Page 42 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

H arry walked through the ironworks, always enthralled with the glow of the forges and the raw scent of iron about to be heated.

Progress had been made since hiring his new ironmaster, McAddle, but there was still a great deal of work to be done.

Contracts that Waterstone had defaulted on would be fulfilled because Harry didn’t want Pendergast’s reputation damaged further, no matter how much it cost. He debated about running the operation night and day, but that would require at least two shifts of men, which he did not currently have.

McAddle had already put out advertisements for skilled workers.

Marsden was an entirely different matter, though he had another survey team in place. But it would be at least a year before the riches lying beneath the Cleveland Hills would come to light. That was fine with Harry. He was a patient man, especially when it came to growing his empire.

But for now, Pendergast was quiet. The hour was late, and nearly everyone had gone home for the day.

Harry had stayed to finish a bit of paperwork, a necessary evil.

He would have finished far earlier had he not been distracted by the appearance of his wife with a basket filled by Mrs. Bartle. A most pleasant surprise.

There had been no eating the ham or cherry tarts, at least not at first. Harry’s hunger for his wife far exceeded that for food. Though the tarts had been delicious. Not as much as Lucy, of course. Nothing at all tasted as good as she did.

His once innocent wife, as it turned out, was remarkably adaptable to all manner of sexual experiences. She still blushed at his blatant innuendos, but Lucy was far from prudish. She’d even taken to saying ‘ You’ve a large cock, Harry’ in that breathless voice that made him near crazed with lust.

Harry adjusted his trousers as he walked across the main floor.

But the most erotic thing about Lucy was her mind, something Harry appreciated.

Currently, his clever wife was immersed in studying the manufacture of shoes.

Harry was so absorbed in iron and the building of things that he could become far too narrow in his thinking.

Much like Blythe’s rope factory, he hadn’t considered… shoes .

Lucy insisted he invest in a shoe factory.

He whistled as he made his way through the quiet of the floor, thinking of a hot bath, something he never got tired of, and his wife.

Lucy might be coaxed to join him. Maybe a brandy.

He was considering how to dribble the brandy over her breasts when the sound of chains clanking together echoed in the silence.

The entire floor was dark, only the banked fires of the forges lighting the edges.

“McAddle?”

There was no answer. The back of Harry’s neck prickled in warning, one he’d learned long ago not to ignore. He had enemies, Colm being the most recent. And Harry was fairly certain he hadn’t seen the last of Dufton. Or Waterstone. Both of whom wanted him dead.

“McAddle,” he said again.

Metal on metal reached his ears, as if someone were forging a weapon or a pair of horseshoes. He halted, eyes peering into the dimly lit main floor, watching for any sign of movement. A black shape whooshed through the air towards him, like a whip.

Chain.

Harry fell as a chain from somewhere to the left wrapped around his neck.

His hands grabbed at the metal links, trying to keep from choking.

Digging his heels into the floor, he thrashed about as his assailant started dragging Harry in the direction of one of the large smelting pots. The embers beneath glowed a dull red.

Hot enough to kill him.

Struggling to breathe, Harry twisted, one foot kicking up an iron rod left carelessly on the floor by one of his workers.

Thank God.

One hand searched on the ground as he was pulled forward, the chain tightening.

There was a metal hook near the smelting pot, and the chain was attached to the other end.

The prick meant to burn and hang him. Finally, his fingers found the iron rod.

Swinging blindly behind him, he tried to hit the man attempting to strangle him.

A curse filled the air as the rod made contact with a body.

Harry flipped to the side, shoving at his attacker, using the rod like a spear, over and over until the chain loosened. Swinging back once more, a howl of pain sounded, along with the crack of a knee.

Coming to his feet, Harry threw off the chain and spun around, careful to keep the rod swinging before him, searching the darkness for the person who’d dared to invade his bloody ironworks and try to murder him.

Was it Colm? Dufton? Someone else he’d managed to piss off over the years? Or just a hired thug?

He waited, barely daring to breathe, searching the dark floor.

But Pendergast had gone utterly quiet once more.

Much later, Lucy’s slender fingers ran over Harry’s throat, gently touching the marks the chain had made against his skin. A small, distressing noise came from her before her lips pressed to his cheek.

“I’m fine, my lovely girl.” He took her hand. “Promise.” Lifting his glass, he said. “Pour me another brandy.”

“Don’t start ordering me about, Harry. You’ve been doing so well,” she said tartly, hand leaving his skin. Gracefully, she came to her feet and brought the bottle of brandy closer to the tub. There was no bathing room, yet, in this house, though Harry planned to remedy that at some point.

Lucy poured more brandy into the glass, took a sip for herself, than handed the amber liquid to him. “I should summon a physician.” Her dark brows were drawn together, lovely hands drifting over his skin. “Or the constable.”

“I don’t need the bloody doctor. And Constable Martin and I don’t exactly get on.

” Shrugging, he took another large swallow of the brandy.

“Don’t ask. It’s a long story.” One involving a young lady who was now Martin’s wife.

“Besides.” He took her hand and drew it beneath the water, placing her fingers on his rapidly stiffening cock.

“Your tender ministrations have revived me.”

“Harry,” she said in that breathless way that sent another wave of arousal straight between his thighs. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I’ve enemies in Yorkshire. London. Manchester. Might even be a few in Bristol. Yet another long story. But you know—” He made a sharp gasp as her fingers wrapped around his length. “I’d heal so much faster if you got in this tub with me. Possibly washed my back or…anything else which pops up.”

Lucy bit her bottom lip, pretending to be scandalized when Harry knew she was not, though he’d yet to get her into this tub with him. “There isn’t room for both of us.”

Not a refusal. “I disagree. Besides you’ve been sneaking looks at my cock this entire time.”

Her lips pursed into that perfect, ladylike rosette. “I—have not.”

“Not to mention what you’re doing with your hand.” A soft groan left him as she stroked his cock. “I don’t blame you. I’m somewhat spectacular.”

“What you are is arrogant and vain about your anatomy.” Lucy’s gaze flicked down. Not lisping. He didn’t hear the speech impediment often anymore, only if she was distressed or unsure. She was neither right now. Instead, the porcelain of her skin held a soft blush.

“Please,” he said in a husky voice. “Come into the bath with me. Look,” he said, nodding at the surface of the water. “There’s bubbles.”

Lucy released him but not before dragging her thumb along the head of his cock.

She’ll be the death of me. I swear.

Standing, she shrugged the robe off her shoulders, revealing some filmy bit of silk that, honestly, revealed more than it hid.

“That too, the bit of lace. I’d hate to tear it.”

“Really?” Lucy arched a brow. “You’ve ruined at least half a dozen. At this rate, I’ll have nothing left to wear to bed.”

“My point exactly.”

Her cheeks darkened, but she smiled.

Harry’s heart tugged forcefully in her direction, a near constant occurrence.

Desire was the least of the things he felt for Lucy, though the constant lust for her was rather significant.

But the remainder of all that emotion was something quite different.

A deep sort of possessiveness mixed with an ache of longing.

Not entirely unexpected, given he’d carried her inside him for years without realizing it.

But the sensation was rather terrifying.

Shyly, she untied the ribbons at her shoulders, letting the scrap of silk and lace slide down her shoulders to catch on the tips of her breasts. Not bothering to look up, Lucy shrugged, allowing the garment to pool around her feet.

She’s getting good at this. Seducing me.

“Hair down,” Harry growled, lifting the brandy to his lips, his other hand curled around the edge of the tub to keep from grabbing her.

Lucy reached up, pulling the pins from the heavy, pitch-black locks. A tumble of curls fell across her bosom as she ducked her chin to peek at him through the strands. “I am not one of your workers,” that breathless whisper said. “To have you ordering me about.”

Harry’s cock twitched beneath the water.

“I rarely order you to do anything,” he returned.

Entirely true. The transformation of Lucy from a reserved, somewhat timid creature to the glorious, determined, and clever woman before him was one Harry had encouraged.

She challenged him at every turn, proving that after a lifetime of strict obedience, Lucy was intent on being someone else.

He would always have…desired the girl he’d wanted so desperately at The Barrow, but this woman was one he not only respected but who was his partner .

Harry wrapped the curls of her hair around his wrist, pulling her closer, kissing Lucy as if his life depended on it.

Because it did. He needed her in order to breathe.

When that chain had wrapped around his neck tonight, nearly choking the life from him, it was Lucy who had filled Harry’s mind.

How he wished he’d just left Pendergast for the day and spent it with her.

He couldn’t die on the floor of the ironworks. Couldn’t leave her. Not now.

Not ever.

“Get in the bloody tub,” he rasped. “Stop teasing.”

I’m in love with my wife.

Irrefutably. Impossibly. Completely.

Love had never seemed terribly important to Harry; his ambitions had always taken precedence.

And after seeing the bleeding remains of his parents’ affection, he wasn’t sure the emotion was worth his time.

Harry held a deep-seated fear that no matter what he did, he would become James Estwood one day.

And until Lucy Waterstone, he hadn’t given love or affection a great deal of thought.

He tugged the dark strands wrapped in his fingers, chest aching in desperation for her.

Lucy daintily stepped into the water, sliding between Harry’s legs. She turned and leaned against his chest, wiggling her backside against his thighs.

“Isn’t this better?” he groaned against her throat, his hand dragging from her hair to toy with her breast, plucking at the nipple.

“Mmm.” Lucy took his fingers from her breast, pressing a kiss to the top of his missing pinky finger. “Your father did this.”

He’d said as much before. Or maybe inferred. But she’d never asked him outright.

“Yes.” His words grew thick. “Could have been much worse, but he was drunk. I think he meant to take the whole finger. But he couldn’t focus.

” Revisiting the horrors at the Estwood home, the snap of broken bones and the bloody shears his father had liked to use for punishment, wasn’t something he wished to do with Lucy’s generous, soapy curves pressed into him.

“How did he die?”

“Fell and hit his head on the corner of the fireplace,” Harry lied, though he suspected Lucy, with her clever way of gathering information like clues, suspected the truth. “Luckily, he didn’t burn to death. We hadn’t the coin for coal that winter, so there was no fire.”

Lucy made a soft noise, not sympathy exactly, more…understanding.

She wouldn’t demand the entire tale. Not tonight. Harry squeezed her tighter, nose falling into her hair, inhaling lemon and verbena.

Her lips found his fingers once more. “Father took my voice. And I allowed it.” Lucy took the glass dangling from his hand, taking a sip of the brandy.

“At least you—” She cleared her throat gently.

“Well, I was content to remain in my cage. Not permitted to have friends. Not even a cat, something I dearly wanted. But I couldn’t control my… flaw.”

If he could, Harry would take Waterstone’s voice. Strangle him until he could speak in nothing above a whisper for the rest of his miserable life.

“It isn’t a bloody flaw,” he said into her hair. “ You aren’t flawed. You are clever. Kind. Mrs. Bartle declares you to be the daughter she never had.”

And I love you.

Harry pressed his mouth to hers gently, wishing he could convey what was in his heart. He wasn’t good with words unless he was negotiating for an ironworks or coaxing a woman into his bed. But he could show Lucy. He’d get her a kitten. Maybe two.

Lucy moaned into his mouth as his hand stole between her thighs, stroking along her slit until she sputtered his name, spilling what was left of the brandy across one breast.

“Don’t worry,” he turned his wife to face him, settling her atop his lap, groaning as his length brushed against her. “I won’t waste this expensive brandy.” Catching a drop of the amber liquid hovering at the edge of one nipple with his tongue, he thrust inside her warmth.

“Harry…” His name came out in a breathless whisper. “It would be a shame to squander it.” Lucy sank her fingers into his hair.

“Not a drop.” His teeth grazed the small peak as he cupped her backside, rocking their hips together.

Bathwater splashed out of the tub, cascading over the floor in a wave.

Harry’s fingers dropped between their bodies, touching Lucy in a way that made her writhe atop him. She panted. Begged. Tugged on his hair.

I love you . Harry’s heart whispered to hers, feeling her body clench around his own. He choked out her name as he lost himself to pleasure and his lovely girl.

I love you .