hunched over, as if she could make herself smaller, Miss Waterstone stood beside her father. She reminded Harry of the snapped stem of a flower, one that had been trampled underfoot. Eyes once more on her slippers. Hands clasped before her.

Artifice . His mind hissed. Miss Waterstone wielded her excessive reserve and melancholy like a weapon.

Gerald Waterstone, chest puffed out, arrogance on full display, hovered over his wife. Pretty, with angular, sharp features, Mrs. Waterstone was thin to the point of emaciation. A good breeze might blow her away. Which must be terrifying since she was wed to a windbag of epic proportions.

He caught sight of Lord Dufton looming over the tragic looking Miss Waterstone like the villain of a novel, his fingers trailing possessively over her waist as he spoke to an older, draconian-looking matron who could only be his mother.

Lady Dufton draped in emerald silk, tilted her head, giving a glimpse of the large diamonds swinging from her ears.

A matching tiara topped her graying curls.

The dowager countess and her son both possessed the same nose and cruel slant to their lips.

Miss Waterstone remained utterly still, like a rabbit attempting to hide from a group of hunting dogs. She never once looked up at Dufton as he spoke. If anything, her body seemed to bow slightly away from him.

Harry frowned. Strange for a woman who would be a countess.

He slid away from the ballroom and into the adjoining hall, watching how the light turned Miss Waterstone’s hair that lovely blue-black. Felicity’s curls couldn’t hope to compare.

Dufton took her fingers, pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

A smile, a trifle strained at the edges, pulled at her lips.

Far too cozy. Harry had seen enough.

“You know what I find most attractive about you, pet ?”

Lord Dufton spun Lucy expertly across the ballroom floor.

If nothing else, he danced divinely. Wasted on a man of his character.

Much like his handsome appearance and polite manners.

She’d never detested anyone quite so much.

Threats had been the theme of the Shaftoe ball, a precursor to what Lucy could expect were they to wed.

His grip tightened on her fingers, enough to force a response. “No, my lord,” she whispered. “I do not.”

“Your maidenhead.”

Lucy’s foot caught, but she righted herself immediately. The mere thought of Dufton’s hands on her, in the context of physical relations, chilled her. Head lowered, Lucy studied the buttons on his coat, knowing better than to look her suitor in the eye.

Dufton’s lips ghosted over her cheek, smelling far more delicious than any horrible human being should. “I was assured of your virtue, pet ,” he said in a menacing tone. “So for your sake, I do hope you are intact . Things will go poorly for you, pet , if that is not the case.”

Lord Dufton was the most repulsive of creatures.

Lucy averted her gaze, unable to tolerate looking at him, or his coat buttons, a second longer—or allow him to see how badly his words unsettled her. As she tilted her chin to the side, another gentleman came into view, causing her breath to hitch.

Harry Estwood. Just on the other side of the room. Dancing with a stunning woman clad in a gown with a somewhat scandalous neckline.

Lucy stumbled, tripping over her own two feet.

“Clumsy little peahen.” The soft, adoring tone didn’t match the menace in his eyes. “I do hope that isn’t a sign of some…physical impairment.”

Lucy barely heard Dufton. Or his threats. All she could see was Harry Estwood.

Estwood did know how to dance, which surprised her. Not nearly as gracefully as Dufton, of course, but he moved adequately enough. His partner was beautiful and obviously well acquainted with Estwood, if the look she gave him was any indication.

Lovers.

She turned away from the sight, not wanting Dufton to catch her staring.

No request had yet come from Madame Dupree for an additional fitting, which meant Estwood had no intention of meeting with Lucy or even considering her proposition.

Apparently, Romy had vastly overestimated her powers of persuasion, at least in Estwood’s case.

He didn’t trust Lucy or like her. And she could hardly blame him.

Hopelessness bloomed inside her chest.

Romy had promised to send Lucy to New York, if it came to that, and— Lucy dared another glance at Estwood —it most likely would. There was no guarantee that Dufton or Father wouldn’t simply find her there, but Lucy would have to try. She couldn’t simply allow?—

The mutinous feeling which had warmed her earlier as she’d entered the Shaftoe ball faded away like a puff of smoke.

Giving up, her mind whispered, might be the best and easiest answer.

Accept her fate. Try to appease Dufton and hope that after a time, he would allow her to live out her life in the countryside. Peacefully.

Oh, Lucy. You’re such a coward.

When the set came to an end, Dufton led her off the dance floor, dragging her before an austere woman who surveyed Lucy with icy disdain.

“Lady Dufton,” he said, greeting his mother formally. “May I present Miss Waterstone.”

Dufton’s mother lifted a perfectly plucked brow. She was brittle and vicious in her assessment, examining Lucy with a discerning eye. “A field mouse, Dufton?” The dowager countess’s words dripped with scorn. “You’ve brought me to London for this?”