A tiny sob left Lucy. She was relieved. Determined. But horribly unsure. She clung to Romy. “I wish I was as brave as you,” Lucy whispered.
“You are brave. And there is little I wouldn’t do to help you. It is a good thing to be the friend of a duchess.” Romy pressed a kiss to her cheek. “A mostbelovedone. Let your stepmother know you will have to return for additional fittings for the remainder of the wardrobe. Don’t allow yourself to be alone with Dufton. I’ll send word as soon as I can.”
Lucy gazed at her. “Thank you.”
She followed Marisol to the front of the modiste shop and calmly walked towards Sally. Terrifying to stand up for oneself. To be brave. But she refused to allow her life to be dictated amoment longer. If nothing else, she and Estwood could have a perfectly polite marriage. One in name only. She only wanted safety. Some freedom. As her husband, he could do whatever he liked with Marsden.
Sally put her hands on her hips, peering suspiciously at the curtain leading to the back of the modiste shop. “That took far too long.”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Sally,” she whispered, thinking of the research she must do to prepare herself to face Estwood. While Romy felt he couldn’t possibly refuse, Lucy thought it best to have a compelling argument prepared.
Her heart fluttered about at the idea of Estwood, though it should not. This was merely a business proposal. Nothing else.
“Are you finished here, then?” Sally tugged at her gloves. “I have other matters to attend to.”
“Yes,” Lucy said in a tone barely above a whisper. Ever obedient and docile. “I believe I am.”
8
Harry strolled into the Shaftoe ball wishing to be anywhere but here amongst theton. He didn’t care for balls. Dancing wasn’t something he enjoyed, though he danced adequately after having taken lessons from a highly discreet tutor.
I shouldn’t have bothered.
Events such as these were rife with overly important people, all more worried about appearances and society’s rules than anything else. Bland refreshments. Boring conversation. He much preferred a smoky tavern, a meat pie, and a mug of ale, but tonight he’d have to settle for a glass of wine tasting of sour grapes. Or worse, champagne, which he found barely tolerable.
His disdain for society was only rivaled by theton’sdislike of him. No one dared say a thing, of course, not when you were well-acquainted with two dukes, a marquess, and an earl; the censure was made clear instead with hooded looks and small sniffs of disdain. Harry’s wealth made his presence mildly acceptable. Still, a great part of the evening would be spent suppressing his low-born accent, so as not to offend the other guests with the origins of his birth.
Harry rolled his eyes.
The upper crust speech of Granby and Blythe had been perfected over years spent in their company, but at times he slipped. The same with the overly polite manners which must be adhered to. Harry had memorized the correct forms of address, the bowing and scraping, the proper bloody twist of his cravat, but those things did not come naturally to him. As the son of a blacksmith who had thought his future in forges—well, that was still true wasn’t it?—he hadn’t thought there would be any need to mingle to such a degree with his betters. Thus, no reason to know which spoon was for soup. Or the fork used for fish.
A graceful hand floating over a knife at the dinner table. Eyes so blue it was like looking into the sky. A small, shy smile on those exquisite lips. He hadn’t even tasted the food.
A disgruntled sound escaped him as the vision flashed before him.
The dance floor was already packed with spinning couples, the hum of their voices echoing in Shaftoe’s ballroom. Maybe he could play cards. Harry hadn’t had a good game of whist in some time. But he had promised Mrs. Felicity Armstrong, his current paramour, that he would be in attendance this evening. He spotted her, fluttering about in a stunning gown with a barely acceptable neckline. If she leaned over too far, a breast might pop out. Her dark hair gleamed in the light of the candles, making his fingers itch to tug at the strands.
Yes, but not inky. Not like a raven’s wing.
Harry snarled as he made his way to Felicity’s side, banishing once more the image his mind continued to taunt him with. This was entirely the fault of Granby’s duchess.
“There you are, Estwood,” Felicity purred, holding out her hand.
“Mrs. Armstrong.” He bowed and took her fingers.
As a close friend, he dined frequently with Granby and his duchess, the former Lady Andromeda Barrington, so when an invitation had arrived a few days ago, Harry had immediately accepted. He’d just come back from Hampshire, which was full of more than Blythe’s terrible woodworking skills.
I should have known the moment roast beef and rosemary potatoes were served.
Harry’s favorite meal, as Her Grace was well aware, which meant she required something of him. The duchess wasn’t above bribery or manipulation, and in that, she was much like her brother, Leo Murphy, who ran a gambling hell. So, when those striking eyes with their unusual ring of indigo had pierced him from across the table, fingers tapping to gain his attention, Harry hadn’t been the least surprised.
He’d just taken a bite of roast when the duchess had tossed out, far too casually, if he’d heard recently from that prick, Gerald Waterstone.
Harry sighed.Fine.Her Grace had not used those exact words, though since she was Leo Murphy’s sister, he was quite sure she wasn’t above the use of foul language.
He had put down his fork and knife.
The note he was mulling over, Her Grace informed him, had not come from Waterstone, but his daughter. Miss Waterstone needed to speak to Harry on an important matter. Urgently.
