Dufton’s mother lifted a perfectly plucked brow. She was brittle and vicious in her assessment, examining Lucy with a discerning eye. “A field mouse, Dufton?” The dowager countess’s words dripped with scorn. “You’ve brought me to London for this?”
Lucy retreated into reserve, her composure a shield that might magically protect her. Father savagely pinched her arm, a warning not to embarrass him. Speak in a whisper.
“Lady Dufton,” she murmured, dipping politely. A moment passed in which Lucy could hear nothing but her own heart thundering in her ears.
“Timid. Tepid,” Lady Dufton announced in a mild tone, cocking her head. “Attractive. Docile, I suspect.”
Why not simply tie me to a block at Tattersall’s like one of Father’s horses? Examine my teeth, perhaps?
“She’ll do, I suppose.” Lady Dufton drawled in a superior manner. “You may proceed.”
Lucy had the sudden, unexpected urge to hiss at the dowager countess. She advised her pulse to slow. Gather her composure. She clasped her hands tighter and went completely still.
Once Lady Dufton’s approval was secured, Lucy had served her purpose and was ignored. Which gave her plenty of time to observe Father’s interrogation. Lady Dufton questioned him on his pedigree, family, and connections before turning her attention to Sally.
Sally’s bright, false smile faltered.
Lucy was just beginning to enjoy watching Father and Sally squirm at Lady Dufton’s questions, when the dowager countess’s eyes flicked over Lucy once more.
“I see in her a tendency towards stoutness, which would be most unwelcome,” Lady Dufton decreed. “Steps must be taken lest her form become overripe.”
I am not a bloody plum.
Father took hold of the back of Lucy’s arm and pinched her harder than before. “A proper reducing regimen keeps such in check, my lady. One that will continue.”
Splendid. I see a future of broth and tea with no honey.
Lucy moved to the left, as far from the small circle of these horrible people as she could without drawing attention. The rage at her father boiled at a fever pitch beneath the surface of her skin. Taking another step away, she paused. Took another.
Sally immediately clutched her arm. “Where do you think you’re off to?”
“I need torefrethmyself.” Lucy jerked away from her stepmother, hating the sound of her tongue sticking to her teeth. “Something I am capable of accomplishingwithout your oversight. Unless you wish to hold my skirts.” The lisp was glaring. Horrible. And Lucy’s voice was most certainly above a whisper.
Sally’s mouth parted, taken aback at Lucy’s manner.
Good. There’s more of that to come.
Lucy jerked her chin at her stepmother and wandered off, uncaring if she were headed in the right direction or not. It didn’t matter. She only wanted away from all of them. Stepping into the hall, the air immediately became a bit less suffocating. Lucy straightened her shoulders. Took a deep breath.
I will not wed Dufton.
The words had become a prayer of sorts, a way to refocus her thoughts and keep her from slipping back into the Lucy whoalwaysobeyed, as she nearly had earlier. Her fingers trembled, and she hid them in her skirts, demanding they stop.
Courage, Lucy.
The clock had begun to tick. Now that Lady Dufton approved, things would move that much faster. Thankfully, Romy had been wise in dragging out the completion of Lucy’s new wardrobe, no matter how it annoyed Sally, who’d commented on Madame’s sluggishness more than once. Lucy could pretend discontent over the delay. Visit the modiste and alert Marisol, who would, in turn, send word to Romy. Estwood was still the best, quickest option, but if it came to it, Lucy would board the first ship for New York.
Feeling moderately better, she set out for the room put aside for the ladies and lost herself in the crowd.
Another option was Granby. The duke might know of a decent gentleman who would treat Lucy with kindness and wouldn’t mind if she ate more than a sliver of lamb. She bit her lip. If she faltered in her determination, if what little bravery she possessed faded, the result would be marriage to Dufton.
Taking a seat in the room set aside for the ladies, Lucy settled her thoughts. Panic would not serve her. Nor cowardice. Both would only lead to wedding Dufton.
And ifhecaught her attempting to escape…
Not only would she be forced to the altar, but once wed, not even Romy would be able to save her. A man’s wife was his property. Lucy would be sent to a sanitarium after producing Dufton’s heir, never to be seen again. Locked away while Dufton took Marsden. Father wouldn’t even blink.
A choked sound left her as she leaned over, pretending to examine the ribbon on her slipper. Ladies came and went, some shooting her curious looks, but no one spoke to Lucy or paid her the least attention.
