Page 39 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“ W ell, what do you think?” Harry gestured to the four-story residence standing alone amid a series of small rolling fields just outside of the village of Ormesby.

“We’re a bit of a ride from Middlesbrough, but I expect that is why the Pendergast family decided to build here.

Didn’t care to be too close to the ironworks or those who worked there.

Mrs. Pendergast fancied herself a fine lady and this her palatial estate. ”

Lucy’s lips twitched, eyes roving over the monstrosity of a house, and shrugged, looking him in the eye. “Rather large.”

Ah, no lisp. No hesitation at speaking to him directly or looking Harry in the eye. And his wife’s tone held a hint of sexual innuendo which he found ridiculously arousing.

Progress.

Lucy’s shield of reserve had begun to wane as soon as the train had left London.

The farther she was from Gerald Waterstone, the more she bloomed.

He’d been careful with her during their journey, concerned for her welfare after having spectacularly relieved Lucy of her maidenhead.

Selfish prick that he was, Harry had taken her more than once that night.

A gentleman would have left his wife in peace after the initial bedding.

Yes, but I’m not a gentleman.

Not in the least, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be considerate of his wife. Lucy was still sore, as evidenced by the way she kept shifting about on the seat in the carriage. Harry hadn’t touched her since London, beyond a kiss, though he dearly wanted to.

“The Pendergasts were one of the wealthiest families in Yorkshire,” he said. “The ironworks was only a small part of their fortune.”

“What happened to them?”

“Oh, nothing terrible. Still stupidly wealthy, as far as I know. Mr. Pendergast sent his two sons off to boarding school while he and his wife, who had always longed for the delights of London, decided to move there after selling the ironworks to your father. Behind my back. Even though Pendergast and I had already reached an agreement.”

The entire affair still annoyed Harry to no end. He’d been blindsided.

“So you bought their house,” she said, her voice a trifle soft, but loud enough to be heard. “You’re sentimental about Pendergast, given you and Bartle once worked there. My father found out. No wonder he went to such great lengths to acquire the business.”

Ah, Lucy.

So much more astute than anyone realized.

Not Harry, of course. He knew his wife was intelligent, and instead of being intimidated, as some men might be, he planned to make good use of her clever brain.

Lucy had an uncanny knack for connecting irrelevant pieces of information, shuffling them about, and then forming a broader picture.

A rare skill not many possessed. Had Waterstone made his daughter more than a silent partner in his enterprises instead of treating her like some imperfect porcelain doll, he wouldn’t be facing impoverishment.

“I’m not sure he went to great lengths,” Harry said.

“He knew I meant to purchase Pendergast. He kept track of all my business dealings. A hobby of your father’s.

” Though someone had to have informed Waterstone of Harry’s affection for the ironworks.

Likely the same individual who’d told Dufton about Marsden.

Colm . Pendergast’s soon to be unemployed ironmaster.

“Patently untrue,” Lucy replied with a sigh. “He did go to some trouble. Father used my dowry to buy Pendergast.” She looked up at Harry, the blue of her eyes nearly matching the sky. “Mr. Hopps informed me some time ago. He was most regretful.”

“Your dowry?” Yet another reason to dislike Gerald Waterstone. “So you were going to strike out on your own? Perhaps tour the Continent with the funds?”

“I only wanted to have dessert, when I wished it.” A tiny smile crossed her lips. “Ironic, don’t you think? He took the dowry from me to take Pendergast from you. Now you have me and the ironworks.”

An inky curl blew out of the loose chignon at the base of her neck, batting gently over her shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out, twisting the curl around his finger. Harry’s chest tugged, as if someone had stuck a bloody hook into his heart and Lucy held the other end.

“Yes.” Harry retracted his finger, watching the curl slide away.

He hated the feeling he had for Lucy. Worried over it.

Drifting about like the tragic heroine of a gothic novel. That was how Harry had always thought of her, waiting for rescue. Lucy reminded him in many ways of his mother, whom he had not been able to save.

I am no one’s hero .

Not even Lucy’s. His hands were far too dirty.

Harry had done things in his thirty-six years that were not…

polite. Ambition, he’d discovered long ago, did not require kindness, only a ruthless sort of focus which often left little room for anything else.

There were those in Middlesbrough and Ormesby—indeed, all of Yorkshire—who didn’t particularly care for Harry Estwood.

He had enemies here, just as he did in London.

Waterstone’s opinion of him wasn’t unique.

The list of enemies would soon grow once he relieved Mr. Francis Colm of his duties at Pendergast, though he suspected the man had been working against him for some time.

Colm was a sly bastard. Pendergast, under his care and Waterstone’s, had become nearly worthless, and Colm had been boasting about buying the ironworks himself.

Once the price was right. Once it was bankrupt.

Won’t he be disappointed.

“Well, Lucy.” Harry took in her profile as she studied the house, once more struck by the fact that this stunning creature was his wife. Her lips— my God, he had such plans for that mouth —pursed as if considering what to say before her gaze floated over him.

“Stop ogling me.” Harry raised a brow. “What is your opinion?”

“That your ego far exceeds the size of this house,” Lucy replied crisply.

“Cheeky, Mrs. Estwood.” Harry pulled her close, laughing into her hair, feeling all that softness brush along the edges of his body. “But not incorrect.”

The hook sank deeper into his chest, tearing at Harry’s heart. Painful and wonderful at the same time.

And he welcomed it.

Far too large a house for two people. That was Lucy’s assessment as she followed Mrs. Bartle down the upstairs hall later that day. The older woman had greeted her with a warm embrace. A bit overfamiliar for a housekeeper, Father would have said.

Lucy had hugged her back.

“The top floor is for the servants,” Mrs. Bartle nodded. “The third has some guest rooms but is mainly for”—the housekeeper clasped her hands—“family members.”

Children, she meant. There was probably a nursery too, though Mrs. Bartle didn’t point one out. Lucy had always wanted a family. A large one. She wasn’t sure how Harry felt about such things.

“And the second floor has your rooms, Mrs. Estwood.” Mrs. Bartle waved Lucy forward, showing off a lovely sitting area consisting of a settee and four chairs and two small side tables facing the overgrown gardens.

Lucy took in the delicate furniture, upholstered in shades of blue and pale-yellow damask. An oversized armoire stood in an alcove to the left, probably already full of her things. Bookcases lined one wall, though there weren’t many books. Roses perfumed the air from a small vase.

But nothing else.

Lucy turned slowly about the room. Everything was tasteful. Elegant. And missing one important piece of furniture. A bed. “Where…am I to sleep, Mrs. Bartle?”

The housekeeper blushed. “Well, ah.” She cleared her throat. “Har—Mr. Estwood said you wouldn’t need a bed, as his was large enough. Much like the one in his London house.”

“How presumptuous of Mr. Estwood.”

Harry had taken what was obviously the former chambers of Mrs. Pendergast and had them converted into a sitting room and a… closet of sorts. He’d done something similar in his London home. Probably because he’d never meant to have a wife.

I changed his mind.

No, Lucy. Marsden did.

Lucy frowned and walked to the door of the adjoining room.

Harry hadn’t touched her since ravishing her in London, and she’d—worried that having bedded her, his desire had waned.

But it seemed that Harry only assumed her to be overly fragile, like a bit of lace too easily torn.

His consideration of her was admirable but unnecessary.

She was no longer in danger of shattering.

That Lucy was gone.

Drawing in a breath, feeling confidence surge beneath her skin, she surveyed the room she’d be sharing with her husband.

Another enormous bed, just as Mrs. Bartle had said, with only a plain coverlet and a smattering of pillows.

A book on aqueducts sat open on a bedside table.

Another table, this one far larger and rectangular, had been pushed beneath the window at the far side of the room.

Bits of metal, some twisted and bent, covered the surface.

A knife. A bowl full of screws and fasteners. Other tools Lucy didn’t recognize.

“Put pillows on your list, Mrs. Bartle.” She nodded towards the bed. “Swatches of fabric. I assume there is a draper in the area?”

“Middlesbrough, ma’am.”

“Good. I believe a new coverlet will be necessary.”

“I’ll have samples brought, Mrs. Estwood.”

Lucy walked over to the window and looked out over the rolling stretch of gardens with a sigh. The beds closest to the house looked to have had some attention, but farther out, the trees and shrubs became much wilder in nature. “Is there a gardener, Mrs. Bartle?”

“Not at present. Though I believe Mr. Estwood has made inquiries.”

“Put gardener on your list,” Lucy shook her head. “Goodness. I might get lost if I venture into that bramble.”

A cat, pure black with only a spot of white on his head, slunk through the grass, stalking some poor, unsuspecting bird. “I see we have a visitor.”