Not even Lucy’s. His hands were far too dirty. Harry had done things in his thirty-six years that were not…polite. Ambition, he’d discovered long ago, did not require kindness, only a ruthless sort of focus which often left little room for anything else. There were those in Middlesbrough and Ormesby—indeed, all of Yorkshire—who didn’t particularly care for Harry Estwood. He had enemies here, just as he did in London. Waterstone’s opinion of him wasn’t unique.
The list of enemies would soon grow once he relieved Mr. Francis Colm of his duties at Pendergast, though he suspected the man had been working against him for some time. Colm was a sly bastard. Pendergast, under his care and Waterstone’s, had become nearly worthless, and Colm had been boasting about buying the ironworks himself. Once the price was right. Once it was bankrupt.
Won’t he be disappointed.
“Well, Lucy.” Harry took in her profile as she studied the house, once more struck by the fact that this stunning creature was his wife. Her lips—my God, he had such plans for that mouth—pursed as if considering what to say before her gaze floated over him.
“Stop ogling me.” Harry raised a brow. “What is your opinion?”
“That your ego far exceeds the size of this house,” Lucy replied crisply.
“Cheeky, Mrs. Estwood.” Harry pulled her close, laughing into her hair, feeling all that softness brush along the edges of his body. “But not incorrect.”
The hook sank deeper into his chest, tearing at Harry’s heart. Painful and wonderful at the same time.
And he welcomed it.
Far too largea house for two people. That was Lucy’s assessment as she followed Mrs. Bartle down the upstairs hall later that day. The older woman had greeted her with a warm embrace. A bit overfamiliar for a housekeeper, Father would have said.
Lucy had hugged her back.
“The top floor is for the servants,” Mrs. Bartle nodded. “The third has some guest rooms but is mainly for”—the housekeeper clasped her hands—“family members.”
Children, she meant. There was probably a nursery too, though Mrs. Bartle didn’t point one out. Lucy had always wanted a family. A large one. She wasn’t sure how Harry felt about such things.
“And the second floor has your rooms, Mrs. Estwood.” Mrs. Bartle waved Lucy forward, showing off a lovely sitting area consisting of a settee and four chairs and two small side tables facing the overgrown gardens.
Lucy took in the delicate furniture, upholstered in shades of blue and pale-yellow damask. An oversized armoire stood in an alcove to the left, probably already full of her things. Bookcases lined one wall, though there weren’t many books. Roses perfumed the air from a small vase.
But nothing else.
Lucy turned slowly about the room. Everything was tasteful. Elegant. And missing one important piece of furniture. A bed. “Where…am I to sleep, Mrs. Bartle?”
The housekeeper blushed. “Well, ah.” She cleared her throat. “Har—Mr. Estwood said you wouldn’t need a bed, as his was large enough. Much like the one in his London house.”
“How presumptuous of Mr. Estwood.”
Harry had taken what was obviously the former chambers of Mrs. Pendergast and had them converted into a sitting room and a…closetof sorts. He’d done something similar in his London home. Probably because he’d never meant to have a wife.
I changed his mind.
No, Lucy. Marsden did.
Lucy frowned and walked to the door of the adjoining room. Harry hadn’t touched her since ravishing her in London, and she’d—worried that having bedded her, his desire had waned. But it seemed that Harry only assumed her to be overly fragile, like a bit of lace too easily torn. His consideration of her was admirable but unnecessary.
She was no longer in danger of shattering.
That Lucy was gone.
Drawing in a breath, feeling confidence surge beneath her skin, she surveyed the room she’d be sharing with her husband.
Another enormous bed, just as Mrs. Bartle had said, with only a plain coverlet and a smattering of pillows. A book on aqueducts sat open on a bedside table. Another table, this one far larger and rectangular, had been pushed beneath the window at the far side of the room. Bits of metal, some twisted and bent, covered the surface. A knife. A bowl full of screws and fasteners. Other tools Lucy didn’t recognize.
“Put pillows on your list, Mrs. Bartle.” She nodded towards the bed. “Swatches of fabric. I assume there is a draper in the area?”
“Middlesbrough, ma’am.”
“Good. I believe a new coverlet will be necessary.”
