“Yes.” Her voice grew clear. “I agree to your terms.”
Please kiss me.
The hand around her neck retreated. Reluctantly.
“There are matters I must take care of before we move forward. More for your sake than mine.” He strode towards the door, meaning to leave her without even a goodbye. Or the kiss she so desperately longed for.
“Do not send me a note.” Lucy pressed a hand to her heart, begging it to take up a normal rhythm. “The servants will give it to Father.”
Estwood paused, his back to her. “The modiste shop. The best way, according to the duchess. When I’ve made the arrangements I’ll send for you.” He walked back into the hall, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.
Lucy pressed her palm along the wall to steady herself. Stared at a painting of some Shaftoe ancestor on the wall. Took long, slow breaths. She could still feel his hand on her neck, the soft press of his mouth in the barest imitation of a kiss.
He hadn’t refused her. The agreement vague. Nothing further decided. That would have to be enough for now.
Counting to one hundred, Lucy finally deemed it time to exit the small parlor and make her way back to the ballroom. She was certain she’d been missed by now. Composing herself, she opened the door, relieved to see no one. Music echoed down the hall. A waltz. Making her way towards the ballroom, she followed a group of young ladies as they walked inside, listening to them gush about a handsome gentleman who’d asked them all to dance.
Finally, Lucy reached Father and Lord Dufton. Eyes lowered. Hands clasped. Perfectly composed except for the tapping of her foot beneath her skirts in time to the music.
“About time.” Father pinched her arm.
Lucy barely felt it.
11
Lucy took another bite of the scone, warm currants bursting in her mouth. She’d already eaten three.Secretly. After breakfasting with Father—well, he’d hadbreakfast. Lucy had only been permitted tea. No honey. Not so much as a piece of dry toast, thanks to Lady Dufton’s comments concerning Lucy’s figure growing stout.
Father, of course, ate an enormous plate of eggs and ham, watching her with a smack of his lips. There was a smugness to him this morning, perhaps congratulating himself on how he’d arranged things to suit him best. Such as marrying his imperfect daughter off to a debauched earl to pay off his debts. Bound to make one ravenous.
After, Lucy had marched down to the kitchen and loaded a plate with fresh baked scones, crept into the drawing room, and shut the door.
Sally, thankfully, had decided to breakfast in bed. Playing jailor while simultaneously bartering Lucy to pay her modiste bill must be an exhausting endeavor.
Lucy took another defiant bite of the scone.
The modiste bill in question had been lying on Father’s desk. The amount written had been so outrageous, she had to sit down. Thus, the need for scones.
The Shaftoe ball had been nearly a week ago. A handful of days in which she’d been followed about in her own home—she couldn’t even walk into the gardens without a servant trailing her—and Lucy had been subjected to Lady Dufton and her strident views.
She bit into the scone with a great deal of defiance.
Even if Dufton hadn’t been the last man in England Lucy wished to wed, meeting the dowager countess would have compelled her to refuse his suit. She was just as horrible as her son.
Over tea just yesterday at Dufton’s luxurious home, Lucy had had her hair critiqued—black like a crow—her speech—a good idea for her not to say a word in public—and the potential for producing Dufton’s heirs—I do hope she holds up better than the last one. The only compliment paid her by the dowager countess was that Lucy’s posture wascorrect.
The entire call had been uncomfortable, especially when Sally had pointedly shaken her head, first at Lucy, then the tray of biscuits.
Had she not come to vague terms with Estwood, Lucy might have run screaming from Dufton’s odious mother and taken her chances on the streets of London. But she had simply sipped her tea, absent of honey, of course, and stayed silent with relief, knowing there would be an end to this.
Licking a crumb off her finger, Lucy sat back against the cushions, glancing at Father’s discarded newspaper.
The Earl of Blythe’s marriage to the former Beatrice Howard, now a widowed duchess, had taken up two paragraphs. Estwood had been in attendance, according to the article, along with the Duke of Granby and Romy. That gave her some comfort as towhy Estwood hadn’t yet sent for her. He and Blythe were close friends.
We came to terms,Estwood and I.
Yet, the more days passed, the more concerned she became. Perhaps she’d misread his intent?
You’ll share my bed. Often.
