Page 30 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

Lucy stared at Estwood. Or rather, the edge of his coat.

She understood what transpired between a man and woman. Knew which parts fit together, so to speak. Father bred horses, and though she’d been forbidden to observe, Lucy had caught sight of a stallion mounting a mare.

I want you with or without Marsden attached to your bloody skirts.

Lucy wanted to believe him. That even after all of Father’s deceptive schemes and her own role in humiliating Estwood— and she most certainly had, the night of the ball at Granby’s house party —a flicker of the attraction they’d once had for each other persisted despite having been so viciously snuffed out.

But truthfully, her worth was far less than an abundant deposit of iron ore.

Lucy was only passably attractive, her speech impediment unappealing, and her form would grow stout over time, if Father was correct.

She already knew Estwood didn’t lack for female companionship.

An ancient, lisping virgin couldn’t possibly satisfy him, no matter that he claimed he wanted her.

“I’m sure you have plenty of experience at removing a woman’s clothes,” she blurted out a bit more sharply than she’d intended, envious of that beautiful woman at the Shaftoe ball who had obviously been Estwood’s mistress. She might still be.

Estwood cocked his head. “Lucy.” The rolling cadence of her name, softly sounding of the moors, buffeted her skin. The corner of his mouth lifted before gently bringing Lucy to her feet. “You are thinking of Mrs. Armstrong.” He spun Lucy until her back was to him. “I know you saw us dancing.”

“I’m,” she bit out. “I don’t.” Lucy clamped her mouth shut.

“Speak your words, Mrs. Estwood. I long to hear them.” His forefinger once more traced her bottom lip. “No matter how they sound.”

“Don’t mock me,” she whispered, resisting the urge to stamp on his foot.

“Never. That is one thing I vow never to do.” The soft press of his mouth warmed the nape of her neck.

“Stop.” She took a deep breath as goosebumps rose over her skin. “Stop being so kind. Ours is a marriage of?—”

“It does not have to be. Now, it has been a long day, Mrs. Estwood.” Another openmouthed kiss fell on her skin. “I’ve no intention of bedding you this evening.” His voice roughened. “If that assuages any of your fears.”

Lucy grew stiff in his arms. Perhaps he didn’t want her after all. Not that she blamed him.

Another kiss beneath her ear. “Your thoughts as to your desirability are completely opposite from my own.”

Well, that wasn’t reassuring at all, knowing that Estwood could discern her emotions so easily when at times he was more impossible to decipher than a sphinx.

She shivered as his nose drifted up the line of her neck, his fingers plucking at the buttons holding the muslin of her dress together. It occurred to her that she had no clothing with her. She’d worn this dress to Madame Dupree’s today and then been married in it.

“Your jealously of Mrs. Armstrong is unwarranted, as she and I are no longer”—his teeth grazed behind her ear—“associated. My understanding with her ended the night of the Shaftoe ball after you made your intriguing proposal.”

“I—it ith not my affair.” Lucy’s body hummed at being so close to his larger form. The spicy scent of his shaving soap, clean linen, and the scotch filled her nostrils. She wanted to lean into the aroma, more appealing to her than any scone Mrs. Gibbons had ever baked.

“Mm.” His mouth teased at the edge of her collarbone even as his fingers slipped the dress from her shoulders until the muslin puddled at her feet.

“I disagree.” Her petticoats followed. “I think who I bed is entirely your affair, Mrs. Estwood. I’ve been plain in my intentions.

This will not be a marriage in name only, not when I’ve wanted you in my bed for as long as I can remember. ”

“Oh.” She struggled with that belief, after a lifetime of invisibility.

There was a great deal of hope within her, all of it centered on the magnificent man who was currently divesting Lucy of her clothes.

Her blood pulsed furiously as his fingers brushed along her spine, expertly untying her corset until the edges of the garment fell away.

Lucy took a deep lungful of air. Glorious. She was laced so tightly at times that fainting was a real concern. Father had probably insisted, as a ruse to keep her from eating.

“Better?”

She had never been so exposed. All that stood between her and Estwood was the thin somewhat worn cotton of her chemise.

“Words, Lucy.” Estwood whispered in her ear. “Loudly.”

“Ye th .” She shut her eyes, wishing to unhear that terrible sound. Her bloody tongue was the source of so much misery and mortification. How could Estwood possibly find her appealing when she sounded so…atrocious?

“Good.” Big hands, lightly calloused, slid down her arms, leaving Lucy’s skin prickling in their wake. “Stockings next.”

Estwood’s gentle push had her sitting on the settee once more. “Do you want another swallow of scotch?”

“No.” Her head was already swimming about.

Taking one of Lucy’s legs, he turned it back and forth, taking stock of her calf. Flipping off her slipper, he pressed his palm along her ankle before moving to the arch of her foot.

A choked noise left her.

Pressing a kiss to the hollow of her knee, his mouth leisurely trailed upward, teeth grabbing at her garter with a snap.

Lucy jerked, startled at the warmth of his lips so close to… well, everything.

“I like the tiny rosettes,” he said. “Fetching.” The garter dragged down her thigh along with her stocking until the silk slipped from her foot.

Her insides fluttered about. The room had grown warmer—or rather, she had—adding to the ache taking up residence between her thighs. Not only was this a far too erotic removal of her stockings by a gentleman, but the man was Estwood.

I have always longed for him.

“Mr. Estwood.” She tried to say his name, damning her tongue. Her teeth. All of it.

“Harry. I am your husband. Say it. Harry .”

“HHarry,” she whimpered as his teeth grazed along the inside of her thigh, just above her knee, the chafe of his beard and mustache rough along her sensitive skin.

“See, that wasn’t so difficult.” He placed her foot down and picked up her other leg and tossed that slipper away too.

Once again, his fingers toyed overlong with her ankle before roaming over her calf and up Lucy’s thigh to snap her garter.

“I can think of other things I’d rather you call me. But we’ll get to that another time.”

Estwood—no, Harry —tossed the garter over his shoulder and shot her a wicked grin.

He stood and paced away from her, though that stormy gaze stayed on her face.

Taking off his coat, he tossed it aside before pulling at the cravat around his throat.

Waving the silk at her, he said, “Lots of uses for a cravat, Lucy.” His gaze flicked to her wrists before drawing down her body. “Another matter we can explore later.”

She blinked, trying to dispel the image he’d deliberately placed in her mind. Lucy, bound with the cravat, lying on the bed with Harry hovering over her.

Once he was clad only in his shirt and trousers, Harry waved towards the giant bed. “Go on. Climb in. The mattress cost a small fortune and will give you the impression of sleeping on a cloud. You need to sleep, and frankly, so do I.” He peered at her, the teasing light gone from his eyes.

“Where will you…” She coughed, already knowing what he would say.

“Sleep?” The wicked smile returned. “In the bed. With you. We should get used to it, don’t you think?

And before you get any ideas that you might be better off on the settee, you won’t.

Besides, we won’t even come in contact with each other during the night, and I’m keeping all of this on.

” He waved a hand to his shirt and trousers.

“You’re keeping all that on, which is a pity.

” He pointed at her chemise. “But I did promise—I won’t fuck you. Not tonight.”

The use of the vulgarity was intentional.

He studied her as if she might burst into a fit of tears at the word, which she would not.

Did he assume Lucy had never heard a vile curse before?

Father’s grooms at his horse farm had said things far fouler when they thought her out of hearing.

But swearing was a way for Harry to remind Lucy of his low birth.

He might never forget the things said and done to him for not being born a gentleman.

“Vulgarity is not?—”

“I love how you sound,” he interrupted, taking in her mouth.

“Lisp or not. Somewhat breathless.” A moment passed, his eyes darkening to near black.

“Also, lowborn cur that I am, I adore a good curse. The more vulgar, the better.” He stalked closer.

“Now, the consummation of our marriage can wait. Not indefinitely, of course. I can’t give Waterstone any excuse to question matters. ”

Lucy agreed. Her safety was contingent upon this marriage, making the consummation necessary.

Father would attempt to annul the marriage, solemnized by the archbishop’s nephew or not.

She knew Gerald Waterstone, could smell the desperation on him.

Had heard from his own lips that he would have forced her, nearly incoherent with laudanum, before a vicar to wed Dufton. He wouldn’t give up easily.

“Nor do we need Dufton sniffing about.” There was a hint of suspicion in his tone. “Do we?”

Good grief . Did he really suppose she had gone through all this and was still in league with Dufton? Or her father? The look on Harry’s face told her that yes, he did.

“No.” A yawn stopped any further comment.

“Sleep only.” His tone softened as he patted the mattress. “I promise you’ll be comfortable.”

She glanced at the massive carved posts of Harry’s enormous bed, the pile of pillows— somewhat odd, given the scant furnishings —and noted the width of the mattress. It did look exceptionally comfortable. And Lucy was drained from the day’s events. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open.

Nodding, she climbed into bed, sighing as she slid between the sheets and tucked a pillow beneath her head.

Good lord, it was like floating on a cloud.

A moment later, the bed dipped on the other side with Estwood’s, no Harry’s, weight.

Lucy held her breath as he tugged at the sheets before settling.

“No stealing the blankets,” he said, and she tensed.

But nothing else happened. Harry didn’t move in her direction or even attempt to touch her, which was rather…

disappointing, given her body still throbbed from the sensual removal of her stockings.

After another moment, Lucy relaxed, sinking deeper beneath the covers.

Pride swelled in her chest. She’d been brave today.

Finally. Found her…voice after being content to be silent for so long.

And her marriage to Harry Estwood might not be so contentious after all.

Harry blew out the lamp. “Goodnight, Mrs. Estwood.”

A smile pulled at her lips as Lucy drifted off to sleep.