Page 20 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

W ell, she’d shown her hand.

Estwood couldn’t possibly appreciate the difficulty of this entire conversation.

He had no idea what it was to exist under another’s control.

Or live beneath another’s threats. Lucy wanted to scream that she hadn’t been allowed dessert in years because Father only allowed her to eat what he thought appropriate.

The absolute mortification of—having to go to Estwood, when he hated her so much and she?—

“I want Marsden,” he growled.

Not Lucy. No one would ever want her.

Even so, a sigh left her, body arching ever so slightly in his direction.

The warmth of his forefinger trailed along the side of Lucy’s neck, lingering over her beating pulse.

Then his palm, hand stretching, thumb rubbing back and forth in a soothing manner over her skin, before his fingers tightened abruptly on her throat.

Lucy let out a soft gasp.

“Your loyalty will be to me. Not Gerald Waterstone. I’ll make him a good offer for Pendergast despite his deceit, and far more than he deserves.

But nothing else. His cries of poverty will fall on deaf ears.

I hope he is forced to sell his horse farm.

I want to see him impoverished.” His breath crested over the curve of her ear.

“If I ever find out you’ve gone behind my back.

If you give him money or betray me to him, you will wish you had not. Do you agree?”

“I do,” she stuttered.

“ Louder. My second stipulation. You will speak in a manner and tone that I, as well as others, can hear. No more of this whispering nonsense. No one cares that you sometimes have a small lisp. I don’t want you breathless unless you are beneath me.

” The fingers pressed a shade tighter. “Which brings me to my last and final point concerning any future marriage.”

Lucy swallowed, not afraid, exactly. Not with her skin humming beneath his fingers or the sudden ache taking up residence between her thighs.

“You’ll share my bed. Often.”

She sucked in a breath. Her nipples tightened painfully at the words, something that had never, ever happened before. The fingers squeezed tighter, just enough to make her whimper. The ache between her thighs intensified. She had the urge to press her naked skin into Estwood’s heat?—

“Answer, Lucy. I require your agreement.”

She nodded. Goodness . She’d agree to anything at the moment.

Difficult to tell whether Estwood was pleased or not by her answer.

He had always been difficult to read. A master at shuttering his thoughts behind a pleasant facade, hiding his true self amongst those who considered themselves his betters.

His hold on her neck should have been terrifying, but all she felt was the constant hum along her skin where he touched her.

“Speak.” The brush of his lips ghosted over her own. “Loudly.”

“Yes.” Her voice grew clear. “I agree to your terms.”

Please kiss me.

The hand around her neck retreated. Reluctantly.

“There are matters I must take care of before we move forward. More for your sake than mine.” He strode towards the door, meaning to leave her without even a goodbye. Or the kiss she so desperately longed for.

“Do not send me a note.” Lucy pressed a hand to her heart, begging it to take up a normal rhythm. “The servants will give it to Father.”

Estwood paused, his back to her. “The modiste shop. The best way, according to the duchess. When I’ve made the arrangements I’ll send for you.” He walked back into the hall, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

Lucy pressed her palm along the wall to steady herself. Stared at a painting of some Shaftoe ancestor on the wall. Took long, slow breaths. She could still feel his hand on her neck, the soft press of his mouth in the barest imitation of a kiss.

He hadn’t refused her. The agreement vague. Nothing further decided. That would have to be enough for now.

Counting to one hundred, Lucy finally deemed it time to exit the small parlor and make her way back to the ballroom.

She was certain she’d been missed by now.

Composing herself, she opened the door, relieved to see no one.

Music echoed down the hall. A waltz. Making her way towards the ballroom, she followed a group of young ladies as they walked inside, listening to them gush about a handsome gentleman who’d asked them all to dance.

Finally, Lucy reached Father and Lord Dufton. Eyes lowered. Hands clasped. Perfectly composed except for the tapping of her foot beneath her skirts in time to the music.

“About time.” Father pinched her arm.

Lucy barely felt it.