Page 6 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

L ucy adjusted her bonnet, looking out over the park as Dufton’s carriage meandered down the path, her mind not on the man across from her but on Father’s looming poverty.

Her attempts to ferret out information about Marsden had thus far proved futile, though she’d spent every evening tearing apart Father’s study.

All she’d found was more signs Father had overextended himself.

She’d also thought quite a bit about Harry Estwood, reliving that terrible night in her dreams. The look on his face before she’d turned her back to him, Father nodding in approval the entire time.

No one else had witnessed her behavior, thankfully, except for the Foxwoods.

Lucy could not go back to the moment and change it, but she could do something about the future.

Estwood didn’t deserve to be cheated by her father.

Lucy had waffled a great deal over that decision, torn between loyalty to Father, which was bred into her bones, and warning Estwood.

Well, I haven’t informed him yet.

Lucy had tried, penning a note to Estwood, pretending to be Father.

She’d used Granby’s, name thinking mention of the duke might induce him to reply.

And she’d kept the details vague, hoping Estwood might assume…

Father meant to speak to him about Marsden.

Because Estwood wanted Marsden, whatever it happened to be.

If Estwood thought she’d written the note, he would never reply.

Lucy checked the silver platter where correspondence was left nearly every hour.

Listened for anyone coming to the door with a message.

She couldn’t risk either Father or Sally seeing a response from Estwood.

But her father and stepmother studiously avoided the foyer and ignored the mountain of correspondence stacking up on the tray. Probably avoiding the creditors.

Ignorance is bliss, I suppose .

“A lovely day, is it not Miss Waterstone?”

Lucy gave Lord Dufton a weak smile and instructed her tongue to behave. “Yes, my lord,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Leading up to today’s carriage ride through the park, Dufton had called earlier in the week and brought her flowers, then called once more, bringing a book of poems.

Lucy didn’t care for poetry. But Dufton couldn’t have known because they’d never had a conversation. Still, he was engaging, solicitous, and as charming as any rakish gentleman could possibly be. And he was definitely courting her.

Which brings us to today.

Dufton was dressed for their carriage ride in a coat of deep green, nearly the same color as the grass in the park.

He was terribly attractive in the afternoon light, with his windswept hair and aristocratic features.

Even if he didn’t hold her in any great affection and he was merely in need of a wife, marriage to him might not be so terrible.

It couldn’t possibly be worse than suffocating under Father’s dubious care.

Lucy didn’t need a grand romance. Rather, she required escape.

Freedom of some sort. She hoped they could come to an agreement if he offered for her. Perhaps Lucy could live her own life.

Yes, but why me?

That was the question that plagued her. With his looks and wealth, Dufton could do better than Lucy. She’d seen nothing in her father’s study to indicate the earl was involved in a partnership of any kind with him, only that mention of Marsden. And she still didn’t know what it was.

Yet I feel as if I should know.

“I grew up in the country,” Dufton mused as they rolled along the path. “Do you enjoy the country, Miss Waterstone?”

Lucy nodded. “I do.” She preferred any place that was not London. The city was stifling, as was her father.

“We had the most marvelous cook at Langston Park.” He smiled.

“My estate in Essex. It’s quite lovely. You would like it there.

At any rate, Cook made excellent pies. I do adore pie.

” Dufton winked, which took him from merely handsome to rather breathtaking.

“I was a precocious child,” he started, launching into several amusing tales of his childhood.

He’d taken a cherry pie meant for dessert, stealing it right from under the kitchen staff’s nose, when no more than a lad.

“I declared my innocence to both the butler and my mother, but a bit of cherry was stuck to my cheek announcing, along with my reddened lips, my guilt. The dowager countess was not pleased. She adores a good cherry pie too.”

Dufton spoke with great fondness of his mother, though Lucy knew nothing of the dowager countess other than she was a grande dame of the ton .

“My mother would like you, Miss Waterstone. She admires modesty, especially in a beautiful woman, which is a rarity.”

A nice compliment, though a bit exaggerated. Lucy was far from beautiful. More flawed than anything. “Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly.

Dufton asked the driver to stop along a semi-crowded path where others walked in the late morning sun. “Shall we stroll a bit, Miss Waterstone?”

Lucy nodded, wanting to stretch her legs. Today’s outing had her feeling less opposed to Dufton’s courtship because she could see how marriage to him might gain her some autonomy. She might be able to have dessert and more than a sliver of meat at dinner. Companionship, possibly. Children.

I dearly want a family.

Dufton helped her from the carriage, and she took his arm. He led her down a crowded path, pausing several times to greet an acquaintance here and there, always making sure to introduce Lucy. Word of their appearance together today would soon make the rounds. She supposed that was the point.

Yes, but why me?

“May I ask you a question, my lord?” Lucy was pleased that the lisp was barely noticeable.

“You may, Miss Waterstone.” He nodded, seemingly interested in what she had to say.

She considered how best to phrase her question. She couldn’t very well ask him why he was interested in her . But given Dufton’s overall appearance, wealth, and title, Lucy found it hard to believe he wasn’t already married. There must be a reason. “My lord,” she started.

“Ho there, Dufton.”

The rest of her question was interrupted by the arrival of two well-dressed gentlemen approaching from the opposite direction.

The taller of the two raised his hand in greeting. “What a lovely pigeon you’ve found in the park, Dufton.” His eyes flicked over Lucy.

Dufton’s lips thinned. A look passed between him and the other man.

No introductions were made which, frankly, was somewhat awkward.

He cleared his throat. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Miss Waterstone? I need a word with Waxwing.” He nodded at the man who’d referred to her as a ‘pigeon’.

“A small business matter. I apologize. Return to the carriage, and I’ll join you shortly. ”

“My lord.” Lucy glanced once more towards the two gentlemen before turning to walk back in the direction from which they’d come.

She liked the park, especially when the air smelled of grass and something sweet.

Honeysuckle, possibly. Given that she’d spent most of her life as an observer and not a participant, Lucy took note of the crowd.

Ladies with their maids trailing behind.

A man carrying a box of paints and an easel.

A young family attempting to sail boats across the pond.

Just as she approached Dufton’s carriage, two small boys darted in front of her, one holding a ball, the other dragging along a kite.

A harried looking young woman, likely their governess, spared an apology for Lucy before chasing after them.

The three stopped a short distance away as the taller of the two tried to convince the governess to help him get the kite in the air.

The other boy, younger and possessing a shocking head of ginger hair, tossed his ball up to the sky, allowing it to fall to the ground and roll near the path.

He glanced about, hoping someone would agree to toss the ball back to him, and when no one did, he threw the ball at the broad trunk of a tree.

Running across the grass, he grinned as the ball bounced back towards him.

He was rather quick. Adorable, with a spray of freckles across his cheeks.

A sense of longing for children filled Lucy.

As an only child, she had always wanted a large family of her own to dote on.

She glanced towards Dufton, who, along with Waxwing and the other gentleman, was strolling in the opposite direction.

Marriage to the earl might give her a family.

If nothing else, she would be expected to provide an heir.

Lucy had been sheltered her entire life, that much was true, but physical relations were no great secret.

Servants gossiped. She’d had the misfortune of overhearing Father and Sally as she’d passed the drawing room one afternoon.

Terribly unpleasant.

And Father did breed horses.

If she wed Dufton, they would certainly share a bed for a time. But attractiveness aside, Lucy’s heart didn’t stir a bit when she looked at him. Nothing at all like—Lucy studied her slippers crunching along the path—the feeling Harry Estwood had once inspired in her. No one did.

The ball sailed past Lucy, landing on the shoulder of a man swinging his walking stick a short distance away. His back was to her, but—she had not forgotten that somewhat arrogant set of broad shoulders. Or the easy, powerful way he moved. More a swagger than a walk. As if looking for a fight.

A breath escaped her. No, it couldn’t be.

The man bent down and said something to the boy, who laughed. Straightening, he tossed the ball before turning slightly in Lucy’s direction.

Her knees buckled. Estwood .

Ironic, given she’d been attempting to reach him, and here he was, tossing a ball in the park.

She resisted the inclination to quicken her steps in his direction and merely stood, heart beating like a drum at the sight of him.

The sensation of Estwood had not changed, not in all this time.

A low, insidious hum wrapped tight around her body, making her breath catch.

Oh.

Estwood appeared larger than she remembered, all strength and muscle as he crouched in the grass to pick up the ball once more. Waving the boy over, Estwood’s big hands moved around the ball, obviously relating something important.

The boy nodded eagerly.

Estwood threw the ball at the tree, saying something to the boy, and when he tilted his head, he saw…Lucy.

He stood completely still, staring at her from across the grass. A breeze ruffled the ends of his hair, tossing the thick sherry-colored strands against his ears. No longer clean-shaven, he now sported a mustache and a brush of beard along his jaw.

Oh, he was dazzling . Dufton could not compare.

She tentatively raised a hand in greeting.

Maybe he doesn’t recognize me.

Wishful thinking, but entirely possible.

It had been a handful of years. Lucy wasn’t the least memorable.

Knowing her father, Estwood had surely realized by now that she hadn’t meant the terrible things she’d been forced to parrot at Granby’s ball.

At any rate, this was far better than evading Sally in an attempt to meet with Estwood at the office of Mr. Hopps.

Her plan had been to stand outside, once he’d agreed to the meeting, and intercept him.

A wistful smile pulled at her lips. That hum, always present wherever Estwood happened to be, floated along her skin. There was no park or Dufton. She barely heard the birds or the laughter of the boy tossing about the ball.

Estwood’s brows drew together. His eyes turned frosty. And he scowled . As if Lucy were a bit of spoiled pudding.

Her hand jerked to grab at her skirts as she took a step back from the slightly murderous look he gave her.

Oh. Well, I suppose he hasn’t forgotten.