Page 28 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

T he scotch burned a path down her throat and into her stomach, a searing heat to match that of her anger.

She’d been fought over. Like a bit of meat left on a bone found by two stray dogs.

Humiliating.

Lucy was no more than a thing . A means to an end. Father’s salvation from impoverishment. Estwood’s weapon of revenge and a way for him to have Marsden so he could be…king of iron ore.

I should have just fled to New York and taken my chances.

“You’re angry,” Estwood drawled, trailing her. “Why?”

Why? Why? Lucy could feel the press of her tongue along her teeth.

The inability, in her distress, to force out words clearly.

“ Wath…” She gave a huff of frustration but did not stop.

“…that necessary? I didn’t want him to find out like this.

” Taking a deep breath, she instructed her tongue to behave. “You knew he would come here.”

Estwood raised a brow. “I suspected. When I looked out of the duke’s carriage, Mrs. Waterstone may have caught sight of me.”

“Intentionally.” She glared at him.

“ Possibly ,” Harry agreed. “Fine. Likely . And how were you going to tell him, might I ask? Put an announcement in the newspapers? Were we going to traipse over in the morning and breakfast with him and Mrs. Waterstone? This was a much better solution. Calm yourself.”

Calm herself ? How could he possibly be so…blasé?

Drawing in a long breath through her nose, Lucy silently counted to twenty. That churning inside her, the one that had grown worse over the last few years since finding she had no bloody dowry, increased until it threatened to explode from her chest.

She plopped down on the settee and took a large forkful of cake.

Delicious. Good lord. Delicious.

Estwood watched her, amusement tilting his lips as she polished off the enormous slice. When she finished, Lucy placed the plate on the table before her, clasped her hands and regarded her new husband.

“Better?”

She nearly threw the plate at his head. That stewing, swirling turmoil inside her refused to subside. Father had nearly had a fit of apoplexy at her pointed refusal to follow him about like a lapdog. Rather exhilarating.

“I was just bargained over like some bloody horse.” Her voice was unrecognizable.

No lisp. A healthy dose of bravery. Defiance, the likes of which she’d never before exhibited.

Now that Father was gone, Lucy expected her sense of rebellion would soon fade, particularly if she thought about what had occurred in the dining room too long.

You are no longer my daughter.

Painful. Manipulative. Controlling. That pretty much summed up Lucy’s entire relationship with her only parent.

“Would you rather be bartered to a debauched libertine who takes delight in hurting women?” Estwood snapped back. “If so, there’s still time to stop your father’s carriage.”

Her new husband had good reason to doubt her intentions, that much was true. She’d give him that. But the mere suggestion, that she would run back to Father, after everything that had happened today, was insulting .

And she was quite furious.

Estwood was used to being in control and not having his opinions challenged—in that, he was much like Father. If Lucy didn’t establish her independence now, she would only be exchanging one cage for another.

I refuse. I will not be a thing .

“Cease behaving as if you are doing me a great service, Mr. Estwood.” She stood and marched to the sideboard, took up a glass, and returned to him, nodding at the decanter of scotch he’d placed on the table, enjoying the look of disbelief on his features.

“ You are getting Marsden for the trouble of having to wed me. An insurmountable mound of iron ore to chase your ambitions. Not to mention revenge on my father and the pleasure of annoying Dufton. You are not above such pettiness.”

“I do not deny it,” Estwood ground out, eyes darkening like a pair of thunderclouds.

“Waterstone has cost me much over the years.” His gaze lingered over Lucy’s mouth until heat crawled up her chest. “But you could be somewhat grateful that you won’t be sold off to Dufton.

By the way…” His gaze drew down her form.

“You’re rather terrifying at the moment. ”

She poured out a finger of scotch, daring him to object. “I don’t believe gratitude was part of our agreement.” Her voice wobbled, tongue trying to force itself back behind her teeth as if mind and mouth suddenly realized how unlike herself she was behaving.

Lucy rolled the glass between her hands, the anger still there but fading to an ember. She was annoyed with Estwood, but it paled compared to the furious rage she felt towards Father.

“I thought his debts were all related to bad business deals,” she murmured.

“Louder.”

Lucy glared at him and took a swallow of the scotch.

“He invested in a ship that went down in a storm, filled with gemstones from India. Overspending by Sally. Defaulting on the contracts for the ironworks.” She took a sip, already lightheaded somewhat from the previous glass. “Not from playing hazard.”

“The odds favor the house in hazard. Do you drink scotch often?”

Only when she could manage to steal a glass from Father. She’d taken an entire bottle after finding out her dowry was gone. “No.”

“I don’t believe Mrs. Waterstone has been a good influence on your father.”

Lucy tended to agree. Every questionable trait of Father’s had become magnified under Sally’s influence. “Did you really offer a fair amount for Pendergast?” Her pulse was slowing, breathing no longer painful.

You are no longer my daughter.

She took a careful sip of the scotch.

“I did.” Estwood raised his glass to her in a toast. “A more than fair sum for a business teetering on bankruptcy, though given Mrs. Waterstone’s complete disregard for frugality, I doubt the proceeds will last long.”

“But you don’t own all his debts.”

“I satisfied the largest creditors, but there will still be some beating at his door. But what he’ll receive for the ironworks can alleviate the situation, if he doesn’t run up additional debts.”

Lucy thought that unlikely.

“He still has his horse farm. Let him sell his stallions and mares.”

“Father would never,” she whispered into her glass.

But he had no reservations at all about selling his daughter.

Lucy knew that much to be true. She’d heard it from his own lips.

But abandoning Gerald Waterstone to his impoverishment because she refused to do her duty filled Lucy with a substantial amount of guilt.

He was her father. A poor one, mind you, but she still loved him.

Irrational to be sure, but Lucy couldn’t simply hack away at her heart until the emotion disappeared.

Estwood had been right to hold something against Father, because even now, after that terrible display a quarter-hour ago, a tiny part of Lucy still wished to help him.

“Are you going to tell me who taught you to drink scotch?”

Lucy shrugged. What did it matter? She took another sip.

“Words, Mrs. Estwood. I long to hear them.”

“Possibly,” she spat out before draining her glass once more. “I’d like a bit more.” The burn of the alcohol helped blot out the ugly words she had exchanged with Father. “Today has been rather exhau thting .”

Estwood studied her mouth until she looked away. “How unladylike of you.” The cadence of his words grew thicker. Richer. “Swilling spirits. I’m outraged.” A tiny gleam of amusement hovered in his eyes, those striations of black circling about in the pearly mist.

Heat pulsed along her skin from such a heated look. She kept forgetting that Estwood had insisted they would share a bed. “My apologies.”

“Oh, I never said I didn’t like it.” His eyes darkened a shade, giving him a predatory look.

Another bloom of heat, this one stretching across her chest, made her fingers tingle. No man had ever studied Lucy in such a manner. Her pulse throbbed gently in response. “Our cook, Mrs. Gibbons,” she finally said. “Taught me to drink scotch.”

“Your cook? I can’t imagine Waterstone approved.”

“He didn’t know.” A wave of sadness struck her.

She was unlikely to see the older woman ever again.

“Mrs. Gibbons likes to save me dessert, especially if she’s made a lemon torte or cake.

” Meat pies. Fresh baked bread with butter.

If not for the cook putting away an extra plate now and again, Lucy might have starved a long time ago.

“She disagreed”—Lucy took another swallow of the scotch—“on my reducing regimen.”

“A reducing regimen?” Estwood’s eyes widened before once more dipping over her form.

“Yes. My mother possessed a voluptuous form. Given to a thicker figure. And Father—” Hearing the words out loud, her tongue loosened by the scotch and seeing Estwood’s reaction, Lucy realized just how absurd Father’s reasoning had been.

Mortification filled her. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t object. ”

“To quote a woman I’ve recently become reacquainted with, I’m not a nitwit. Besides, you found a way to circumvent his wishes.”

“As to the scotch, Mrs. Gibbons keeps a bottle in a small cubbyhole behind the oven. When Father—or more recently, Sally—became too”—Lucy searched for the correct word—“exacting, a small dram was required.” Lucy had spent many late nights, after Father had gone to bed, ensconced in the warmth of the kitchen and Mrs. Gibbons.

A glass at her elbow while she munched away on a small plate the cook had prepared for her.

“I see.” Estwood drummed his fingers lightly over one thigh, sipped his own drink, eyes skimming over her once more.

She probably looked at lemon torte in much the same manner.

“What else do you like?” He leaned over the side of his chair, close enough that his breath, with a hint of scotch, brushed along her cheek.

“Scones,” she whispered the first thing that came to mind. “Currant is my favorite. Also forbidden.”

“Excellent choice.”

A tingle shot down her body along the side nearest Estwood.

“Have you ever been kissed, Lucy?” he said. “Properly?” He took her free hand and turned it palm up, tracing the quivering pulse in her wrist with one finger. “That small peck I bestowed upon you earlier was merely to satisfy the vicar. Doesn’t count.”

Estwood wanted to kiss her. And bed her.

How unexpected.

The skin along Lucy’s arms started to…hum. “Not…properly.”

“Hmm.” The tip of Estwood’s tongue licked just below her ear, as if she were an ice purchased at Gunter’s, in danger of melting in the sun. A soft sound passed between her parted lips when his teeth grazed along the skin.

“The thought of a blacksmith’s son bedding you might fill your mind with disgust, but I do not think”—his finger left her beating pulse to trail along her collarbone—“the rest of you agrees.” His thumb rubbed gently over her bottom lip, but he didn’t kiss her.

Instead, he tilted his chin, breath stirring the small hairs at the base of her neck, mouth skipping along her skin. “Should I stop, Lucy?”

No, she didn’t want him to stop. For the first and only time in her life, Lucy felt…desirable. Wanted. Beautiful, even. The sensation of Estwood was so intoxicating , she dared not move lest he cease his torture.

Please don’t stop.

How Lucy wished she hadn’t been wed for only Marsden, an ironworks, and revenge.

He lavished the slope of Lucy’s neck with adoration, never once moving to her mouth, no matter how she silently willed it.

No attempt was made to touch her otherwise, though Lucy, gasping and making soft sounds, would have welcomed it.

He was right. Not about finding him unappealing because he was a blacksmith’s son—that was patently ridiculous. But that her body ached for him.

Oh, it always has.

“You should know, Mrs. Estwood”—he pulled back, enough so that Lucy could see the heat hovering in his eyes—“that I want you with or without Marsden attached to your bloody skirts.” The rare, blunt words sank into her bones.

“I did then. I do now. No matter the circumstances.” His tone lowered until it was barely a whisper. “Do you believe me?”

Lucy inhaled softly as warmth dripped slowly between her thighs. “Yes.”

“No matter who your father happens to be. Or how far beneath you I am.” He cocked his head. “You’re my wife now.” His features seemed once more cut from stone, as if he hadn’t just unsettled her to a startling degree.

Estwood was so terribly hard to read.

“Shall we go up?” He sat back and grabbed the bottle of scotch by the neck, holding it up. “In case you wish a nightcap.”

Lucy came, somewhat unsteadily, to her feet.

He took her hand. “Don’t forget your glass.”