Gerald Waterstone, chest puffed out, arrogance on full display, hovered over his wife. Pretty, with angular, sharp features, Mrs. Waterstone was thin to the point of emaciation. A good breeze might blow her away. Which must be terrifying since she was wed to a windbag of epic proportions.
He caught sight of Lord Dufton looming over the tragic looking Miss Waterstone like the villain of a novel, his fingers trailing possessively over her waist as he spoke to an older, draconian-looking matron who could only be his mother. Lady Dufton draped in emerald silk, tilted her head, giving a glimpse of the large diamonds swinging from her ears. A matching tiara topped her graying curls. The dowager countess and her son both possessed the same nose and cruel slant to their lips.
Miss Waterstone remained utterly still, like a rabbit attempting to hide from a group of hunting dogs. She never once looked up at Dufton as he spoke. If anything, her body seemed to bow slightly away from him.
Harry frowned.Strange for a woman who would be a countess.
He slid away from the ballroom and into the adjoining hall, watching how the light turned Miss Waterstone’s hair that lovely blue-black. Felicity’s curls couldn’t hope to compare.
Dufton took her fingers, pressing a kiss to the knuckles.
A smile, a trifle strained at the edges, pulled at her lips.
Far too cozy.Harry had seen enough.
“You knowwhat I find most attractive about you,pet?”
Lord Dufton spun Lucy expertly across the ballroom floor. If nothing else, he danced divinely. Wasted on a man of his character. Much like his handsome appearance and polite manners. She’d never detested anyone quite so much. Threats had been the theme of the Shaftoe ball, a precursor to what Lucy could expect were they to wed.
His grip tightened on her fingers, enough to force a response. “No, my lord,” she whispered. “I do not.”
“Your maidenhead.”
Lucy’s foot caught, but she righted herself immediately. The mere thought of Dufton’s hands on her, in the context of physical relations, chilled her. Head lowered, Lucy studied the buttons on his coat, knowing better than to look her suitor in the eye.
Dufton’s lips ghosted over her cheek, smelling far more delicious than any horrible human being should. “I was assured of your virtue,pet,” he said in a menacing tone. “So for yoursake, I do hope you areintact. Things will go poorly for you,pet, if that is not the case.”
Lord Dufton was the most repulsive of creatures.
Lucy averted her gaze, unable to tolerate looking at him, or his coat buttons, a second longer—or allow him to see how badly his words unsettled her. As she tilted her chin to the side, another gentleman came into view, causing her breath to hitch.
Harry Estwood. Just on the other side of the room. Dancing with a stunning woman clad in a gown with a somewhat scandalous neckline.
Lucy stumbled, tripping over her own two feet.
“Clumsy little peahen.” The soft, adoring tone didn’t match the menace in his eyes. “I do hope that isn’t a sign of some…physical impairment.”
Lucy barely heard Dufton. Or his threats. All she could see was Harry Estwood.
Estwood did know how to dance, which surprised her. Not nearly as gracefully as Dufton, of course, but he moved adequately enough. His partner was beautiful and obviously well acquainted with Estwood, if the look she gave him was any indication.
Lovers.
She turned away from the sight, not wanting Dufton to catch her staring.
No request had yet come from Madame Dupree for an additional fitting, which meant Estwood had no intention of meeting with Lucy or even considering her proposition. Apparently, Romy had vastly overestimated her powers of persuasion, at least in Estwood’s case. He didn’t trust Lucy or like her. And she could hardly blame him.
Hopelessness bloomed inside her chest.
Romy had promised to send Lucy to New York, if it came to that, and—Lucy dared another glance at Estwood—it mostlikely would. There was no guarantee that Dufton or Father wouldn’t simply find her there, but Lucy would have to try. She couldn’t simply allow?—
The mutinous feeling which had warmed her earlier as she’d entered the Shaftoe ball faded away like a puff of smoke. Giving up, her mind whispered, might be the best and easiest answer. Accept her fate. Try to appease Dufton and hope that after a time, he would allow her to live out her life in the countryside. Peacefully.
Oh, Lucy. You’re such a coward.
When the set came to an end, Dufton led her off the dance floor, dragging her before an austere woman who surveyed Lucy with icy disdain.
“Lady Dufton,” he said, greeting his mother formally. “May I present Miss Waterstone.”
