Harry took a deep breath through his nose before replying. There wasn’t anything, he’d stated calmly, that Waterstone’ssnot of a daughtercould say that was worth his hearing. Wasn’t she wed with a passel of well-bred brats? Then he’d waved over a footman for another serving of roast.
Her Grace did not back down. She rarely did. She saw herself as a champion, of sorts, for those who needed help, regardless of whether they deserved it. And Harry considered Lucy Waterstone to be counted with those who did not.
Her Grace insisted, rather forcefully, that Harry must listen to a proposal the little twit had for him.
He declined. What could be so important?
Her Grace,damn her, wouldn’t say what Miss Snobby Skirts wanted, only that Harry would regretnotspeaking to her. A meeting could be arranged at Madame Dupree’s, the modiste shop—honestly, he’d completely forgotten Granby’s duchess was still going about designing gowns—at his earliest convenience.
Harry was not amused. He didn’t care for Miss Waterstone, finding her to be cut from the same cloth as her pompous father. Meet with her at the modiste shop? Respectfully, was the duchess out of her mind?
Granby made a low growl in his throat.
Harry retracted his statement. The duke worshipped his wife, to the point of distraction. Always going about and speaking in Italian to her, making her blush. Harry knew why the papers on Granby’s desk in his study were so often a mess. He’d once spotted the edge of a petticoat sticking out a drawer.
Waterstone was devious, Harry declared, and would have absolutely no compunction whatsoever in using his daughter in one of his schemes. Her Grace’s opinion of Miss Waterstone’s character was admirable, but Harry didn’t share it. As it happened, he was in the midst of negotiating for the ironworks, Pendergast, and Waterstone was most likely using his snot of a daughter to distract Harry into paying more.
That he was already prepared to do so was not the point.
Her Grace countered. Miss Waterstone remained yet unwed and was being courted by the Earl of Dufton. Was that of any interest to Harry?
Bloody hell.
She knew damn well that it was. He didn’t get on with Dufton.
“Shall we?” Mrs. Armstrong’s slender fingers took hold of Harry’s sleeve. He’d nearly forgotten she was beside him, perfuming the air with some strong floral scent which made him hold back a sneeze.
“Of course,” he said graciously, though it took him a moment to realize what she wanted. A dance.
Felicity was a widow of moderate wealth and healthy sexual appetites with an affinity for choosing lovers considered ‘outside’ society. Harry, low-born and self-made, certainly fit the bill. They’d met when Harry had been walking down Oxford Street on the way to a meeting. He’d halted suddenly, struck by the sharp contrast of all that dark hair and pale skin. Blue eyes gleaming with interest when Harry had boldly introduced himself.
Felicity tugged his sleeve with a pout. “I sense I do not have all of your attention.” One breast brushed along his arm as he led her onto the ballroom floor.
“Apologies. A business matter,” Harry answered absently.
“Well…” One slender finger trailed along his arm. “I’ll expect your full attention later.”
Harry nodded with a smile, but he wasn’t thinking of Felicity, rather of Lucy Waterstone.Again. Miss Waterstone had been in the park with Lord Dufton, which shouldn’t have bothered him, yet it had. The sudden burst of violence at the sight of Dufton escorting her to his carriage had been…unwelcome. And far too much of a coincidence to suit Harry.
Dufton had been seen in the Cleveland Hills. Had walked the park with Waterstone’s daughter while Harry was attempting to purchase Marsden. And, according to Granby’s duchess, was courting Miss Waterstone.
Which meant Dufton knew what was really beneath all that rock in north Yorkshire.
But the most unpleasant part of seeing the pair in the park wasn’t the realization Dufton knew about Marsden. No, it had been the insistentpullin Lucy’s direction. So vicious, it had torn at Harry’s skin. Plucked at his clothing. He hated her for that. Desiring a woman who found him so far beneath her tiny slippers she could barely speak to him was intolerable.
His forefinger rubbed along the missing edge of his pinky, a constant reminder of past unpleasantness.
“Estwood.” Felicity swatted him on the shoulder with her fan. “Whatever is more important than me and our dance at this moment? I demand your attention.”
“You have it. Well…” He glanced down at her. “Your bosom certainly does.”
She gave him a sly smile. “I thought so. The cut is rather scandalous. Even for me.”
“I admire your display, Mrs. Armstrong. As does nearly every other gentleman in the Shaftoe ballroom.” Felicity, at heart, was something of an exhibitionist. She adored attention. Craved it. If she’d ever had any modesty, it had long since vanished. He liked that about her.
Absently twirling Felicity, silently counting the steps in his head, Harry watched the way the silk of her gown, shot through with copper, swung about, showing her ankles. She had her head thrown back, showing off a wide swath of milky skin, smiling not just at Harry, but every gentleman who caught her eye.
Harry found he didn’t mind. Felicity had lasted longer than most, but his relationships were, more often than not, short-lived. He’d been contemplating the demise of their association since his return from Hampshire.
