Lucy agreed. Her safety was contingent upon this marriage, making the consummation necessary. Father would attempt to annul the marriage, solemnized by the archbishop’s nephew or not. She knew Gerald Waterstone, could smell the desperation on him. Had heard from his own lips that he would have forced her, nearly incoherent with laudanum, before a vicar to wed Dufton. He wouldn’t give up easily.
“Nor do we need Dufton sniffing about.” There was a hint of suspicion in his tone. “Do we?”
Good grief. Did he really suppose she had gone through all this and was still in league with Dufton? Or her father? The look on Harry’s face told her that yes, he did.
“No.” A yawn stopped any further comment.
“Sleep only.” His tone softened as he patted the mattress. “I promise you’ll be comfortable.”
She glanced at the massive carved posts of Harry’s enormous bed, the pile of pillows—somewhat odd, given the scant furnishings—and noted the width of the mattress. It did look exceptionally comfortable. And Lucy was drained from the day’s events. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open.
Nodding, she climbed into bed, sighing as she slid between the sheets and tucked a pillow beneath her head.
Good lord, itwaslike floating on a cloud.
A moment later, the bed dipped on the other side with Estwood’s, noHarry’s,weight.
Lucy held her breath as he tugged at the sheets before settling.
“No stealing the blankets,” he said, and she tensed. But nothing else happened. Harry didn’t move in her direction or even attempt to touch her, which was rather…disappointing, given her body still throbbed from the sensual removal of herstockings. After another moment, Lucy relaxed, sinking deeper beneath the covers. Pride swelled in her chest. She’d been brave today. Finally. Found her…voice after being content to be silent for so long. And her marriage to Harry Estwood might not be so contentious after all.
Harry blew out the lamp. “Goodnight, Mrs. Estwood.”
A smile pulled at her lips as Lucy drifted off to sleep.
18
Lucy rolled over with a grumble, burrowing deeper. There was a chill in the air, the warm cocoon she’d slept in all night having disappeared. Blinking, she opened her eyes to see that the other side of the massive bed was empty. Harry was gone, leaving behind only the indentation of his head on the pillow…which was quite close to her own.
He’d slept close to her, but hadn’t touched Lucy, as he’d promised. Yes, Harry was entirely considerate of her person, but?—
A knock sounded at the door, interrupting her thoughts, forcing her to sit up. The sun blazed through the windows, dappling the room with light. A glance at the clock on the bedside table told Lucy it was quite late. Nearly noon.
“Come in,” she said, tucking the coverlet around her, expecting a maid. This was Harry’s bedroom, after all. He wouldn’t knock no matter how solicitous he’d been the previous night.
The door opened a crack to reveal a plump older woman, graying hair hanging in a spray of ringlets about her temples.She carried a tray with a steaming pot of tea along with a covered plate and headed straight towards Lucy with a smile.
“Mrs. Estwood,” the woman greeted her. “Good morning. I am Mrs. Bartle. My apologies for not greeting you upon your arrival last evening. I fear after a nip of brandy, I fell asleep before the fire. Probably shouldn’t mention such, since I’m Mr. Estwood’s housekeeper.” The rolling cadence of her words sounded very much like Harry. “I believe you met my husband, Mr. Bartle, when you arrived.” She smiled broader. “This is Lizzie.” She nodded to the girl at her heels. “Your maid, if you’ll have her.”
Lucy nodded her agreement. “Good morning,” she said softly.
Mrs. Bartle bustled over to the bed, bringing with her the scent of yeast and warm bread before handing the tray to Lizzie. “Hold this a moment.” She leaned Lucy forward and pushed the pillows up behind her, fluffing them as she went. “Now, then, Mr. Estwood said you’d be hungry. Starving, I believe was his word, so I’ve brought you tea and honey. Toast. Eggs and ham.” She took the tray, lifting the lid from the covered plate with a flourish.
Lucy stared at the tray. She had never been allowed such bounty for breakfast—or, really, any meal. The ham smelled divine. The eggs were fluffy and sprinkled with herbs. She wasn’t quite sure where to start. Picking up her fork, she took a bite of the ham, stifling a groan of pleasure.
“Lizzie.” Mrs. Bartle clapped her hands. “See about Mrs. Estwood’s bath.” She nodded in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. “Bathing room. Mr. Estwood insists a bath deserves a separate space. Spent a fortune having pipes fitted inside so he’d have water with the twist of a knob. Extravagant, I told him.” She spoke with a great deal more familiarity than a mere housekeeper.
Pipes?Not even Father had running water.
Lucy smiled into her tea.
“Much better than dragging a tub about. There’s a boiler to heat the water at the back of the kitchens.” Mrs. Bartle nodded sagely. “Mr. Estwood had enough of bathing in kitchens when he was a child, he says. Likes to soak without an audience now. The man doesn’t even have a valet, and given his status, he should. Perhaps you can talk him into one? I’ve a nephew who would be perfect.” The ringlets jiggled about her temples.
Lucy was unsurprised. Harry had grown up poor. He knew how to dress himself. A valet would seem an unnecessary extravagance to him, especially since he could knot his own cravat.
Lots of uses for a cravat, Lucy.
A furious bit of heat seared her cheeks at remembering Harry’s words from last night.
