Page 27 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“Was going to pay you a fraction of what the land is worth. Your debts are miniscule in comparison to the value of the iron ore at Marsden. You are a fool, Waterstone. Plain and simple. But it no longer matters. Lucy is wed to me. The ceremony, had you bothered to look at the certificate, was performed by Vicar Randall, son of Lady Simsby and nephew of the archbishop. The witnesses were the Duke and Duchess of Granby.”

“No.” Waterstone ran a hand through his hair, making the ends stand up. “I have an agreement with Lord Dufton.”

“Your debts are now owed to me . If you are frugal and don’t make any more idiotic decisions, the proceeds from Pendergast will last you some time.

” Harry’s tone lost its cheerfulness. “But if you don’t behave, I will call in your markers.

I might even buy up the remainder of your debts, just to keep things interesting.

Take your house and those stupid horses. ”

Waterstone took a step back and pointed a finger. “You filthy peasant.”

“No one uses the word peasant anymore. You aren’t some feudal lord. Now, get out,” Harry said quietly. “You’ve interrupted dessert. Lemon cake. A favorite of my wife’s.”

Lucy swayed beside him.

“How could you do this to me?” Waterstone turned his attention to her. “I am your father. I’ve protected you. Sheltered you. Given you everything.” His words became thick with emotion. “Don’t you bear me any affection at all?”

Lucy’s grip on Harry’s hand tightened, a warning for him to stay silent. “I do love you, Father. But I never wanted to wed Dufton. He threatened?—”

“You would have been a countess,” Waterstone interrupted, all his false platitudes gone.

“And now you’ll spend your days married to the poorly educated son of a blacksmith.

If you do not agree to an annulment, Lucy, this instant,” he said, spittle forming at the corners of his lips, “I will disown you.” His voice lowered. “You will no longer be my daughter.”

“I —Iunder—.” Lucy exhaled softly. “Understand,” she said. This time, her voice was strong. Firm. No sign of the lisp. “Do what you must.”

“Fine. Bed down with the rabble. Just like your mother. A harlot in the making?—”

“That’s quite enough. You’ve overstayed your welcome. Bartle,” Harry commanded loudly.

The dining room doors slid open, revealing Bartle and a pair of strong lads. “Mr. and Mrs. Waterstone don’t care for dessert. Please escort them out the way they came in. Through the kitchens.”

“You—this isn’t over, Estwood,” Waterstone sputtered.

“I’m fairly certain it is.”

Bartle waved them forward politely. “This way, please.”

Mrs. Waterstone cast one last look at Lucy. “How could you do this to us?” she wailed.

Lucy shut her eyes. Released Harry’s hand. Her fingers curled around the top of a chair. She stayed there while Waterstone and his wife were escorted away.

“Well, that was bloody awful,” Harry said, shutting the dining room door.

His wife said nothing, only held tight to the chair and took several deep breaths. She wiped at a tear running down her cheek. But stayed silent.

Harry had a great deal of experience in obedience to an undeserving parent. Along with going hungry and being subjected to harsh punishments. He looked down at the missing tip of his pinky finger.

James Estwood had intended to take the entire finger, but the shears had slipped from his hands when Harry’s sister, Alice, had thrown a bowl of stew at his head.

So, he’d only managed the tip. Harry’s father had slapped Alice so hard, her slight body had flown across the room, hitting the stone of the fireplace.

Shortly after, still bleeding from having had his finger nearly clipped off, Harry had beaten his father to death with a poker, much to the relief of his siblings, two of whom were also missing pieces of their fingers. He’d been thirteen.

Harry’s mother, frailer than the cobwebs lining the corners of their shamble of a cottage, had fallen to the ground, screaming out her husband’s name, the bruises he’d given her that morning still decorating her cheeks.

She’d loved James Estwood. No matter the horror he’d visited on her or her children.

Limping to his grave because he’d once broken her ankle in a drunken rage.

Hiding her own disfigured hand in her skirts because his father had loved to do a bit of snipping .

She’d never forgiven Harry.

He pushed the glass of scotch in Lucy’s direction. “Have a swallow. I insist.”

There were no bruises to be seen on his wife’s pale skin.

Her father hadn’t taken her fingers, but Harry was fairly certain Waterstone had snipped off parts of Lucy no one else could see.

Harry understood, better than anyone, what it was to crave the affection of a parent who would never return your love.

And the truth was that driven by guilt and the love of a child for her parent, Lucy would waver one day.

Lucy plucked the glass from his fingers, placed it before her lips, and drained the scotch without a word. Or a cough. No wince at the taste.

Impressive.

Waterstone would come at her one day. The proceeds from Pendergast couldn’t possibly hold him for long, not now, when he knew what Marsden was worth.

He would encourage Lucy to steal from Harry while crying about his poverty.

Buying up Waterstone’s debts had been more for her benefit than anything else, but eventually her father would grow desperate.

Devise some wild plan to use his daughter.

Perhaps he already had.

Lucy slammed the glass on the table, shot Harry an annoyed look, and grabbed both fork and plate of lemon cake before waltzing out of the dining room.

Harry stared at her twitching skirts as she disappeared around the corner.

I truly adore furious, irritated Lucy.

Picking up his glass, as well as the bottle, he followed his wife.