No misunderstanding there.
Lucy swallowed. Took a sip of tea. Ignored the sudden pressure between her thighs.
She hadn’t considered Estwood might…wantto bed her.
Her entire life, Lucy had been told she was a burden. An embarrassment. That finding a man who might want to wed her would be difficult at best. Estwood was…spectacular. Obviously, given the stunning woman on his arm the night of the Shaftoe ball, not lacking for female companionship, and Lucy was…Lucy.
Father had likened her to atrained dog.
A stab of hurt filled her.
The small child she’d once been, alone and motherless, would have done anything for Gerald Waterstone’s love. That young girl still existed inside Lucy. Wanting to please him. Have his praise. Earn his affection. Ease his disappointment that she hadn’t been a son. But over the years, he’d become…difficult. Unrelenting in his opinion of Mama and her vile traits, all of which Lucy had inherited. The more Father berated her, the worse her speech became, stuttering and lisping until Father declared her flawed and beyond hope. He’d sacked Miss Capwitch. Why, he thundered, had he been so unfortunate? Why must he endure such punishment?
Lucy had doneeverythingin her power to be what her father wanted. Done whatever he asked.
“But I will not marry Dufton,” she whispered under her breath, appalled at the guilt she felt because Father would suffer when she didn’t wed the earl.
He deserves to.
Resolve, fueled by the knowledge he would rather see her wed to Dufton and locked away in a sanitarium than give up his precious horses, returned, steeling her spine. Lucy was tired of being merely athingto Father. A tool. A means to further his ambitions. Truthfully, that was all she’d ever been. He’d only been waiting for the proper time to use her.
“There you are.” Sally waltzed into the drawing room dressed in a frock of pale yellow, decorated with daisies along the hem. Her eyes fell to the plate empty of all but the crumbs, lips pursing in displeasure. “Mr. Waterstone will be disappointed in your lack of discipline, daughter. I’ll have to inform him.”
Threatened over a plate of scones.
Lucy regarded Sally with a bland look, showing none of her inner turmoil.
“Do not dare to behave as a glutton the day after next.” Sally gave her a sly, toothy smile. “Rather important. The dowager countess is hosting a dinner party to announce your betrothal to Lord Dufton.” Sally clapped her hands. “Doesn’t that sound delightful?”
No. No it did not. Lucy regretted eating three scones as her stomach pitched.
“I sent word yesterday to Madame Dupree that we absolutely must have another one of your gowns finished immediately.” She shook her head in irritation. “As if I care that she is inundated with orders. I informed her that Lord Dufton would be most displeased. She replied that after a quick fitting for the sleeves, the lavender satin will be ready. Perfect for a betrothal.” Sally jerked her chin. “Your appointment is in an hour.”
Lucy had chosen nothing in lavender. Nor would Romy have any cause to ever fit a sleeve.
I’m leaving this house today.
“I am gratified that Madame Dupree is taking such care,” Lucy replied quietly, careful to keep her eyes cast down to her lap. Dutiful and obedient. Docile. Giving no indication that this appointment would be any different than the last.
“I shall accompany you,” Sally said. “Though I’ve calls to make later. I’ll have the carriage brought around. We’ll leave shortly.” Her stepmother sailed out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor as she went to inform Father.
Lucy took a deep breath and came to her feet, looking around the drawing room. Instructed her hands to stop their shaking. There was nothing in this house she wanted. No books, not a favorite wrap. No trinket of sentimental value. Father had gotten rid of anything that remained of Lucy’s mother long ago.
She trembled slightly, one hand on the settee, overwhelmed at the enormity of what she was about to do. But composure was warranted. If she was to escape the fate awaiting her as Dufton’s wife, Lucy must be brave.
“Ah, there you are Miss Waterstone.”Marisol appeared immediately as Lucy walked into the modiste shop. She’d obviously been waiting for her. Madame Dupree’s was crowded today, filled with society matrons and their daughters, roving about studying bits of lace and feathers.
“Allow me to take Miss Waterstone back to a fitting room,” Marisol said to Sally. “Madame requires barely a quarter hour to ensure the sleeves are correct. She wishes the gown to be perfect.”
Sally took a step forward, meaning to accompany them, which wouldn’t do at all.
“Oh, Sally,” Lucy said softly. “Allow Madame to have me dressed first. I want you to have the full impression in case there is anything else you think needs adjustment.” She turned to Marisol. “Madame will fix the sleeves first, before Mrs. Waterstone sees it?”
“Oh, yes, my lady.”
“Very well,” Sally drawled. “I suppose that would be best. I expect a spectacular gown from Madame Dupree, considering the wait for it. This is quite important.”
“Yes, Mrs. Waterstone.” Marisol bobbed politely.
