“I wish to thank you for your assistance,” he said finally, coming to a halt. “The dinner at Granby’s was some time ago, but I haven’t forgotten.”
“The fork,” she murmured.
“Or it may have been one of the spoons. Probably both. I was distracted and forgot my manners. I owe you a debt for rescuing me.” Estwood paused, his eyes dropping to her mouth once more. He stared so intently at her lips that Lucy had a flutter of hope he meant to kiss her.
Please, kiss me.
“I could not allow the tragedy of using thefith”—she swallowed, hoping she spoke low enough he wouldn’t notice the lisp—“fork for the capon. The footmen might have revolted.”
That was the most she’d ever said to him.
Estwood pressed a hand to his chest. “So it wasn’t for me, only to spare Granby’s staff?” His teeth flashed as a broad smilecame to his lips. “You wound me, Miss Waterstone.” He cocked his head, unwavering gaze fixed on her. “What do you think of railways?”
Lucy blinked. She had done a great deal of research for Father, though her actual opinion was rarely asked. A young lady was intelligent enough to gather information, it seemed, but little else.
“I…” She bit her lip. Focused on her thoughts. Her blasted tongue.
“You listened rather intently to the conversation over dinner that night at Granby’s, despite pretending to be far more interested in the capon languishing on your plate. And directing we heathens in the proper use of a fork. I feel certain you have an opinion, and I would like to hear it.”
“Entirely profitable,” she puffed softly, remembering how Estwood had invested heavily in raw materials. The items needed to build. “The…things,” she stuttered carefully, mindful of the way she sounded. “Metallurgy.”
“Metallurgy?” Estwood regarded Lucy with the sort of awe one usually reserved for greeting royalty, perhaps. Or a most beautiful sunrise breaking over Hyde Park.
No one had ever looked at her in such a way. As if Lucy were…fascinating. Rare. She could have assured him, had her tongue not been sticking to the back of her teeth, that she was neither of those things. Merely a flawed, exceptionally dutiful young lady with a difficult father.
She nodded. “All require…metallurgy,” she whispered. “You are enamored of it.”
Estwood cocked his head, eyes drifting over her once more, studying her mouth again, which had Lucy blushing furiously. He reached out, slowly, one finger touching a curl dangling over her ear. Wrapping it around his finger, he tugged gently.
“Metallurgy is not,” Estwood said, “the only thing I’m enamored of, Miss Waterstone. That has been true for some time. Since you showed me the proper fork.”
He was…interested in her?
“I know I am not…considered a gentleman.” He swallowed and looked away, releasing the curl from his grasp. “Nor is this entirely proper. But may I call upon you? In London?”
“I—” Father would never allow it.
“A dance, then? At Granby’s upcoming ball?”
Warmth flooded her cheeks.
“I warn you, I don’t dance well. I’ve two left feet at times, but…” He regarded her with a great deal of intensity. “Miss Waterstone, you…” He hesitated again, which was so unlike his usual cocky manner of speaking. “I’m…” He lowered his voice. “I’m quite taken with you, and I…” He paused once more. “I should like to ask your opinion on sewers.”
“I approve of them,” she murmured, heart dancing in her breast.
I might swoon. Right here. Faint away into the grass.
She angled her head towards him, bathing in all that dazzling brilliance as Estwood leaned forward, his nose brushing along her cheek. Lucy closed her eyes, parted her lips.
“I believe I’ve found something,” Lady Mildred exclaimed, huffing up the slight incline as she came into view, holding a bit of rock triumphantly in the air.
Estwood chuckled softly. “Until our dance then, Miss Waterstone.”
The three of them returned to the picnic shortly after, Lucy floating on a cloud of happiness at having, impossibly, gained the attention of the only man she’d ever had an ounce of interest in. Harry Estwood.
1
London, some years later
