Page 40 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

“A visitor?” Mrs. Bartle peered around her and laughed. “Mr. Hammond’s cat. Lives in the stables. Excellent mouser. But if he bothers you, ma’am, I can have him?—”

“Oh, no.” Lucy assured her. “I adore cats. I’ve always wanted one, but my father?—”

If you can speak without embarrassing me, then I will consider allowing you a pet. Of course, that hadn’t happened. Lucy would never cease being flawed in Father’s opinion.

“He did not care for animals,” she ended. Other than his bloody horses.

“Roger”—Mrs. Bartle inclined her head to the cat walking about the gardens—“is entirely friendly should you care to make his acquaintance. Likes a good scratch beneath the chin.”

“Unsurprising.” Lucy smiled back, thinking she would like to be friends with Roger. “I believe I’ll go stretch my legs a bit, Mrs. Bartle. If I am to find a gardener, I would like to know the scope of the work he’ll be taking on. Would you mind showing me the rest of the house tomorrow?”

“Of course. It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it? The house, I mean. There are at least a half dozen rooms without so much as a stick of furniture or even a rug. Needs a woman’s touch, I think.”

“That is an understatement, Mrs. Bartle. But I am sure, if you and I put our minds to it, we can transform this cavern of a house into a cozy home. Do you and Mr. Bartle have rooms here?”

“Cottage just behind those trees.” She pointed to a spot where Lucy could make out the edge of a roof. “If you were to yell loud enough, we would hear you. The rest of the staff is on the fourth floor, of course, except for Mr. Hammond. Sleeps with Roger in the stables.”

The Waterstone residence was where Lucy had lived her entire life, but it had never felt like home, especially after her mother‘s departure and subsequent death. It had always been Father’s house. His domain. Now more Sally’s, she supposed.

But this house—this could be Lucy’s home.

“I’ll have tea waiting for you in the drawing room when you return from your walk.” The housekeeper patted her shoulder. “Say hello to Roger for me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bartle.”

Lucy made her way down the stairs and out the back doors.

Stone had been used to create a small courtyard, bare now of anywhere to sit.

Another item to put on her list—seating and tables for the terrace.

She continued deeper into the maze of garden beds.

Walking carefully through the grass, she looked for Roger, the cat, but her search proved fruitless.

He must have been successful in his hunt and fled with his prize, which she hoped was a rodent of some sort and not one of the robins fluttering about.

Sunlight bathed the lawn with hints of gold. In the distance, Lucy could make out great swaths of purple. Heather, she thought. Inhaling, she could smell nothing but grass and fresh earth. A blissful scent with nothing of the London dirt to taint the air. A butterfly floated past her, a soft blue.

I could live in this garden forever.

“I thought you might still be with Mrs. Bartle.” Harry’s voice came from behind her. “Deciding what to do to the house.”

Lucy turned, her heart beating a bit harder at the sight of him.

His coat was gone, shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his cravat was missing. There were cuts across his knuckles, and his hair was mussed.

“Where have you been?”

He brushed a bit of dirt off his trousers. “I had an errand.”

“An errand.” More like a disagreement of some sort. Or a brawl. There was also a tear in his trousers.

His eyes sparkled back at her, far too pleased with himself.

“I had to see to some changes at the ironworks. The exchange with Mr. Colm was a bit heated. He objected to his dismissal, though I had good reason to sack him.” Harry took a step until he stood before her.

The light touch of his finger trailed along the edge of her neck and slope of her shoulder, sending a tingle over her skin.

“I thought Colm took over from Mr. Bartle,” she tried to keep her voice steady. “Shouldn’t he be quite elderly by now?”

“He is not elderly. Throws a decent punch. Fights dirty. But then…” Harry leaned to whisper along the curve of Lucy’s ear. “So do I.”

She didn’t doubt it.

“This discussion might also be heated.” Lucy winced at the slight sound of the lisp.

Her fists clenched, and she walked a few steps away from him.

She was annoyed. He’d made her feel desirable.

Wanted. Thrown this ridiculously big house before her.

Hadn’t touched her since London. And then had given her chambers without a bloody bed.

Lucy, who had never made a demand in her life, meant to demand clarification.

“Use your words, Lucy. If you are angry with me, say so. I prefer it. And do so loudly.”

“You gave me rooms without a bed,” she stated clearly.

“I did.” He came towards her, hand palming the base of her spine. “You’ll sleep beside me at night—every night.” The words grew rough. “In my bed.”

“But you—are not—” She struggled to address what felt like disinterest on his part.

“Good enough for you? I’m aware.” Harry turned away from her. “I realize my betters do things differently, Mrs. Estwood, but not in my house. So if you were expecting to sleep?—”

“With you,” she finally got out, swatting his arm rather hard, surprising them both. “I—you have not— thince… what did I do wrong?”

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wrong? Why would you—oh.” He drew a deep breath. “You have no objection to sharing a bed with me?”

This time Lucy punched him in the arm.

“Stop doing that.” But he was grinning at her.

“So hostile, Mrs. Estwood.” He cupped her cheek and pressed a furious kiss to her mouth.

“I was trying to be considerate after our night in London. Trying to be a gentleman.” He pulled her close, nuzzling along her throat. “I’m not very good at it am I?”

“No!” Lucy sputtered. “And I…” She took a deep breath, meaning to explain she didn’t give a fig for the circumstances of his birth. That she thought him brilliant. Dazzling. Like a shooting star. But before she could say a word, his mouth fell on hers once more, hungry and possessive.

They fell into the grass together, rolling about until Harry hovered above Lucy, looking dangerous and far too attractive. “I am trying to make a point,” she whispered.

“You’ve succeeded, Mrs. Estwood.” Teeth nipping gently below her ear, his tongue traced the same path along her skin until she gave a delicious shiver. “Apologies,” he breathed into her skin, “for allowing you to believe I don’t think of fucking you every minute of every day.”

Lucy swallowed. “Such vulgarity.”

“There’s more to come.” Harry took her hands and placed them at the edges of her skirts. “Pull these up immediately, Mrs. Estwood.” His voice lowered to a purr. “So I can reassure you of my devotion.”

Fingers trembling, Lucy did as he asked, heat inching its way between her thighs.

Harry pushed her legs apart. The sound of her underthings tearing met her ears. “These are unnecessary. Cease wearing them.” His teeth grazed along the skin of her thigh, breath ruffling the soft down covering her mound.

Then his tongue touched her quim.

“Well,” Lucy panted a short time later. “You have certainly”—she spoke in that breathless way that had Harry’s cock twitching—“made amends.” Her skirts were still twisted about her waist, the lower half of her body exposed, a sated look on her lovely features.

“Are you sure?” He leaned forward and kissed along the inside of her thigh, inhaling the scent of her. “I can beg your forgiveness all afternoon, if need be.”

The melody of her laughter floated into the breeze.

Harry wedged his body between her thighs so he could lay half atop her, pressing his cheek to her chest. Listened to her heart trying to regain its normal rhythm, even as it tugged at his own. He should stop fighting the inevitability. This was not mere lust. It never had been.

Lucy’s fingers slid through his hair, pulling gently at the strands.

A sigh of utter contentment left him.

Harry had never been at peace, but always in motion. Moving. Learning. Becoming something other than what the world dictated he should be. The drive to amass a fortune, prove to men like Waterstone that he had earned a seat at their table, never left him.

But here, with Lucy in the grass, the taste of her still on his tongue, Harry had a sense of stillness.

Of calm. He’d spent the entire afternoon cleaning up the mess Waterstone had left behind at Pendergast and ridding the ironworks of Mr. Colm.

Truthfully, Harry nearly always felt better after having something or someone to hit.

Colm deserved a bruised jaw more than most.

Harry stated plainly that he knew about the embezzlement.

He had suspicions Colm might have found out about the survey at Marsden.

He’d paid for silence, but someone on the crew might have talked, especially after a few mugs of ale at a tavern.

Colm had either sold the information to Dufton or perhaps the earl had merely overheard it from someone else.

Doesn’t matter. Marsden is mine now.

The string of curses Colm had leveled at him would have made Lucy faint.

When Colm had pulled out a knife, Harry had punched him in the nose.

A tussle had ensued. Harry had been pulled off his former ironmaster by some of Pendergast’s employees as Colm had been dragged out and tossed into the street outside.

Harry caressed his wife’s thigh absently, considering how satisfying it had been to watch Colm stumble away. The rat.

“I’m going to redecorate,” Lucy said. “The coverlet currently on—our bed resembles nothing so much as stagnant water left in a muddy puddle.”

“Please, Mrs. Estwood. Be blunt with me.” He smiled against her skin.

“I don’t believe you could have found a more unappealing hue.”

Harry closed his eyes, listening to the birds and the sound of her heart. “You may do as you please, my lovely girl.”

A soft sigh escaped her at the words. She liked that. To be his lovely girl. Maybe Lucy wasn’t that horrified to be wed to Harry.

“I’ve opened an account for you,” he said. “I’ll warn all the shops in Middlesbrough to await you and your pocketbook.”

“An account? Of my own?” Her fingers stilled in his hair.

“Yes. Funds to do with as you wish. I’m obscenely wealthy, Lucy. Spend whatever you like. As much as you want. Decorate as you see fit.”

“We require a gardener.”

“Tell Bartle to find one. If you feel we need additional staff, hire them. Order all the newspapers from London, because I know you like reading them. Books. Possibly frilly underthings. Which I happen to enjoy.”

A tiny snort of amusement escaped Lucy before she went silent. “I…thank you.” Harry felt her body tense beneath his. “I’ve never—that is to say, my father allowed me only a small amount of pin money, and only when it suited him.”

Harry assumed as much. He added miserly towards his daughter to the list of Waterstone’s sins. “There is enough money in your account that you could flee Yorkshire and move to Paris if you wished.” Not that Harry would ever let her go.

“I don’t speak French.” She laced her fingers with his. “Paris wouldn’t suit me, though I do enjoy a good pastry.”

Harry closed his eyes, soothed by the touch of her fingers sliding along his own.

The sum he’d deposited for Lucy might overwhelm her.

Gerald Waterstone had never been impoverished until recently, but he hadn’t been overly generous with his daughter.

She had grown up around fine things, though none of it had been hers.

Harry wanted Lucy to have her own funds.

Buy things she liked or merely wanted. Money represented a measure of independence, something she had been denied for most of her life.

“Purchase pillows.” His fingers stroked the soft skin of her thigh. “Coverlets that do not resemble a muddy puddle. Drapes. Books. Ribbons. Lemon drops.”

She giggled. “How did you know I like lemon drops?”

Because he’d been paying attention. His wife, now that she could have dessert or sweets whenever she wished, invariably passed over chocolate and toffee, always settling on lemon.

“You deserve a bit of freedom.” Not from him, of course. Harry was never letting go of Lucy. He was far too selfish. And more than half in love with her.

He wasn’t at all sure what he would do about it.