Don’t let me soil your skirts, you snob.
Lucy would never forget the look of utter contempt on the face of the only man—well, she’d nearly forgotten. The mention of Estwood had brought it all back.
Quietly, she came to her feet.
Father had once been a fair and decent man of business. A loving father.
An exaggeration, Lucy.
But now he teetered on the edge of impoverishment, his dealings covered in deceit and lies. She’d never thought Father to be a stupid man. Only petty. Arrogant, perhaps. Controlling.
Lucy was reconsidering her opinion.
3
Lucy 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 himyet.
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 besoterrible. 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 somesort. 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 agrande dameof theton.
“My mother would like you, Miss Waterstone. She admires modesty, especially in a beautiful woman, which is a rarity.”
