Page 21 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

L ucy took another bite of the scone, warm currants bursting in her mouth.

She’d already eaten three. Secretly . After breakfasting with Father—well, he’d had breakfast. Lucy had only been permitted tea.

No honey. Not so much as a piece of dry toast, thanks to Lady Dufton’s comments concerning Lucy’s figure growing stout.

Father, of course, ate an enormous plate of eggs and ham, watching her with a smack of his lips.

There was a smugness to him this morning, perhaps congratulating himself on how he’d arranged things to suit him best. Such as marrying his imperfect daughter off to a debauched earl to pay off his debts. Bound to make one ravenous.

After, Lucy had marched down to the kitchen and loaded a plate with fresh baked scones, crept into the drawing room, and shut the door.

Sally, thankfully, had decided to breakfast in bed. Playing jailor while simultaneously bartering Lucy to pay her modiste bill must be an exhausting endeavor.

Lucy took another defiant bite of the scone.

The modiste bill in question had been lying on Father’s desk. The amount written had been so outrageous, she had to sit down. Thus, the need for scones.

The Shaftoe ball had been nearly a week ago. A handful of days in which she’d been followed about in her own home—she couldn’t even walk into the gardens without a servant trailing her—and Lucy had been subjected to Lady Dufton and her strident views.

She bit into the scone with a great deal of defiance.

Even if Dufton hadn’t been the last man in England Lucy wished to wed, meeting the dowager countess would have compelled her to refuse his suit. She was just as horrible as her son.

Over tea just yesterday at Dufton’s luxurious home, Lucy had had her hair critiqued— black like a crow —her speech— a good idea for her not to say a word in public —and the potential for producing Dufton’s heirs— I do hope she holds up better than the last one .

The only compliment paid her by the dowager countess was that Lucy’s posture was correct .

The entire call had been uncomfortable, especially when Sally had pointedly shaken her head, first at Lucy, then the tray of biscuits.

Had she not come to vague terms with Estwood, Lucy might have run screaming from Dufton’s odious mother and taken her chances on the streets of London. But she had simply sipped her tea, absent of honey, of course, and stayed silent with relief, knowing there would be an end to this.

Licking a crumb off her finger, Lucy sat back against the cushions, glancing at Father’s discarded newspaper.

The Earl of Blythe’s marriage to the former Beatrice Howard, now a widowed duchess, had taken up two paragraphs.

Estwood had been in attendance, according to the article, along with the Duke of Granby and Romy.

That gave her some comfort as to why Estwood hadn’t yet sent for her. He and Blythe were close friends.

We came to terms , Estwood and I.

Yet, the more days passed, the more concerned she became. Perhaps she’d misread his intent?

You’ll share my bed. Often.

No misunderstanding there .

Lucy swallowed. Took a sip of tea. Ignored the sudden pressure between her thighs.

She hadn’t considered Estwood might… want to bed her.

Her entire life, Lucy had been told she was a burden.

An embarrassment. That finding a man who might want to wed her would be difficult at best. Estwood was…

spectacular . Obviously, given the stunning woman on his arm the night of the Shaftoe ball, not lacking for female companionship, and Lucy was… Lucy .

Father had likened her to a trained dog .

A stab of hurt filled her.

The small child she’d once been, alone and motherless, would have done anything for Gerald Waterstone’s love.

That young girl still existed inside Lucy.

Wanting to please him. Have his praise. Earn his affection.

Ease his disappointment that she hadn’t been a son.

But over the years, he’d become…difficult.

Unrelenting in his opinion of Mama and her vile traits, all of which Lucy had inherited.

The more Father berated her, the worse her speech became, stuttering and lisping until Father declared her flawed and beyond hope.

He’d sacked Miss Capwitch. Why, he thundered, had he been so unfortunate? Why must he endure such punishment?

Lucy had done everything in her power to be what her father wanted. Done whatever he asked.

“But I will not marry Dufton,” she whispered under her breath, appalled at the guilt she felt because Father would suffer when she didn’t wed the earl.

He deserves to.

Resolve, fueled by the knowledge he would rather see her wed to Dufton and locked away in a sanitarium than give up his precious horses, returned, steeling her spine.

Lucy was tired of being merely a thing to Father.

A tool. A means to further his ambitions.

Truthfully, that was all she’d ever been.

He’d only been waiting for the proper time to use her.

“There you are.” Sally waltzed into the drawing room dressed in a frock of pale yellow, decorated with daisies along the hem.

Her eyes fell to the plate empty of all but the crumbs, lips pursing in displeasure.

“Mr. Waterstone will be disappointed in your lack of discipline, daughter. I’ll have to inform him. ”

Threatened over a plate of scones .

Lucy regarded Sally with a bland look, showing none of her inner turmoil.

“Do not dare to behave as a glutton the day after next.” Sally gave her a sly, toothy smile. “Rather important. The dowager countess is hosting a dinner party to announce your betrothal to Lord Dufton.” Sally clapped her hands. “Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

No. No it did not . Lucy regretted eating three scones as her stomach pitched.

“I sent word yesterday to Madame Dupree that we absolutely must have another one of your gowns finished immediately.” She shook her head in irritation.

“As if I care that she is inundated with orders. I informed her that Lord Dufton would be most displeased. She replied that after a quick fitting for the sleeves, the lavender satin will be ready. Perfect for a betrothal.” Sally jerked her chin. “Your appointment is in an hour.”

Lucy had chosen nothing in lavender. Nor would Romy have any cause to ever fit a sleeve.

I’m leaving this house today.

“I am gratified that Madame Dupree is taking such care,” Lucy replied quietly, careful to keep her eyes cast down to her lap. Dutiful and obedient. Docile. Giving no indication that this appointment would be any different than the last.

“I shall accompany you,” Sally said. “Though I’ve calls to make later. I’ll have the carriage brought around. We’ll leave shortly.” Her stepmother sailed out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor as she went to inform Father.

Lucy took a deep breath and came to her feet, looking around the drawing room.

Instructed her hands to stop their shaking.

There was nothing in this house she wanted.

No books, not a favorite wrap. No trinket of sentimental value.

Father had gotten rid of anything that remained of Lucy’s mother long ago.

She trembled slightly, one hand on the settee, overwhelmed at the enormity of what she was about to do. But composure was warranted. If she was to escape the fate awaiting her as Dufton’s wife, Lucy must be brave.

“Ah, there you are Miss Waterstone.” Marisol appeared immediately as Lucy walked into the modiste shop. She’d obviously been waiting for her. Madame Dupree’s was crowded today, filled with society matrons and their daughters, roving about studying bits of lace and feathers.

“Allow me to take Miss Waterstone back to a fitting room,” Marisol said to Sally. “Madame requires barely a quarter hour to ensure the sleeves are correct. She wishes the gown to be perfect.”

Sally took a step forward, meaning to accompany them, which wouldn’t do at all.

“Oh, Sally,” Lucy said softly. “Allow Madame to have me dressed first. I want you to have the full impression in case there is anything else you think needs adjustment.” She turned to Marisol. “Madame will fix the sleeves first, before Mrs. Waterstone sees it?”

“Oh, yes, my lady.”

“Very well,” Sally drawled. “I suppose that would be best. I expect a spectacular gown from Madame Dupree, considering the wait for it. This is quite important.”

“Yes, Mrs. Waterstone.” Marisol bobbed politely.

Lucy dipped her chin, the very picture of obedience, before following Madame’s assistant at a sedate pace. She didn’t want to give Sally any reason to be suspicious.

“This way, my lady. We must hurry,” Marisol said under her breath, smiling the entire time as she walked Lucy behind the curtain separating the front of the shop from the fitting rooms. Taking her down the long hall, they passed the room where Romy usually worked before reaching a door at the end.

“This is how Her Grace comes and goes without notice. The duke’s carriage waits for you just outside.

I wish you all the best, Miss Waterstone. ”

Lucy took the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Marisol. For everything.”

Marisol opened the door just as the sounds of a commotion came from the front of the shop.

“Where is she?” Sally screeched. “How can Madame Dupree possibly be fitting Miss Waterstone if she is out here? Lucy, where are you? Come out this instant.”

Marisol cursed in French and shoved Lucy out into the alley with a muttered apology, slamming the door behind her.

A luxurious black carriage bearing the coat of arms of the Duke of Granby sat idling at the end of the alley. Lucy quickened her steps, careful not to trip over the cobblestones. Her legs were terribly unsteady, heart pounding, light-headed at what she was about to do. There would be no going back.

“Lucy!”

She spared a glance over her shoulder to see Sally, red-faced and furious, pushing Marisol aside. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here this instant.”