Lucy tended to agree. Every questionable trait of Father’s had become magnified under Sally’s influence. “Did you really offer a fair amount for Pendergast?” Her pulse was slowing, breathing no longer painful.
You are no longer my daughter.
She took a careful sip of the scotch.
“I did.” Estwood raised his glass to her in a toast. “A more than fair sum for a business teetering on bankruptcy, though given Mrs. Waterstone’s complete disregard for frugality, I doubt the proceeds will last long.”
“But you don’t own all his debts.”
“I satisfied the largest creditors, but there will still be some beating at his door. But what he’ll receive for the ironworks can alleviate the situation, if he doesn’t run up additional debts.”
Lucy thought that unlikely.
“He still has his horse farm. Let him sell his stallions and mares.”
“Father would never,” she whispered into her glass.
But he had no reservations at all about selling his daughter.
Lucy knew that much to be true. She’d heard it from his own lips. But abandoning Gerald Waterstone to his impoverishment because she refused to do her duty filled Lucy with a substantial amount of guilt. Hewasher father. A poor one, mind you, but she still loved him. Irrational to be sure, but Lucy couldn’t simply hack away at her heart until the emotion disappeared. Estwood had been right to hold something against Father, because even now, after that terrible display a quarter-hour ago, a tiny part of Lucy still wished to help him.
“Are you going to tell me who taught you to drink scotch?”
Lucy shrugged. What did it matter? She took another sip.
“Words, Mrs. Estwood. I long to hear them.”
“Possibly,” she spat out before draining her glass once more. “I’d like a bit more.” The burn of the alcohol helped blot out the ugly words she had exchanged with Father. “Today has been rather exhauthting.”
Estwood studied her mouth until she looked away. “How unladylike of you.” The cadence of his words grew thicker. Richer. “Swilling spirits. I’m outraged.” A tiny gleam of amusement hovered in his eyes, those striations of black circling about in the pearly mist.
Heat pulsed along her skin from such a heated look. She kept forgetting that Estwood had insisted they would share a bed. “My apologies.”
“Oh, I never said I didn’t like it.” His eyes darkened a shade, giving him a predatory look.
Another bloom of heat, this one stretching across her chest, made her fingers tingle. No man had ever studied Lucy in such amanner. Her pulse throbbed gently in response. “Our cook, Mrs. Gibbons,” she finally said. “Taught me to drink scotch.”
“Your cook? I can’t imagine Waterstone approved.”
“He didn’t know.” A wave of sadness struck her. She was unlikely to see the older woman ever again. “Mrs. Gibbons likes to save me dessert, especially if she’s made a lemon torte or cake.” Meat pies. Fresh baked bread with butter. If not for the cook putting away an extra plate now and again, Lucy might have starved a long time ago. “She disagreed”—Lucy took another swallow of the scotch—“on my reducing regimen.”
“A reducing regimen?” Estwood’s eyes widened before once more dipping over her form.
“Yes. My mother possessed a voluptuous form. Given to a thicker figure. And Father—” Hearing the words out loud, her tongue loosened by the scotch and seeing Estwood’s reaction, Lucy realized just how absurd Father’s reasoning had been. Mortification filled her. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t object.”
“To quote a woman I’ve recently become reacquainted with, I’m not a nitwit. Besides, you found a way to circumvent his wishes.”
“As to the scotch, Mrs. Gibbons keeps a bottle in a small cubbyhole behind the oven. When Father—or more recently, Sally—became too”—Lucy searched for the correct word—“exacting, a small dram was required.” Lucy had spent many late nights, after Father had gone to bed, ensconced in the warmth of the kitchen and Mrs. Gibbons. A glass at her elbow while she munched away on a small plate the cook had prepared for her.
“I see.” Estwood drummed his fingers lightly over one thigh, sipped his own drink, eyes skimming over her once more. She probably looked at lemon torte in much the same manner. “What else do you like?” He leaned over the side of his chair,close enough that his breath, with a hint of scotch, brushed along her cheek.
“Scones,” she whispered the first thing that came to mind. “Currant is my favorite. Also forbidden.”
“Excellent choice.”
A tingle shot down her body along the side nearest Estwood.
“Have you ever been kissed, Lucy?” he said. “Properly?” He took her free hand and turned it palm up, tracing the quivering pulse in her wrist with one finger. “That small peck I bestowed upon you earlier was merely to satisfy the vicar. Doesn’t count.”
