Page 3 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

London, some years later

F ather thought Lucy to be supremely unintelligent.

A slight lisp did not make her an idiot. Her tongue might not obey her commands, but Lucy’s brain worked just fine. However, not fighting Father’s opinion made life easier, as long as she lived beneath Gerald Waterstone’s roof.

The tiny bit of lamb stuck in her throat.

In addition to her lack of intelligence, Father found Lucy to be a disappointment. She’d failed to secure a prestigious match, a terrible failing, for which she’d castigated herself for years. But as it happened, her inability to attract a title or any husband at all wasn’t entirely Lucy’s doing.

Her eyes raised a fraction to glare at Father.

Oh, she’d had suitors. A handful. But Father had refused them all.

Not wealthy enough. Connections insignificant.

No title. Then there was her speech impediment, which put off most gentlemen, and her form, never slender enough, which proper gentlemen found too voluptuous and brazen according to Father.

The list of items detailing his displeasure was endless, though he always failed to include one small item.

No dowry.

All of which is how she had become an unwed, unwanted virgin of nearly twenty-seven…and a burden to her father.

Lucy stabbed viciously at a carrot, the only indication of the bitter resentment simmering beneath her skin.

Long in the tooth , according to her stepmother, Sally.

Firmly on the shelf. A rotten piece of fruit, left in the bowl too long.

Yet another embarrassment poor Father must endure.

He’d started lying about Lucy’s age when asked, as if being merely twenty-two might make the right sort of gentleman flock to her.

Which brings us to tonight’s dinner guest .

“How are you enjoying the lamb, my lord?” Sally inquired of the Earl of Dufton.

“Delicious, Mrs. Waterstone.”

Handsome and far too charming, Lord Dufton was yet another business associate of Father’s. The earl had been a frequent visitor to the Waterstone home in recent weeks. Not unusual. Father had many such acquaintances.

Yes, but they grow fewer by the day .

“I hope everything meets with your approval, my lord,” Father said, chin tipping subtly in Lucy’s direction.

Father was terribly transparent. This was not the first time he’d tried to garner interest in Lucy by placing her before a titled gentleman, though he hadn’t done so in some time.

Lord Dufton was wealthy. Prestigious family.

Connected. And had dropped several hints during the soup course that his mother wished him to wed.

Suffice it to say, if her father could wed Dufton himself and give him an heir, he would.

Did Dufton realize she came with a speech impediment but no dowry?

Another wave of frustration had Lucy gripping her fork.

In a burst of defiance, so rare as to be previously unprecedented, Lucy had visited Father’s solicitor, Mr. Hopps. The need to suddenly call upon Mr. Hopps had been precipitated by the lack of cake on her twenty-sixth birthday. Ridiculous, of course. Not the dowry part, but the absence of cake.

If Lucy were ever to be allowed dessert, shouldn’t it be on her bloody birthday?

At any rate, lack of cake or even a gift of any kind had set Lucy on the path to Mr. Hopps. Something had snapped inside her. Perhaps the forming of a spine, with which to escape her father’s dominion over every aspect of her life. Long overdue.

She inhaled sharply, careful to keep her gaze lowered to her plate.

Lucy had every right to demand not only her dowry, but anything of value left by her mother.

At the very least, she needed to inquire.

The atmosphere at the Waterstone home had become stifling since Father’s marriage to Sally.

Surely, Mama had set something aside for her only child.

Enough money to purchase a cottage by the sea.

A place where Lucy could speak out loud and eat all the cake she wished.

But while her request had been met with great sympathy by Mr. Hopps, he’d regretfully informed her that there was…

nothing . After one or two careful questions to the solicitor, always in a whisper, Lucy had been informed that Father had utilized the funds set aside for her dowry as well as her small inheritance for a business investment. Years ago.

Lucy had wept bitterly at the news. Not in front of Mr. Hopps, of course, but much later.

Father threw his head back, laughing a bit too uproariously as Dufton made an amusing quip, interrupting her thoughts.

If she’d been served a dinner roll, Lucy would have tossed it at Father’s head.

Her aim was rather good. Spectacular, if she were being honest. After the meeting with Mr. Hopps, Lucy had spent an inordinate amount of time in the garden, a pile of stones at her feet, flinging them at a tree she imagined was Father instead.

She hadn’t had the courage to confront him.

“It’s true,” Dufton proclaimed. “Lady Marchand is quite clever. She hosts the most delightful musicales. You must attend one.”

Dufton was far too attractive. Sophisticated and elegant, with polished manners and impeccably tailored clothing.

The idea that he would show any interest at all in an ancient spinster with no dowry and a lisp had Lucy wondering whether Father had lost his wits.

Dufton could have any young lady this Season.

She sat perfectly still, considering Dufton. The conversation flowed around the table, none of it directed to her. Lucy exhibited a composed, reserved demeanor, just as she’d been lectured to do for her entire life. But she heard every word, filing away any information that might be of import.

When one is not permitted to speak, one’s listening skills greatly improve.

Lucy had come to the unwelcome realization, after the disastrous meeting with Hopps and nearly destroying the tree, that without funds or a place to go—because she had no other family and lacked any discernible skills except excellent table manners—there was no escape.

A braver girl, one not raised to obey Gerald Waterstone, might have attempted to forge ahead and take her chances on the streets of London, but not Lucy.

I am not brave .

But she was pragmatic. A well-born lady had few options other than marriage if she lacked funds of her own. A lisping spinster with no family or friends? Even less.

I had a friend once.

Andromeda Barrington. How glorious it had been to have another so firmly in her corner.

She’d been pleased when Andromeda wed Granby because Father and the duke were still partners in business, though their relationship had since grown distant.

But shortly after the wedding, there had been a true falling out between them.

Their association had grown ever more strained.

By the time Granby had taken his new bride off to the Continent, Father’s relationship with the duke had become non-existent.

The chill extended to Lucy’s relationship with Andromeda, who she’d written to faithfully but never once received a reply.

More blame to lay at Father’s large, booted feet.

“Brilliant, my lord,” Father chortled loudly, face flushed from the amount of wine he’d consumed. “You spin a splendid tale.”

“I must agree.” Sally batted her lashes at Dufton. “I hope you dine with us more often in future, my lord.” She glanced at Lucy. “Your company is most welcome.”

Lucy’s stepmother was a pretty woman. Ambitious and consumed with her status in society, much like Father.

Slender as a willow reed, Sally had been widowed and was barely a decade older than Lucy.

She had been friendly and warm during Father’s courtship, but after she’d become Mrs. Waterstone, her attitude towards Lucy had changed rather dramatically.

We must marry her off, Mr. Waterstone. In the most advantageous way possible.

A servant stood behind Lucy, offering up more lamb.

“My daughter is finished with her meal,” Father stated, nodding at Lucy’s half-eaten plate of food. “Please take it away.”

Lucy said nothing as her plate was removed, as any objection she might make would be ignored.

Her plate had contained barely enough lamb and potatoes to feed a child to begin with, and she’d only been afforded a few bites.

Father rarely allowed her much to eat, worried her form might become far too generous, like that of Lucy’s mother, without constant supervision.

A true lady, Father proclaimed, was spare of frame and possessed little appetite.

She patted her lips with a napkin. Placed her hands in her lap.

“Eats like a bird,” Father proclaimed to Dufton, cutting into his own lamb. “No matter what is placed before her. Unlike her mother, fortunately, whose hearty appetite led to a stout form.”

Mama had run off with a lover when Lucy was a child.

A man who hadn’t cared that she’d had what Father called an obscenely voluptuous appearance .

She’d died shortly thereafter, leaving a grief-stricken Lucy desperate to please her only remaining parent.

So she hadn’t balked when the portions on her plate had become smaller and smaller.

I’ve been hungry for years.

“I doubt Miss Waterstone has much to fear,” Dufton said with a small nod in her direction, his eyes running over her.

How kind . Unfortunately, it would take far more than that to convince Father to allow Lucy honey in her tea.

“I’ve recently purchased a new carriage,” Dufton said, eyes still on her. “Perhaps you would care to join me for a ride through the park one day soon, Miss Waterstone. We can stop for an ice at Gunter’s, after, if you’d like.”

“Of course,” Lucy murmured, careful to keep her words barely above a whisper. She didn’t even consider refusing, not with Father practically salivating at Dufton’s interest in her.