Page 7 of A Proposal to Wed (The Beautiful Barringtons #9)

H arry Estwood whistled as he strolled through the park. The meeting with his solicitor had been lengthy. A good walk on a beautiful day would help him think things through.

Gerald Waterstone was up to his usual petty tricks.

One would think, after years of insults, ruining more than a handful of potentially lucrative opportunities, not to mention the constant insults and scheming in Harry’s direction, Waterstone might find another hobby.

But no, the arrogant prick had made it his personal mission to torment Harry.

Blame him for every poor decision and the loss of the duke’s friendship.

Next Waterstone would claim Harry had conspired to take down the British empire. Or was responsible for the plague.

Waterstone doubtless blamed Harry for his pending impoverishment.

Thus, the note Harry had received but hadn’t responded to.

A ploy disguised as a plea for help, he’d even had the audacity to use Granby’s name.

The more desperate that pompous imbecile became, the more likely he’d sell not only Pendergast, but also Marsden.

Harry halted before the Serpentine and lit a cheroot, blowing the smoke out in tiny rings. Pendergast should have already been his.

The bid for an ironworks in the north of Yorkshire should never have caught Waterstone’s attention.

Pendergast had been profitable, if not overly large.

Waterstone didn’t have any other investments in industries he felt beneath his lofty standards.

But he’d found out Pendergast meant something to Harry.

A gentleman’s agreement between Mr. Pendergast and Harry to buy the ironworks had already been in place, but that puffed up prick Waterstone, perhaps knowing of Mrs. Pendergast’s desire to live in London and enjoy society, had touted his connections and social status, using both to charm the couple.

Waterstone had paid double what the ironworks was worth, closing the deal before Harry had even had a chance to present a counteroffer.

This is what happens when you reach above yourself. Just as you did before.

“Miserable bastard. Should have beaten him senseless when he shouted those words at me. But Granby said there were too many witnesses,” Harry threw into the breeze, watching the smoke of his cheroot float towards the water. “Still wish I’d done it.”

Because that was what stealing Pendergast had really been about—Harry overstepping the boundaries men like Waterstone didn’t want him to cross. Namely, Miss Lucy Waterstone.

“Prick.”

A flock of ducks settled near the edge of the water, fluttering their wings.

He liked ducks. Harry looked out across the Serpentine and heard in his mind the rustle of silk.

Saw the thick mass of hair the color of ink.

A figure any courtesan would envy. So bloody fine, Harry had become lost to her at their first meeting.

He’d watched her from a distance during that entire stupid house party, drawn to her fragility and the sense of melancholy hovering about her shoulders.

He hadn’t been able to stop looking at her.

No wonder Waterstone took Pendergast, you bloody idiot.

Miss Lucy Waterstone had figured prominently in Harry’s dreams for years, at least those of a more carnal nature, no matter the number of other women he took to his bed.

The ladylike Miss Waterstone, on her knees before Harry, begging in that breathless whisper for his cock.

Moaning softly as he pounded into all those lush curves.

Tangling his fingers in the cascade of raven curls while he did the most depraved things to her.

A bitter laugh escaped him.

Miss Waterstone had never been Harry’s. Not even close. She’d made her feelings for him abundantly clear, destroying whatever ridiculous hope he’d held. Harry wasn’t even sure what had become of her, and he refused to ask Granby.

He kicked at a stone, rubbing the edge of his missing pinky finger. He flicked his cheroot to the grass, grinding it beneath his heel.

Pendergast, he meant to take back. Waterstone had to sell the ironworks, and Harry was the only offer he had.

But there was the land in the Cleveland Hills.

Marsden. A barren parcel nearly devoid of all life and deemed worthless except for river access.

It had taken Harry a great deal of digging to find out the ownership of Marsden, and it was bad luck that the trail had ended at Waterstone.

First, Harry had attempted to purchase the land through an intermediary, but all attempts had been rebuffed.

Next, he had gone directly to Waterstone, offering a ridiculous sum of money, which hadn’t worked either.

But Waterstone must be growing desperate and had changed his mind.

His debts were mounting—honestly, the only business decision the man seemed capable of making was a poor one.

Harry would let him twist in the wind for a bit longer and then make an offer for both Pendergast and Marsden.

One Waterstone couldn’t possibly refuse.

Harry couldn’t let him sit too long, though.

His sources in Yorkshire claimed Lord Dufton had been sniffing around.

The only explanation for Dufton to be in that part of England was that he had somehow found out about Marsden.

The earl was depraved and cruel, but he was far from stupid.

Which meant Harry would need to meet with Waterstone.

Play nice, when what he really wanted was to punch the man in his aristocratic nose.

Harry pulled out his watch and checked the time, satisfied he still had an hour until his next appointment. The walk had been beneficial, focusing him on what needed to be done. If Waterstone continued to toy with him, he would find himself forced into an untenable position.

Deciding to go the long way around, Harry laughed as a young boy accidentally hit him with a ball. Arthur, as the lad introduced himself, apologized profusely, then asked Harry if he wanted a game of toss.

Harry complied. When was the last time he’d felt such childlike delight in something as simple as a ball? A lifetime ago.

He gave Arthur some instruction on how to flick his wrist, then straightened. At first, Harry thought that lush form only a trick of the light, one brought on by thoughts of Waterstone. But— good god, her eyes were so blue —she wasn’t an illusion. A hand raised from her side in greeting.

Lucy.

Harry’s entire body took a deep, painful sigh.

The sensation blossomed somewhere in the region of his chest and spread out along his limbs, the same as the day he’d guided her around the stones.

The entire time they’d walked, he’d had to struggle to keep from touching her.

He’d never wanted anything so desperately in his entire life.

And Harry had been desperate a great many times.

He studied her from across the grass.

Snobbish twit.

The sting of her rejection returned, along with the shame of his own stupidity. Before him stood the one thing Harry would always want and could never have. No matter his success or wealth. Or whether he knew which bloody fork to use. He wasn’t fit to touch her skirts.

He hated her for it.