She sat perfectly still, considering Dufton. The conversation flowed around the table, none of it directed to her. Lucy exhibited a composed, reserved demeanor, just as she’d been lectured to do for her entire life. But she heard every word, filing away any information that might be of import.
When one is not permitted to speak, one’s listening skills greatly improve.
Lucy had come to the unwelcome realization, after the disastrous meeting with Hopps and nearly destroying the tree, that without funds or a place to go—because she had no other family and lacked any discernible skills except excellent table manners—there was no escape. A braver girl, one not raised to obey Gerald Waterstone, might have attempted to forge ahead and take her chances on the streets of London, but not Lucy.
I am not brave.
But she was pragmatic. A well-born lady had few options other than marriage if she lacked funds of her own. A lisping spinster with no family or friends? Even less.
I had a friend once.
Andromeda Barrington. How glorious it had been to have another so firmly in her corner. She’d been pleased when Andromeda wed Granby because Father and the duke were stillpartners in business, though their relationship had since grown distant. But shortly after the wedding, there had been a true falling out between them. Their association had grown ever more strained. By the time Granby had taken his new bride off to the Continent, Father’s relationship with the duke had become non-existent. The chill extended to Lucy’s relationship with Andromeda, who she’d written to faithfully but never once received a reply.
More blame to lay at Father’s large, booted feet.
“Brilliant, my lord,” Father chortled loudly, face flushed from the amount of wine he’d consumed. “You spin a splendid tale.”
“I must agree.” Sally batted her lashes at Dufton. “I hope you dine with us more often in future, my lord.” She glanced at Lucy. “Your company is most welcome.”
Lucy’s stepmother was a pretty woman. Ambitious and consumed with her status in society, much like Father. Slender as a willow reed, Sally had been widowed and was barely a decade older than Lucy. She had been friendly and warm during Father’s courtship, but after she’d become Mrs. Waterstone, her attitude towards Lucy had changed rather dramatically.
We must marry her off, Mr. Waterstone. In the most advantageous way possible.
A servant stood behind Lucy, offering up more lamb.
“My daughter is finished with her meal,” Father stated, nodding at Lucy’s half-eaten plate of food. “Please take it away.”
Lucy said nothing as her plate was removed, as any objection she might make would be ignored. Her plate had contained barely enough lamb and potatoes to feed a child to begin with, and she’d only been afforded a few bites. Father rarely allowed her much to eat, worried her form might become far too generous, like that of Lucy’s mother, without constant supervision. A true lady, Father proclaimed, was spare of frame and possessed little appetite.
She patted her lips with a napkin. Placed her hands in her lap.
“Eats like a bird,” Father proclaimed to Dufton, cutting into his own lamb. “No matter what is placed before her. Unlike her mother, fortunately, whose hearty appetite led to a stout form.”
Mama had run off with a lover when Lucy was a child. A man who hadn’t cared that she’d had what Father called anobscenely voluptuous appearance. She’d died shortly thereafter, leaving a grief-stricken Lucy desperate to please her only remaining parent. So she hadn’t balked when the portions on her plate had become smaller and smaller.
I’ve been hungry for years.
“I doubt Miss Waterstone has much to fear,” Dufton said with a small nod in her direction, his eyes running over her.
How kind. Unfortunately, it would take far more than that to convince Father to allow Lucy honey in her tea.
“I’ve recently purchased a new carriage,” Dufton said, eyes still on her. “Perhaps you would care to join me for a ride through the park one day soon, Miss Waterstone. We can stop for an ice at Gunter’s, after, if you’d like.”
“Of course,” Lucy murmured, careful to keep her words barely above a whisper. She didn’t even consider refusing, not with Father practically salivating at Dufton’s interest in her.
“Oh,” Father said, waving a hand. “Lucy doesn’t care for ices, do you daughter?” The smile on his face was false, the command in his eyes clear, the question rhetorical. Lucy wasn’t expected to voice an objection.
I love ices.She looked down at her lap.Lemon is my favorite.
Any doubt that Dufton’s presence tonight was anything other than interest in Lucy faded at his invitation. Why Dufton would want to pursue her was the real question. Yes, her pedigree was respectable. She evidenced a high amount of ladylike reserve. Rarely spoke, which for some gentlemen would be considereda very desirable quality. But there was little else to recommend her.
Lucy glanced at Father. She’d learned to be leery of his motivations.
The conversation continued once more, hovering in the air around her. She remained still and silent. If Dufton thought it odd she didn’t participate in the discussion, he gave no indication.
Dessert arrived. A lemon torte.
Sally, who knew Lucy adored lemon in any form, threw her an innocent, falsely apologetic look.
