Page 17 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

Lucy retreated into reserve, her composure a shield that might magically protect her. Father savagely pinched her arm, a warning not to embarrass him. Speak in a whisper.

“Lady Dufton,” she murmured, dipping politely. A moment passed in which Lucy could hear nothing but her own heart thundering in her ears.

“Timid. Tepid,” Lady Dufton announced in a mild tone, cocking her head. “Attractive. Docile, I suspect.”

Why not simply tie me to a block at Tattersall’s like one of Father’s horses? Examine my teeth, perhaps?

“She’ll do, I suppose.” Lady Dufton drawled in a superior manner. “You may proceed.”

Lucy had the sudden, unexpected urge to hiss at the dowager countess. She advised her pulse to slow. Gather her composure. She clasped her hands tighter and went completely still.

Once Lady Dufton’s approval was secured, Lucy had served her purpose and was ignored. Which gave her plenty of time to observe Father’s interrogation. Lady Dufton questioned him on his pedigree, family, and connections before turning her attention to Sally.

Sally’s bright, false smile faltered.

Lucy was just beginning to enjoy watching Father and Sally squirm at Lady Dufton’s questions, when the dowager countess’s eyes flicked over Lucy once more.

“I see in her a tendency towards stoutness, which would be most unwelcome,” Lady Dufton decreed. “Steps must be taken lest her form become overripe.”

I am not a bloody plum .

Father took hold of the back of Lucy’s arm and pinched her harder than before. “A proper reducing regimen keeps such in check, my lady. One that will continue.”

Splendid. I see a future of broth and tea with no honey.

Lucy moved to the left, as far from the small circle of these horrible people as she could without drawing attention. The rage at her father boiled at a fever pitch beneath the surface of her skin. Taking another step away, she paused. Took another.

Sally immediately clutched her arm. “Where do you think you’re off to?”

“I need to refreth myself.” Lucy jerked away from her stepmother, hating the sound of her tongue sticking to her teeth.

“Something I am capable of accomplishing without your oversight. Unless you wish to hold my skirts.” The lisp was glaring.

Horrible. And Lucy’s voice was most certainly above a whisper.

Sally’s mouth parted, taken aback at Lucy’s manner.

Good. There’s more of that to come.

Lucy jerked her chin at her stepmother and wandered off, uncaring if she were headed in the right direction or not.

It didn’t matter. She only wanted away from all of them.

Stepping into the hall, the air immediately became a bit less suffocating.

Lucy straightened her shoulders. Took a deep breath.

I will not wed Dufton .

The words had become a prayer of sorts, a way to refocus her thoughts and keep her from slipping back into the Lucy who always obeyed, as she nearly had earlier. Her fingers trembled, and she hid them in her skirts, demanding they stop.

Courage, Lucy.

The clock had begun to tick. Now that Lady Dufton approved, things would move that much faster.

Thankfully, Romy had been wise in dragging out the completion of Lucy’s new wardrobe, no matter how it annoyed Sally, who’d commented on Madame’s sluggishness more than once.

Lucy could pretend discontent over the delay.

Visit the modiste and alert Marisol, who would, in turn, send word to Romy.

Estwood was still the best, quickest option, but if it came to it, Lucy would board the first ship for New York.

Feeling moderately better, she set out for the room put aside for the ladies and lost herself in the crowd.

Another option was Granby. The duke might know of a decent gentleman who would treat Lucy with kindness and wouldn’t mind if she ate more than a sliver of lamb. She bit her lip. If she faltered in her determination, if what little bravery she possessed faded, the result would be marriage to Dufton.

Taking a seat in the room set aside for the ladies, Lucy settled her thoughts. Panic would not serve her. Nor cowardice. Both would only lead to wedding Dufton.

And if he caught her attempting to escape…

Not only would she be forced to the altar, but once wed, not even Romy would be able to save her. A man’s wife was his property. Lucy would be sent to a sanitarium after producing Dufton’s heir, never to be seen again. Locked away while Dufton took Marsden. Father wouldn’t even blink.

A choked sound left her as she leaned over, pretending to examine the ribbon on her slipper. Ladies came and went, some shooting her curious looks, but no one spoke to Lucy or paid her the least attention.

Breathe, Lucy. Stop being a coward.

Tonight must be survived. She must play the obedient, meek, empty-headed woman Dufton assumed her to be. There was still hope. Not a great deal of it, mind you, but some . Once her breathing returned to normal, her placid manner in place, Lucy ventured back out again.

I will not wed Dufton.

The words repeated over and over, giving her the strength to endure the evening at his side. He would not have her—or Marsden—if she could help it. Father could go live on his bloody horse farm.

Proud of herself, Lucy strolled back out into the hall, turned the corner, and was promptly shoved aside by two women so busy gossiping behind their fans, neither noticed her.

Stumbling, her feet working as well as her tongue as of late, she placed a hand against the wall to keep from falling to the ground.

A large hand wrapped around her elbow.

“Miss Waterstone.” The rolling cadence with the hint of low-born accent, something he made no attempt to hide for her sake, trickled over Lucy’s skin.

Awareness of him had her body vibrating like a tuning fork.

It was one thing to regard him across the grass in the park or in the confines of the ballroom, quite another to have him touching her.

“Mr. Estwood.” She kept her voice soft, the lisp muted as much as possible.

Lucy didn’t want him to hear it. She wasn’t ready to speak to him.

Not here. Lucy had considered her proposal and planned to present succinct, sound reasoning.

Not be trapped at the Shaftoe ball wishing to fade into the wallpaper while she presented her case.

“You will not burst into flames if you look at me, Miss Waterstone,” he drawled. “I understand you wish to speak to me.”

Lucy lifted her chin. She’d never been this close to Estwood, not even when he’d walked her around the standing stones at The Barrow.

His beard held sparks of copper and a bit of gray—there was even a streak in his sherry-colored hair.

And his eyes…the color of thunderclouds during a summer storm.

Striations of black shot through the gray, like small bolts of lightning.

His lips curled beneath the neatly trimmed mustache and brush of beard, but Lucy didn’t have the impression he was pleased to see her.

“I—” she murmured.

Estwood didn’t possess Dufton’s aristocratic male beauty, but Lucy thought his character far better. He dazzled her, like an uncut diamond.

Her toes curled inside her slippers.

I have always thought him the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.

“Miss Waterstone?” He tilted his head in her direction, still holding her arm. “My curiosity has been aroused, along with my suspicion. Her Grace claims you need to speak to me on a matter of some importance, which I highly doubt.”

Before she could protest, he dragged her towards an open door at the end of the hall. “Come.”

“I’m not a dog, Mr. Estwood.” The words came out in a rush of lisping anger, though not all of it was directed at him. She was trembling, fear skittering along her skin that she might be discovered. What if Sally came looking for her? Or Dufton?

His eyes lingered over her mouth. Not in that horrified way Father’s so often did when he heard the lisp, but far more intensely. “No, you are not.” He stopped, looked up and down the hall, and pulled her inside the room.

A small parlor met her eyes, two glasses on the table with a bottle of brandy between them. A lamp was lit, casting shadows across the wall, but the room was otherwise empty.

Estwood shut the door, throwing the lock.

Lucy pulled away from him, trying not to think too hard about the fact that they were alone behind a locked door.

She’d been instructed her entire life not to ever be in such a situation with a gentleman, not that there had been a great many opportunities.

Clasping her arms across her chest, she considered what to say.

She was confident in her arguments. Lucy had studied, poring over articles, reading everything she could so that her case would be strong, logical, and difficult for Estwood to refuse, even if he did view her with a great deal of distaste.

She’d also deduced why he wanted Marsden.

Estwood’s name wasn’t often found in the newspapers, until one looked closely.

Since the conversation with Romy, Lucy had started to piece things together.

Father happened to have a handful of tomes on engineering and architecture in his study, which had led her to learn more about how all manner of buildings, railways and bridges were constructed.

Wrought iron and pig iron were required. Both produced from iron ore. For now.

Clever Estwood.

Unlike Father, whose business pursuits rarely stretched beyond a few years because he preferred risky, slightly glamorous investments that offered an immediate return, Estwood was planning a decade or more into the future.

“So here I am, Miss Waterstone.” Estwood planted his feet before her. “Speak, if you will. You have my attention.”