Father thought Lucy to besupremelyunintelligent.
A slight lisp did not make her an idiot. Her tongue might not obey her commands, but Lucy’s brain worked just fine. However, not fighting Father’s opinion made life easier, as long as she lived beneath Gerald Waterstone’s roof.
The tiny bit of lamb stuck in her throat.
In addition to her lack of intelligence, Father found Lucy to be a disappointment. She’d failed to secure a prestigious match, a terrible failing, for which she’d castigated herself for years. But as it happened, her inability to attract a title or any husband at all wasn’t entirely Lucy’s doing.
Her eyes raised a fraction to glare at Father.
Oh, she’d had suitors. A handful. But Father had refused them all. Not wealthy enough. Connections insignificant. No title. Then there was her speech impediment, which put off most gentlemen, and her form, never slender enough, which proper gentlemen found too voluptuous and brazen according toFather. The list of items detailing his displeasure was endless, though he always failed to include one small item.
No dowry.
All of which is how she had become an unwed, unwanted virgin of nearly twenty-seven…and a burden to her father.
Lucy stabbed viciously at a carrot, the only indication of the bitter resentment simmering beneath her skin.
Long in the tooth, according to her stepmother, Sally.Firmlyon the shelf. A rotten piece of fruit, left in the bowl too long. Yet another embarrassment poor Father must endure. He’d started lying about Lucy’s age when asked, as if being merely twenty-two might make the right sort of gentleman flock to her.
Which brings us to tonight’s dinner guest.
“How are you enjoying the lamb, my lord?” Sally inquired of the Earl of Dufton.
“Delicious, Mrs. Waterstone.”
Handsome and far too charming, Lord Dufton was yet another business associate of Father’s. The earl had been a frequent visitor to the Waterstone home in recent weeks. Not unusual. Father had many such acquaintances.
Yes, but they grow fewer by the day.
“I hope everything meets with your approval, my lord,” Father said, chin tipping subtly in Lucy’s direction.
Father wasterriblytransparent. This was not the first time he’d tried to garner interest in Lucy by placing her before a titled gentleman, though he hadn’t done so in some time. Lord Dufton was wealthy. Prestigious family. Connected. And had dropped several hints during the soup course that his mother wished him to wed. Suffice it to say, if her father could wed Dufton himself and give him an heir, he would.
Did Dufton realize she came with a speech impediment but no dowry?
Another wave of frustration had Lucy gripping her fork.
In a burst of defiance, so rare as to be previously unprecedented, Lucy had visited Father’s solicitor, Mr. Hopps. The need to suddenly call upon Mr. Hopps had been precipitated by the lack of cake on her twenty-sixth birthday. Ridiculous, of course. Not the dowry part, but the absence of cake.
If Lucy wereeverto be allowed dessert, shouldn’t it be on her bloody birthday?
At any rate, lack of cake or even a gift of any kind had set Lucy on the path to Mr. Hopps. Something had snapped inside her. Perhaps the forming of a spine, with which to escape her father’s dominion over every aspect of her life. Long overdue.
She inhaled sharply, careful to keep her gaze lowered to her plate.
Lucy had every right to demand not only her dowry, but anything of value left by her mother. At the very least, she needed to inquire. The atmosphere at the Waterstone home had become stifling since Father’s marriage to Sally. Surely, Mama had set something aside for her only child. Enough money to purchase a cottage by the sea. A place where Lucy could speak out loud and eat all the cake she wished.
But while her request had been met with great sympathy by Mr. Hopps, he’d regretfully informed her that there was…nothing. After one or two careful questions to the solicitor, always in a whisper, Lucy had been informed that Father had utilized the funds set aside for her dowry as well as her small inheritance for a business investment. Years ago.
Lucy had wept bitterly at the news. Not in front of Mr. Hopps, of course, but much later.
Father threw his head back, laughing a bit too uproariously as Dufton made an amusing quip, interrupting her thoughts.
If she’d been served a dinner roll, Lucy would have tossed it at Father’s head. Her aim was rather good. Spectacular, if she were being honest. After the meeting with Mr. Hopps, Lucyhad spent an inordinate amount of time in the garden, a pile of stones at her feet, flinging them at a tree she imagined was Father instead. She hadn’t had the courage to confront him.
“It’s true,” Dufton proclaimed. “Lady Marchand is quite clever. She hosts the most delightful musicales. You must attend one.”
Dufton was far too attractive. Sophisticated and elegant, with polished manners and impeccably tailored clothing. The idea that he would show any interest at all in an ancient spinster with no dowry and a lisp had Lucy wondering whether Father had lost his wits. Dufton could have any young lady this Season.
