“No, thank you, my lord. I’m quite happy with my choice of husband.” Dufton must think her spineless in addition to being an imbecile.
“You’ve broken my heart, dear Lucy.”
“Doubtful.” Dufton didn’t possess a heart.
She looked down the street, gratified to see Harry’s driver coming from around the corner, crushing a cheroot beneath his boot. He took one look at Dufton and quickened his pace.
“Oh, dear.” Dufton glanced at the driver advancing on them. “Let us not cause a scene. Send him away. My carriage is just there.” He pointed across the street. “We’ll go together and give your father the happy news.”
“I know about Marsden, my lord,” Lucy stated bluntly. Forcefully. “The land is worth far more than my father’s debts. He’d been informed of your deceit.”
Dufton’s smile disappeared completely.
“Cease your posturing, my lord. You don’t give a fig for me, and I expect that if I had been stupid enough to wed you, I wouldhave disappeared shortly after producing an heir. As you can see, my driver is approaching. I bid you good day.” Lucy turned, proud she sounded so…confident. Like Romy.
“You would put your father out on the street?” Dufton’s words stopped her. “He’ll become a pariah. A laughingstock. Waterstone will lose his place in society. I’ll make sure of it, Lucy. If you don’t come with me right now, I will destroy him and his wife.”
Lucy turned back to Dufton. Father and Sally were responsible for their own predicament and had tried to barter her to this horrible man, but still she felt the press of guilt.
“Marsden is and will remain out of your reach,” she whispered.
“We’ll see about that.” Dufton threw the lovely bouquet of peonies to the ground. Eyes on Lucy, he twisted his heel, destroying the fragile petals. “Enjoy your marriage,” he hissed. “No matter how brief.” Spinning on his heel, he stalked across the street to his carriage.
Lucy let out her breath.
“Mrs. Estwood.” Rory, Harry’s driver, a burly man built like a bull and, based on his accent, also from Harry’s part of England, looked down at her with concern. “Is ought amiss? I merely ducked down the alley to enjoy a cheroot. Should I have the duke’s staff summoned?” He watched Dufton’s carriage retreat.
“No, Rory. I’m quite well.” She stepped around the brutalized peonies. “But I think I should return home.”
Lucy had vanquished Dufton and not in a lisping, stuttering, pathetic way.
“Just an old acquaintance.” She nodded at Dufton’s carriage as it rolled away. “He wanted to congratulate me on my marriage, but recalled too late I don’t care for peonies.”
A short ride later,Lucy found herself once more at her new home. She frowned at the sight of the empty steps, deciding matching pots on either side filled with flowers would be a nice touch. Or some color around the hedges, perhaps. Harry had said she might decorate as she saw fit. She’d speak to Mrs. Bartle.
Bartle opened the door wide and nodded at Rory before ushering Lucy inside.
“Mrs. Estwood. Welcome home. How was your visit to the duchess?”
“Splendid.” Her fingers trembled only a little at reliving the altercation with Dufton outside the duke’s home. She had not collapsed at his feet into a simpering heap but had instead ignored his threats. True, safety in the form of the duke’s staff had only been a short distance away, but she had felt a great deal of satisfaction in dismissing the earl. She was so bloody tired of being powerless.
Oh, his face when I mentioned Marsden.
“Where is the library, Bartle?” Harry must have one. Books were strewn all over his chambers. Tea and a good book would be required to put Dufton from her mind.
She clasped her hands to stop their trembling. Bravery might require another scone.
“Estwood likes his books.” Bartle waved her forward until he reached a room at the end of the hall. “Not much of a reader myself, but Mrs. Bartle is.” He gestured for her to go inside.
“Oh. Goodness.” Lucy had expected a cozy back parlor, perhaps with a smattering of books, not…this.
“I’ll have tea brought.” He disappeared, leaving her to gawk at Harry’s library.
The sheer number of bookcases, all filled to overflowing, was daunting, to say the least, and the room’s only adornment. The library, much like the rest of Harry’s home, was plain and sparsely furnished. Two chairs, obviously expensive and well made, sat before yet another overly large fireplace. One small table. No paintings, not that there was a great deal of wall space given the sheer number of bookshelves. Three large crates sat near the door, full of books that had yet to be organized and shelved.
At the first bookcase, she selected a leather-bound tome and read the title.
Traité des propriétés projectives des figures.
