Page 33 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“ A re we certain of the validity of this union?” Waterstone groused. “I’ve never heard of Vicar Randall. He could be a fraud, for all we know. Paid for by this man”—he pointed a finger at Harry— “to undermine me.” He glared at his solicitor. “Hopps, do something.”

There was little Hopps could do under the circumstances. He was a sniveling little mouse of a man who was rapidly crumbling under the pressure of his employer and having to face Harry’s own solicitor, Banby.

“The witnesses were the Duke and Duchess of Granby,” Banby stated. “Vicar Randall is the nephew of the archbishop. I believe you’ve already been apprised of both these facts, Mr. Waterstone. There is little to refute.”

Waterstone pounded one fist on the arm of the chair. “My daughter was coerced.”

“Really?” Banby said. “Will your daughter attest to that?”

“She is to wed the Earl of Dufton.” Waterstone’s cheeks flushed. “It has been decided. This is an aberration.”

“Yet you have failed to produce a marriage contract attesting to that fact, sir. Nor was there any public announcement of a betrothal.” Banby pinched the bridge of his nose. “No banns, for instance.”

“She wed without my permission,” Waterstone insisted.

“It is my understanding that Mrs. Estwood is well past the age of consent. The ceremony has been duly performed. She was not coerced,” Banby sighed. “Your daughter is legally wed to Harrison Estwood. The documents have already been filed.”

Poor Banby. He sounded bored. Waterstone had been talking in circles for an hour. And even though Harry had pointed out that Dufton knew about the value of Marsden and meant to cheat him, Waterstone still considered the earl a better choice.

“The Duke of Granby should be ashamed of himself for abetting such a travesty.”

“I’ll be certain to let him know,” Harry interjected smoothly, enjoying this entire affair far more than he should, though by now the meeting was growing tiresome.

The only reason they were still here, at Banby & Fitz, was to finalize the sale of Pendergast, but Waterstone had taken the opportunity to demand an annulment once more.

He was tenacious. Harry would give him that much.

“Calling into question the character of the Duke of Granby and suggesting he and the duchess conspired with Vicar Randall to do you harm, Mr. Waterstone, is patently ridiculous,” Banby said.

“There isn’t a court in England that will entertain your theory.

Nor would the archbishop be inclined to offer his support”—the solicitor raised his voice a fraction—“while you malign his nephew.”

Banby pulled out the documents pertaining to Marsden, which Hopps had, under duress, reluctantly produced. “The Marsden entitlement prohibits any sale of the property, now or in the future. According to the tenets of Joshua Marsden’s will?—”

Waterstone made a disgruntled sound. “He was addled. Joshua Marsden was not in his right mind.”

“—the parcel of land in Yorkshire, the Cleveland Hills to be exact, is to be kept by a direct descendent of Joshua Marsden,” Banby continued, ignoring the outburst. “If Mrs. Estwood were to expire, the land would go to her eldest child. If there is no child, the ownership reverts to a convent.” Banby consulted the document he held.

“At the Scottish border, which operates an orphanage where I believe Mr. Marsden was raised.”

Waterstone stomped back and forth, twisting the ends of his mustache in agitation. “Intolerable. How can that possibly be legal?”

“The husband of Mrs. Estwood is permitted full use of the property for the duration of the marriage.”

“What happens if he dies?” Waterstone’s eyes narrowed into slits at Harry.

The solicitor looked to the heavens for patience. “Mr. Waterstone?—”

Harry held up a hand. “What did I tell you would happen if you continued to persist in this matter, Waterstone?” He said carefully to Lucy’s father. “Do not make the situation far worse for yourself. Take the sum I’ve offered for Pendergast and be done.”

“Threats.” He pointed at Harry. “You heard him. Didn’t you hear him, Hopps?”

Hopps looked as if he wished to fade into the paneling of Banby’s office.

“The only threats,” Banby said in frustration, “issued today have been yours, Mr. Waterstone. Including your thinly veiled inquiry over my client’s possible demise.”

“But Marsden?—”

“Was never yours, sir. You’ve read the stipulation put forth by Mr. Marsden.

He specifically prohibited you from being able to profit from the property or have use of it for any reason.

Even while wed to his granddaughter, Maryanne Culbert.

It’s right here.” Banby tossed out the document and pointed to a paragraph halfway down the page.

“This meeting is at an end.” The solicitor glanced at Harry.

“Unless there is anything else you would like to add, Mr. Estwood.”

“I’ve given you a fair offer for Pendergast.” Harry observed Lucy’s father, who bristled with impotent rage.

“Given your circumstances, you should sign our agreement.” He nodded to another stack of papers beside Banby.

“You won’t get this offer from anyone else, a fact of which you and I are both aware. ”

Waterstone’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Fine. Take the blasted ironworks. You’ll spend a fortune making it profitable again,” he said with a curl of his lip.

“How I enjoyed taking it from you. Destroying it. But that’s what you get, mongrel, for sniffing about my daughter’s skirts like some dog in heat?—”

Harry sucked in a breath. There it was. Finally. The real reason Waterstone had taken Pendergast. Hadn’t he known as much?

“Well.” He gave Waterstone a bland look, though he wanted nothing more than to stab him with the pen in his hand. “Now I can grab at her skirts any time I like.” Banby would be upset about the mess if he attacked Waterstone. There would be blood all over everything. “Sign.”

“Lucy will soon realize how far she’s fallen.

Shackled to a man little better than those working on the docks.

Crude. Boorish. His only true talent imitating his betters.

” Waterstone grabbed the pen and scribbled out his signature.

“She’ll regret her actions. Rue the day she wed you.

” He stomped towards the door, motioning to Hopps, who followed at his heels.

Waterstone’s little speech sickened Harry, because he was only a blacksmith’s son. Not good enough for Lucy. And a part of him believed every word her father uttered.

“There is one more thing,” Harry snarled.

The older man halted, lip curled in a sneer.

“Stay away from my wife.”

Harry left Banby’s office and as the carriage rumbled forward along the winding London streets to his home, he stared at the passing scenery without really seeing anything but Waterstone’s sneering face.

The meeting had unsettled Harry though it ended in his favor.

The parting comments made by Waterstone had sown distrust and doubt inside him, each salvo launched with glee, grinning when his words hit their mark.

Should have stabbed him with the pen.

Once the proceeds from the sale of Pendergast ran out, which they would in short order, considering Waterstone and his wife had absolutely no sense of frugality, the situation would get worse.

He would cajole Lucy. Guilt her into giving him financial assistance.

And not even the threat of calling in Waterstone’s mountain of debt was likely to put him off.

Dufton was another problem.

The earl would still want Marsden. Might even be conspiring with Waterstone to regain the property this very moment. Convince Lucy it would be best if she were no longer wed to Harry. If not an annulment, perhaps…

What happens if he dies?

Dufton wouldn’t blink at ridding the world of Harry Estwood.

Lucy will soon realize how far she’s fallen.

Waterstone’s ugly words still echoed, enough to make Harry’s temples ache.

He still saw himself standing at Granby’s ball before Lucy while she said the most vile things, each word cutting him to the quick.

The pained mortification that had struck him in the chest while Waterstone had watched and Lord Foxwood had burst into laughter.

Rationally, Harry knew Lucy had been pushed to dismiss him, but a seed of suspicion still took root.

Damn Waterstone.

This morning he’d awoken to a soft warmth curled beside him, one slender hand pressed to his chest. The scent of lemon and verbena stuck in his nostrils.

The idea that he wasn’t dreaming, that Lucy was truly in the oversized bed with her luscious curves pressed to him, had the breath hitching in Harry’s chest. The finest, most lovely thing he had ever seen… was his .

Sleep had erased the usual polite reserve from her beautiful features.

Dark lashes fanned her cheeks, a spray of inky curls framing her delicate features.

The rush of protectiveness, followed by a great deal of possessiveness and lust, had forced Harry from the bed, cock so stiff it had tented his trousers.

“Hell,” Harry cursed, looking down at his lap as the carriage rocked, unsurprised that the mere thought of Lucy had the blood rushing between his thighs.

Maybe some of that desire would ease after he bedded her, though Harry doubted it.

He forced his thoughts from his wife to more appropriate matters, like Marsden and Pendergast. The last thing he needed was Bartle bursting into laughter at the sight of him.

“Afternoon, Bartle,” Harry said, adjusting his coat at the sight of his ‘butler’ holding open the door as he exited the carriage. Jogging up the steps, he said, “Where might I find Mrs. Estwood?”

“Bit anxious, aren’t you?” Bartle winked. “I remember the feeling well after wedding Mrs. Bartle. Your bride is in the library, Harry,” the older man said with a grin, the scars decorating his face and chin distorting his lips.