She looked down at her hands, biting her lip. No one had encouraged Lucy to speak in ages.
“You must speak, for instance, to give your opinion on this.” Romy gestured towards a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner, draped in an exquisitely patterned silk of a vivid blue with subtle hints of purple. “I understand you need a splendid gown within the week for the Shaftoe ball, at least according to Madame’s notes.” There was a question hovering in Romy’s eyes. “And an entire new wardrobe to follow.”
Lucy studied the half-finished gown. “It’s beautiful.” Romy was an artist. But instead of paints, she used fabric. There was a reason the finest gowns in all of London came from Madame Dupree’s—because her friend was designing them.
“I find your father’s sudden generosity to be suspect,” Romy stated bluntly. “Very unlike him.” She turned Lucy gently, helping her out of her dress, and then dropped the half-finishedgown over her shoulders. “Up.” Romy gestured at the small block, holding Lucy’s hand to steady her. “I need to check the hem.”
Lucy did as bidden, standing still while Romy wielded her pins and notes.
“I had your measurements from before,” she said. “Which have barely changed, save your waist is smaller.”
Because Romy had made the gown Lucy had worn to the ball at Granby’s house party, though she hadn’t realized at the time her friend had designed that gorgeous confection. She’d thought it all the work of Madame Dupree. “I remember. The gown was lovely.” She smiled down at Romy. “You had butterflies in your hair.”
“Hair clips. I still have them. All save one.” She mumbled through a mouthful of pins. “David carries one about in his pocket. I’ve no idea why.”
Granbyadoredhis duchess. Loved her beyond measure. Lucy suspected he held on to that clip like a talisman because it was a piece of Romy. Father liked to snarl that the austere Duke of Granby had been brought to his knees by a Barrington. He’d said many unkind things about Romy and her family, deliberately, waiting for Lucy to object. Which, of course, she shamefully had not.
Such devotion as the duke had for his duchess wasn’t in Lucy’s future. She knew that. But escape from the fate awaiting her as Dufton’s bride was still possible.
A chill went through her at the thought of wedding the earl.
“What is it?” Romy stopped and looked up at her. “Did I poke you with a pin? You’ve gone all stiff, and there’s a sour look on your face.”
It seemed poor manners to only just reunite with her friend and immediately beg help. But if ever Lucy needed the friendship and help of Andromeda Barrington, Duchess ofGranby, it was now. She had no desire to spend her days married to Dufton and confined to a sanitarium.
“Father has arranged a marriage for me.”
Romy’s clever fingers paused at the hem of the gown. “I see. You do not care for the match?”
“No.” Lucy took a deep breath. “Lord Dufton and I do not suit.” Her lips tightened as the lisp made itself known. “And your suspicions concerning Father’s generosity are correct. Dufton is paying for this dress.”
Romy stood abruptly, pins spilling from her mouth as her lips popped open in astonishment. “Dufton? You’re joking.” She frowned. “You must refuse.”
Her friend’s adamant and immediate aversion to Dufton told Lucy the earl was far worse than even she’d imagined, which was difficult to believe. “The situation is rather complicated.”
“No, it is not. Forgive me, Lucy, but I’m not sure why you continue to allow Gerald Waterstone to dictate your existence. You have a right to live your own life. Good lord, you’re…”
“Ancient,” Lucy whispered. “Nearly twenty-seven. But that matters little.” Not after overhearing how Father wouldn’t bat an eye at drugging her to wed Dufton. He’d have it put in her tea, and Lucy would wake up to find herself standing before a vicar. Or worse, a bed. With Dufton looming over her.
“Dufton is…suffice it to say he has a poor reputation.” The look in Romy’s eyes said it was far more than that. “Take your pin money. Your dowry. Make your own life. I can send you to The Barrow. Dufton’s first wife…vanished from society, quite suddenly, never to return. His business practices are questionable.” Romy took Lucy’s hand and led her over to a chair, forcing her to sit, before jumping up on the worktable. “And his character is non-existent. Title or not. Refuse.”
“It is not so easy.” Lucy took a deep breath. Instructed her tongue to not cling to her teeth. This was Romy, after all.Her friend. “Father is deeply in debt,” she started, explaining to Romy what she’d found in his study. The demands from creditors. The ship that he’d invested in heavily that had been lost at sea. How maids, at least one footman, and the gardener had disappeared. “At our marriage, Lord Dufton has promised to wipe away Father’s debts.”
“Thetonwhispers that his mother demands he wed, though there is a reason a host of young ladies aren’t being tossed in his direction. Some of which I’ve just apprised you of.” Romy cocked her head. “But whyyou?”
“You mean because I am an ancient, lisping spinster with no dowry?” At Romy’s look she said, “Gone. Father used my dowry to purchase—a business.” How shameful to acknowledge what Father had done out of pettiness, let alone admit to it.
“No dowry?” Romy shook her head. “I can well imagine. Probably bought a bloody horse with it.”
Or an ironworks.
“I can barely hear it, by the way. That tiny little lisp. What are you not telling me?”
Father didn’t deserve discretion.
“There is a piece of land. Property,” Lucy said, forming each syllable slowly so as not to lisp. “I’m not even sure where it is, exactly. But…the land isattachedto me.”
“Attached? But you’ve only just said you have no dowry.” Romy’s brows drew together. “I don’t understand.”
