Page 34 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

Bartle’s ruined face no longer caused a rush of panic for Harry, but the sight of those scars never failed to give him pause. What if he hadn’t visited Pendergast that spring day? The fire might have destroyed more than a forge.

Because though Bartle was a terrible butler, he was more father to Harry than anything else.

Harry had no longer worked at Pendergast by that time, having made the first of what would become a much larger fortune.

But just as he had stepped inside Pendergast to look for Bartle, the blast furnace had blown, sending flames and bits of metal into the air.

Workers had rushed out, some with their clothes on fire.

But not Bartle.

As the seconds had ticked by with no sign of his friend, Harry had tossed off his coat, ignoring the protests of the onlookers.

He was fast. Knew every inch of the ironworks, having run about it as a lad.

And he wasn’t about to let Bartle die. When Harry finally found him, the older man was unconscious, face dripping blood, bits of metal stuck to his skin.

Harry carried him out, dashing around the flames, terrified he might lose one of the few people he loved in the world.

Negligence, Harry had found out much later, on the part of Francis Colm. Unfortunately, none of it had been proved before Mr. Pendergast handed over the reins of the ironworks to Colm when Bartle couldn’t return due to his injuries.

And Colm was still there, helping Waterstone commit fraud and God knows what else. Sacking the man was the first thing Harry meant to do once he took control of the ironworks.

“Damn. Meant to call you Mr. Estwood,” Bartle frowned, taking Harry’s hat.

“It doesn’t matter. Butlers don’t curse either. You don’t have to do this at all, you know. Work for me, I mean.”

Harry had taken in both Bartles after the accident—they were family to him, after all. But the couple had refused his charity, insisting they work for him to earn their keep.

“Not really much to do as a butler. Thought it would be far more exciting.” Bartle shrugged.

“ And we agreed.” Bartle leaned over and whispered.

“Besides, it’s a much better way to spend my time than smelting pig iron.

Or scribbling in those bloody ledgers. Cooler, for one thing.

And there’s little enough to do in your house as it is.

” Bartle placed a hand on his arm. “Hold up, lad.”

Bartle, slipping again. “What is it?”

“Incident today. I’m not sure what to make of it. Mrs. Estwood called upon the duchess. As she departed the duke’s home, a gentleman approached her before she could reach the carriage. Brought her peonies.”

“Where was Rory?” The uneasy feeling from meeting with Waterstone returned.

“Flirting with one of the duke’s maids and enjoying a cheroot.

” Bartle held up a hand. “He was just around the corner. I’ve already given him an earful.

The gentleman and Mrs. Estwood exchanged words, though the sight of Rory chased him off.

She said the man merely wished her well on her marriage.

Brought her peonies, which she didn’t care for. ”

“Outside the Duke of Granby’s home?”

Bartle nodded. “Mrs. Estwood didn’t appear distressed at all by the gentleman’s appearance, according to Rory. Behaved as if it was of no consequence.”

Harry started towards the library, brushing off Bartle. Only one man would be so arrogant as to approach Lucy outside Granby’s home. Dufton.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Estwood,” he said, strolling into the library, trying not to allow his doubts to get the best of him.

Lucy looked up at his entrance, a cup of tea at her elbow. She was seated before the fire, book in hand. Her cheeks pinked as she tucked the book behind a cushion.

“Estwood—” More blushing. “Harry.” Only the hint of her lisp. No sign of distress.

Shouldn’t she be distressed?

His distrust of her mounted, coiling about in his stomach, urged on by Waterstone’s sneering comments earlier. There was a half-eaten plate of biscuits at her elbow. While he stood there, she picked one up and took a bite.

Far too calm. Blue eyes wide and innocent.

“You went to visit the Duchess of Granby today.” His tone was slightly biting.

Lucy smiled back at him. “To thank her. And Rosalind,” she said, only a degree above a breathless whisper. “The lemon cake was divine.”

“And the lover’s quarrel?” Harry regretted the accusation as soon as the words left his mouth. But he would not retract them. “How did that go?”

The dark slash of her brows drew together in confusion. “Lover’s quarrel?”

He wanted to give Lucy the benefit of the doubt.

But less than a day after wedding him, she had met with Dufton.

Boldly. Waterstone had suggested the marriage would be short-lived, asking pointedly what would happen if Harry died.

Was this all a plot to gain Harry’s wealth and Marsden?

He realized his assumptions didn’t make sense, but he wasn’t feeling at all logical at the moment.

“Changed your mind?”

“About what?” She nodded to the plate beside her. “You mean the biscuits? I confess, I at first told Bartle not to bring me anything else considering how many scones I enjoyed with Romy. But Mrs. Bartle wooed me with pink icing. These are quite wonderful.”

Flippant . Excessively calm. Wasn’t she supposed to be afraid of Dufton? She wasn’t even lisping. “Not the damn biscuits. Your former suitor,” he bit out, unable to stop the jealousy bleeding from him. “Am I part of a grander scheme?”

Lucy cocked her head, a dark curl falling over one cheek. Slowly, her lips drew tight with annoyance. “Are you accusing me of something, Harry?” she said clearly. Loudly.

He’d once thought her reserve to be an act. Possibly the speech impediment was as well, all meant to lower his guard. “Dufton. You met with him after departing Granby’s home. Convenient, I think. Far too coincidental. Did you tell him you’d be there?”

“Did I tell him…” The blue of her eyes, like a field of cornflowers, narrowed into slits. “Are you serious?”

“You claim to abhor him. Fear him. Yet you sit here calmly eating biscuits after he approached you in the street outside Granby’s home. I can only assume the meeting was planned.” Harry glared at her. “Was it?”

“I am not calm.” The delicate jaw hardened.

“I’m merely tired of being…distressed.” She pressed her lips together at the return of the lisp.

Took a deep breath. He could make out the movement of her tongue against one cheek as she composed herself.

“Weak. I do not care to be— accuthed —” She stopped and slapped a palm against the chair as a sound of frustration left her, murderous glare directed at Harry. “How dare you?—”

“Is that even real?” He tapped his lip. “Or a mere affectation meant to disarm me? Answer me.”

A growl came from her. She slapped the chair again before picking up a biscuit.

Lucy threw the small biscuit at him, hitting Harry on the edge of his ear.

“He tried to convince me,” she said, taking a long breath through her nose, “to help my father. Guilted me with a description of the suffering of Gerald Waterstone. Offered to annul our marriage. Pretended affection he doesn’t feel. ”

“Is that what you want? His affection?”

Oh, you bloody idiot Harry.

His wife hurled another biscuit, this time hitting him in the nose, which hurt far more than he’d expected. “Do you take me for a nitwit ?”

Exceptional aim . He made a note never to teach her to fire a pistol.

“Given your…”

“ Thnobbithneth ? Thuperiority to you?” The lisp had thickened once more to an alarming degree. Another biscuit hit his forehead while Lucy attempted to compose herself. “You think I am planning to wed Dufton behind your back? To what bloody end?”

No more biscuits left on the plate. Thankfully.

The teaspoon flew through the air, hitting him in his chest.

Lucy was now so furious at him, she had picked up the book she’d been reading, weighing the tome with one hand, eyes glittering with hostility.

“Perhaps I jumped to a hasty assumption.” He held up a hand.

“ Perhaps?” She slapped at the cushions once more before taking aim with the book.

Harry took a quick step forward and grabbed her wrist. “Enough. You’ve wasted biscuits and”—he looked at the title of the tome she held—“you don’t want to injure Lord Thurston.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her beating pulse. “Your point has been made. I’m a brainless idiot.”

“Entirely true.” She looked down at her lap. Took a shaky breath. “Go away.”

“No. I’ve admitted my supreme stupidity.

My baseless accusations. I’m hungry, and you’ve wasted an entire plate of Mrs. Bartle’s delicious biscuits.

” Threading his hands into Lucy’s hair, he tugged the pins free, watching in fascination as the heavy, dark mass flowed over her shoulders. “I’m sorry, my lovely girl. Truly.”

She blinked up at him, her breath coming in soft pants. “H—Harry. I’m angry.”

“As you should be,” he whispered against Lucy’s mouth before nipping gently at her bottom lip. “Allow me to apologize properly, if nothing else.”

Harry claimed that beautiful mouth with every bit of finesse he possessed, moving over her lips in apology. Begging forgiveness. Waterstone had put such unwelcome thoughts in Harry’s mind, preying on suspicions he should no longer have. None of which were Lucy’s fault.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again at the corner of her mouth, wrapping those dark curls around his wrist. “Forgive me. Please.”