Lucy dipped her chin, the very picture of obedience, before following Madame’s assistant at a sedate pace. She didn’t want to give Sally any reason to be suspicious.
“This way, my lady. We must hurry,” Marisol said under her breath, smiling the entire time as she walked Lucy behind the curtain separating the front of the shop from the fitting rooms. Taking her down the long hall, they passed the room where Romy usually worked before reaching a door at the end. “This is how Her Grace comes and goes without notice. The duke’s carriage waits for you just outside. I wish you all the best, Miss Waterstone.”
Lucy took the girl’s hand. “Thank you, Marisol. For everything.”
Marisol opened the door just as the sounds of a commotion came from the front of the shop.
“Where is she?” Sally screeched. “How can Madame Dupree possibly be fitting Miss Waterstone if she is out here? Lucy, where are you? Come out this instant.”
Marisol cursed in French and shoved Lucy out into the alley with a muttered apology, slamming the door behind her.
A luxurious black carriage bearing the coat of arms of the Duke of Granby sat idling at the end of the alley. Lucy quickened her steps, careful not to trip over the cobblestones. Her legs were terribly unsteady, heart pounding, light-headed at what she was about to do. There would be no going back.
“Lucy!”
She spared a glance over her shoulder to see Sally, red-faced and furious, pushing Marisol aside. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here this instant.”
Lucy picked up her skirts and jogged in the direction of the carriage. The driver tipped his hat just before the door flew open. A strong hand took her arm, hauling her inside.
“Not subtle in the least. I was hoping this could be accomplished with a great deal more discretion.” Estwood shrugged as he shut the door. Rapping on the carriage roof, he said. “Go. Now.”
A scream echoed through the alley as the carriage jerked forward. “Help. My daughter has been kidnapped,” Sally wailed into the morning air. “Someone. Help.”
“Good lord.” Estwood waved a hand. “I didn’t expect her to be so dramatic. Does she run very fast?”
“W-what?” Lucy was rather shocked at the sight of him. She’d expected Romy, given the carriage.
“Your stepmother. Do you think she can overtake the carriage in heels?” He looked over at Lucy, one side of his mouth twitching. “Not expecting me, were you? I thought the sight of the ducal carriage might buy us some additional time. Mrs. Waterstone will assume you’ve gone to Granby’s.”
Lucy stared at her future husband. He appeared so much larger in the confines of the coach, his eyes flashing at her like bits of early morning mist. Pulling out a pocket watch, he consulted the time with a grunt. “Running late.” Estwood lookedback at her. “What is it, Lady High and Mighty? Changed your mind?”
She blinked. Her lips tightened. “Don’t call me that.”
Estwood leaned forward. “Miss Snobby Skirts?”
“You—” Lucy slapped the leather seat. “I’m not—I have not changed my mind.”
“Oh, good. I’ve already paid the vicar.” He stuck his head out the window. “I think we’ve lost her for now. She isn’t very fast.” Estwood sat back once more. “Did you know that Lady Blythe and Lady Dufton are acquainted?”
Confused at the abrupt change of subject, Lucy shook her head. She looked down at his hands. No gloves. And remembered the way his fingers had stroked along her throat.
“Words, Lucy. I prefer them.”
“No.”
The broad shoulders rolled a bit. Tilted back. “Neither did I. Not friends, exactly. More rivals.” He turned one ear towards the door. “Good lord. Mrs. Waterstone is still screeching. We’ve turned the corner, and I can still hear her. Where was I? Oh, yes. Lady Blythe. I escorted her to Blythe’s wedding at her request. That is when she informed me of the absoluteinsultshe’d been dealt by Lady Dufton.”
This was not the conversation she’d expected upon entering the carriage. Estwood was…smiling. Mildly flirtatious. Not the least chilly. Preferable to his previous anger, she supposed.
“Inthult?”
“No invitation to the dinner Lady Dufton is hosting two days hence, at which, it is rumored, she’ll announce the betrothal of her son, Lord Dufton. The dowager countess has kept things quiet, I suppose in an effort to keep the talk about Dufton to a minimum, given the circumstances of his first marriage. Rumors abound at all and sundry having seen the two of you in the park.”
Lucy clasped her hands, waiting for him to continue, thinking how lovely she found him, with the sun bringing out bits of copper in his close-cropped beard and mustache.
“I assured Lady Blythe that Lady Dufton’s table was sure to disappoint.” He raised a brow. “Dufton’s chef, though he’s from Paris, isn’t terribly skilled, I’ve heard.”
A quiver ran through her at knowing how close she’d come to being trapped with Dufton. If Lady Blythe hadn’t been so incensed over a dinner party, Estwood wouldn’t have known to come today.
