Page 23 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“ L ucy.” Romy strode across the floor of Estwood’s drawing room, wrapping her in a warm embrace. “I’ve been pacing about,” she said. “Worried that somehow things had gone wrong.”

“Not unless you count Mrs. Waterstone screeching like a banshee and chasing us down the alley,” Estwood snorted. “But that part was rather enjoyable.”

Romy’s eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“He is not,” Lucy murmured, allowing a tiny smile to pull at her lips.

“I told you he would not refuse,” Romy whispered to her. “But if you are having any doubts, any at all, I am fully prepared to put you on a ship bound for New York. The Starlight leaves this evening. I can write to Leo this instant.”

“No.” Lucy shook her head. “I have not changed my mind.”

Granby greeted Lucy, towering over her and everyone else in the drawing room. “Miss Waterstone, it is wonderful to see you in good health. Allow me to introduce you to Vicar Randall.”

Lucy turned her attention to a slight man clutching a small prayer book to his chest, eyes twinkling.

“Miss Waterstone.” Vicar Randall was far younger and much more attractive than any man of the cloth Lucy had ever met. There was a mischievous air about him, like that of a naughty boy.

“Vicar,” she whispered, surveying Estwood’s drawing room.

Rather…plain. Somewhat drab, if she were being honest. The lone defining feature was an enormous fireplace, which took up the entirety of one wall.

The fire inside roared, helping to dispel some of the chill from her fingers.

But…no paintings. No knick knacks strewn here and there, as Father had.

A half-dozen books were scattered about, tossed aside as if Estwood had started reading one, grown bored, then chosen another.

The furniture was richly upholstered, the rug beneath her feet obviously expensive but not the least ornate.

Very much like the outside of Estwood’s three-story home, which she had glimpsed briefly before he’d ushered her inside.

Plain gray stone. Hedges common and neatly manicured. But not a flower to be found.

“Your Grace,” the vicar said. “You expressed time was of the essence, I believe. We should get started.”

“We should indeed.” Granby tilted his chin at Estwood. “One of the kitchen lads arrived only moments ago to inform me that Waterstone arrived at my home demanding entrance, Mrs. Waterstone at his side.”

Estwood took her arm. “Then let us proceed.”

Lucy’s fingers slid around his elbow. Not only having the servants trail her about at home, but Father must have had the modiste shop watched, once he realized she and Sally were visiting Madame Dupree’s.

Father would hunt Lucy down no matter where she went.

She’d been right to decide marriage was her only protection.

Estwood placed a warm, broad palm over her trembling fingers, calming her, as he had in the carriage.

Romy came around to stand beside her. “Here.” She held out a small nosegay. “A bride should have flowers.” A kiss was pressed to her cheek.

Vicar Randall, bless him, didn’t waste time on a long speech detailing the delights of marriage. Less than a quarter of an hour after she entered Estwood’s drawing room, Lucy was pronounced his wife. He’d placed a thin, gold band around her finger, surprising Lucy.

I’m Mrs. Harry Estwood.

An odd sensation filled her, along with the relief at knowing she wouldn’t be Dufton’s bride.

Lucy had imagined marrying Estwood before, when she had been nothing more than a na?ve girl, the same girl who’d also thought Gerald Waterstone a good but overprotective father.

But in her childish fantasies, Estwood had showered her with affection.

A love-match. Not a marriage made for property and a great deal of revenge.

Yes, well, this is far better than being under Father’s roof. Or knowing I’ll be locked away one day.

The change in her circumstances was so jarring, Lucy barely heard the congratulations offered by the duke and Romy.

Nor did she recall the brandy shared with the vicar.

Or the best wishes of her friend before she and the duke took their leave.

When Lucy’s head finally cleared, her gaze was fixed on the wedding ring circling her finger.

“Lucy.” Estwood pulled out a chair to seat her at the table gracing…the dining room? Goodness, she didn’t even recall leaving the drawing room. “You’re more quiet than usual,” he said to her. “Which is to say, I feel as if I’m escorting about an overly large porcelain doll.”

Her lips pursed in annoyance.

“Ah,” Estwood leaned over her. “Much better.”

An older man, standing just to the left, let out a chuckle. He rocked back and forth on his heels watching her, occasionally tugging at his cravat as if it were too tight.

“This is Bartle.” Estwood waved at the man. His butler, Lucy guessed.

Bartle turned his head towards her with a broad smile, and Lucy’s eyes widened. A scar covered the entire side of his face. A terrible one. Like melted wax. Disfiguring, to say the least.

A small, giddy sound came from Bartle. “Mrs. Estwood. Welcome home.”