Thankfully, Father didn’t notice—he was too busy discussing one of the new railway stations being built. But Estwood saw her deliberate movements. At first, those silver eyes darkened with muted anger, assuming Lucy mocked him.
But as the meal continued, he took her lead, watching her fingers drift over the correct fork, spoon or knife, so he wouldn’t embarrass himself. His foot gently nudged her slipper as he mouthed ‘thank you’ to her, a half-smile on his lips.
When Estwood asked her a direct question, Lucy thought she might swoon.
Unfortunately, Father overheard. He regarded Estwood with the same disdain he reserved for a beggar on the street and decided a good insult was in order.
You sound very much like one of my grooms, Mr. Estwood.
Lucy never even had the chance to reply.
Estwood, for his part, remained polite, though Lucy could see the annoyance coiling inside him. The duke’s stoic expression grew icy. Estwood, she surmised, was more than a business associate to the Duke of Granby. The two men were friends. And the duke did not care to have his friend insulted at his dinnertable. When the discussion turned to iron, quarries, and, of all things, sewers, Father laughed, palm slapping the table as he insisted no gentleman would invest in such enterprises.
The evening came to a rapid close after Father made the poor decision to offer Estwood employment. As his secretary.
The duke was not amused. Gerald Waterstone hadn’t been invited to dinner since.
Glancing at the other guests at the picnic, Lucy considered that given the ever-growing distance between Father and the Duke of Granby, it was a wonder they had been invited to this house party at all. Never one to admit to his own faults, Father blamed the chilliness of his relationship with the duke on Estwood, whom he considered little better than a mongrel.
As if he knew she was thinking of him, Estwood deliberately turned to regard Lucy.
Her heart sped up again, and she pressed a palm to her chest, begging for it to stop. She immediately dropped her gaze, conscious that while Father wasn’t on this particular outing, Lord and Lady Foxwood were.
Lady Foxwood observed Lucy from her place beneath the erected tent, sipping on champagne. She’d already noted that Estwood had been seated in the same carriage as Lucy on the way to the picnic and would report any further misstep to Father. The Foxwoods shared Gerald Waterstone’s opinion of Harry Estwood.
Lady Andromeda Barrington strolled through the grass, eyed Lucy, and plopped down on the blanket beside her.
She smiled shyly at her new friend—though Fatherhadmade his feelings about Andromeda clear. Duke’s daughter or not, Lucy should seek friendship elsewhere. But Andromeda—or Romy, as she liked to be addressed—was everything Lucy wished to be. Brave. Forthright. Confident.
“Mr. Estwood seems to be very informed about the area,” Andromeda said, referring to the conversation during the carriage ride to the picnic. “Doesn’t he, Miss Waterstone?” The blue of Andromeda’s eyes blazed at her with their unusual ring of indigo. “Finds those stones to be rather fascinating.” She tilted her head in the direction of the barrow. “I can’t say I’m intrigued.”
“I find his intellect to be stimulating.” Lady Mildred joined them, turning her parasol at an angle to keep her homely features out of the sun. “Mr. Estwood is rather attractive.”
Poor Mildred. Lucy had few suitors, but Mildred’s were non-existent.
“I agree.” Andromeda gave Lucy a pointed look. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to escort both of you about the stones and relate all he knows. Completely wasted on me, as I’ve little interest. There’s a path that winds around the burial mound. Entirely proper. You might ask him.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Lucy demurred softly, relieved the lisp was barely discernible.
Even if Lucy had a shred of bravery, which she did not, Father hadexpresslyforbidden her from going anywhere near Estwood after the dinner at the duke’s home. He’d been most apoplectic to find Estwood at the house party.
“Then I most certainly will,” Mildred stated firmly. “I like him. He is wealthy and well-connected. I don’t care that he wasn’t born a gentleman.” Standing, she declared, “I’ve no reservations about asking. Nothing is achieved without a bit of boldness.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, Lady Mildred.” Andromeda plucked a chicken leg from the tray sitting on the blanket. “Goodness, I’m starving.” She took a bite and looked over at Lucy, carelessly waving the chicken leg about. “Youshould speak to Estwood. Youwantto. Or you can continue to eye him as if he’s a trifle.”
Lucy’s fingers twisted in her skirts. “I’m not.”
“Odd, isn’t it?” Andromeda continued as if she hadn’t heard. “You and Mildred have the same tastes. Both wearing blue today, though yours is far more lovely. Another of Madame Dupree’s creations, if I’m not mistaken.” There was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “She is a marvel, isn’t she?”
“Undoubtedly,” Lucy murmured.
“And you both share an admiration of Harrison Estwood.”
Lucy blushed and shook her head, feeling foolish.
One of Granby’s servants arrived with lemonade. Entirely welcome, since the day was growing warm. Lucy sipped on hers, enjoying the taste and watching Mildred circle Estwood like a predatory wolf.
“Room for one more?” The Foxwoods’ spoiled, stunning daughter, Lady Beatrice, sank to the blanket, skirts billowing out like the petals of a rose.
