“You are still angry.” Harry regarded her over his own plate heaped with food.
She stayed silent, so angry, she couldn’t be trusted to comment, though her ire at the moment was more for herself than him.
“Louder, Mrs. Estwood. If you wish to stab at me and not the trout, merely say so.”
“More annoyed, I think.” Lucy measured her words carefully to keep her lisp at bay. “But I do not think I can fling this fork and hit your neck unless you turn slightly to the left. Care to have me try?”
The edges of Harry’s mouth tipped up, eyes sparkling at her across the table. “I like the more savage side of your nature, Mrs. Estwood. I’m sure it will serve well in…all matters.” He threw her a heated look, his meaning unmistakable.
Lucy struggled to keep from dropping her fork or swooning into the wine sauce the trout was swimming in.
Harry was oblivious to a great many things despite his intelligence, including the effect he had on Lucy, especially her heart. The earlier accusations had hurt. “Tell me about Ormesby.” A safe topic.
He proceeded to tell her about the village, which was a small distance from Middlesbrough, where Pendergast was located. He spoke of the ironworks and the Bartles with great fondness. But at the slight mention of his family, Harry’s words grew more distant. He rubbed the tip of his pinky finger with his thumb, or rather what was left of the digit. Gone down to the first joint. Lucy hadn’t noticed, truly looked at his finger, until now.
He caught her watching his hand and held it up, brow raised a bit defensively. “Sheared off.”
Sheared off?
“Snipped, I suppose.” He made a chopping motion with his fingers. “You aren’t the only person,” he said lightly, “to have endured a terrible father. Being a sot was the least of James Estwood’s sins.”
Lucy stared at his finger once more, horrified. Her father was a demanding, petty tyrant who didn’t give a fig for her, but he hadn’t gone about shearing off fingers. She focused on the trout, unsure how to respond, until Harry tossed down his napkin.
“Shall we go up, Mrs. Estwood? With the departure of Mrs. Bartle, there isn’t any dessert tonight. Oddly, what was left of the lemon cake disappeared.” Harry cocked his head, observing her.
“How odd,” Lucy murmured.
It had only been one slice, left for her by Mrs. Bartle. She wasn’t about to let the appearance of Father spoil her love of lemon cake. Also, she’d wanted a bit of solace after her argument with Harry.
“Nor is there a lady’s maid to be found. A shame. I’ll have to help ready you for bed once more.” He tried to appear apologetic as he stood and came around the table to help Lucy from her chair. The tip of his nose edged along the slope of her neck, breathing her in.
A choked sound passed her lips.
Harry took her hand, leading Lucy up the stairs. She focused on tamping down her nervousness and not making some stupid, lisping remark. As he opened the door to his chambers, the enormous bed loomed, forcing a wave of anticipation to crest over her. She wasn’t afraid, not of this. If Harry’s earlier gentleness was any indication, her husband wasn’t about to pounce on her like some rabid animal.
But she wasacutelyaware of her inexperience.
“Turn your back to me.” The edges of the words were rough, but his fingers on Lucy were careful as he confidently stripped her of the gown, a lovely mauve silk she’d been helped into by one of the kitchen maids after Mrs. Bartle and Lizzie’s departure. At every brush of his fingers along her skin, Lucy’s blood pulsed in response. By the time she stood only in her chemise, an insistent ache had taken up residence between her thighs.
Harry pressed an openmouthed kiss to the slope of her neck.
“My stockings?” she dared to whisper.
“I’m leaving those on at present. I like the garters.” Eyes like heated gunmetal trailed down her body. “I have always loved your hair. The sheer inkiness of it.” Fingers plucked at the pins, tossing them carelessly to the floor. “I would want you without Marsden,” he said as the heavy mass slid over her shoulders. “I always have, Lucy. Though I am well beneath you and was warned away.”
“You are not beneath me,” she breathed.
“Oh, I most definitely am. Make no mistake.” He tugged at her chemise until the garment ripped, and the scraps drifted to her feet. The cooler air of the room brushed against her naked breasts, forcing her nipples to pucker. “I only don’t care that I am anymore.”
Lucy closed her eyes, not wanting to consider that she was standing naked before Harry while he remained fully clothed. It was an oddly erotic yet awkward sensation. She wasn’t sure quite what to do.
“Mmm.” Teeth grazed along her collar bone while one palm stretched across the skin of her stomach, fingers only a hair’s breadth from the tuft of hair covering her mound. “I should have taken you at the house party. Ruined you behind a standing stone.” His mouth continued in a path over one shoulder, fingers tightening on her stomach. “Lovely girl.”
Lucy pushed her thighs together at the words.
“Would you have allowed me, I wonder?” He whispered along her skin, fingers tangling in the hair between her thighs.
“Yeth,” she choked out, hearing the lisp. “But—Father—” Lucy gasped as the finger slid lower, stroking at her slit.
