Breathe, Lucy. Stop being a coward.
Tonight must be survived. She must play the obedient, meek, empty-headed woman Dufton assumed her to be. There was still hope. Not a great deal of it, mind you, butsome. Once her breathing returned to normal, her placid manner in place, Lucy ventured back out again.
I will not wed Dufton.
The words repeated over and over, giving her the strength to endure the evening at his side. He would not have her—or Marsden—if she could help it. Father could go live on his bloody horse farm.
Proud of herself, Lucy strolled back out into the hall, turned the corner, and was promptly shoved aside by two women so busy gossiping behind their fans, neither noticed her. Stumbling, her feet working as well as her tongue as of late, she placed a hand against the wall to keep from falling to the ground.
A large hand wrapped around her elbow.
“Miss Waterstone.” The rolling cadence with the hint of low-born accent, something he made no attempt to hide for her sake, trickled over Lucy’s skin. Awareness of him had her body vibrating like a tuning fork. It was one thing to regard him across the grass in the park or in the confines of the ballroom, quite another to have him touching her.
“Mr. Estwood.” She kept her voice soft, the lisp muted as much as possible. Lucy didn’t want him to hear it. She wasn’t ready to speak to him. Not here. Lucy had considered her proposal and planned to present succinct, sound reasoning. Not be trapped at the Shaftoe ball wishing to fade into the wallpaper while she presented her case.
“You will not burst into flames if you look at me, Miss Waterstone,” he drawled. “I understand you wish to speak to me.”
Lucy lifted her chin. She’d never been this close to Estwood, not even when he’d walked her around the standing stones at The Barrow. His beard held sparks of copper and a bit of gray—there was even a streak in his sherry-colored hair. And his eyes…the color of thunderclouds during a summer storm. Striations of black shot through the gray, like small bolts of lightning. His lips curled beneath the neatly trimmed mustache and brush of beard, but Lucy didn’t have the impression he was pleased to see her.
“I—” she murmured.
Estwood didn’t possess Dufton’s aristocratic male beauty, but Lucy thought his character far better. He dazzled her, like an uncut diamond.
Her toes curled inside her slippers.
I have always thought him the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.
“Miss Waterstone?” He tilted his head in her direction, still holding her arm. “My curiosity has been aroused, along with my suspicion. Her Grace claims you need to speak to me on a matter of some importance, which I highly doubt.”
Before she could protest, he dragged her towards an open door at the end of the hall. “Come.”
“I’m not a dog, Mr. Estwood.” The words came out in a rush of lisping anger, though not all of it was directed at him. Shewas trembling, fear skittering along her skin that she might be discovered. What if Sally came looking for her? Or Dufton?
His eyes lingered over her mouth. Not in that horrified way Father’s so often did when he heard the lisp, but far more intensely. “No, you are not.” He stopped, looked up and down the hall, and pulled her inside the room.
A small parlor met her eyes, two glasses on the table with a bottle of brandy between them. A lamp was lit, casting shadows across the wall, but the room was otherwise empty.
Estwood shut the door, throwing the lock.
Lucy pulled away from him, trying not to think too hard about the fact that they were alone behind a locked door. She’d been instructed her entire life not to ever be in such a situation with a gentleman, not that there had been a great many opportunities. Clasping her arms across her chest, she considered what to say. She was confident in her arguments. Lucy had studied, poring over articles, reading everything she could so that her case would be strong, logical, and difficult for Estwood to refuse, even if he did view her with a great deal of distaste.
She’d also deducedwhyhe wanted Marsden.
Estwood’s name wasn’t often found in the newspapers, until one looked closely. Since the conversation with Romy, Lucy had started to piece things together. Father happened to have a handful of tomes on engineering and architecture in his study, which had led her to learn more about how all manner of buildings, railways and bridges were constructed. Wrought iron and pig iron were required. Both produced from iron ore. For now.
Clever Estwood.
Unlike Father, whose business pursuits rarely stretched beyond a few years because he preferred risky, slightlyglamorous investments that offered an immediate return, Estwood was planning a decade or more into the future.
“So here I am, Miss Waterstone.” Estwood planted his feet before her. “Speak, if you will. You have my attention.”
Lucy stared at the buttons on his formal wear, plain with no elaborate design, unlike Dufton’s that had been engraved. In fact, Estwood’s attire was devoid of any ornamentation. No stickpin in his cravat. No jeweled cufflinks. Spartan when comparing his clothing to that of the other gentlemen present. Estwood could have afforded the extravagance but chose not to.
“I have information for you.”
“Do you?” He appeared utterly bored. The tip of his thumb flicked absently against his pinky finger.
“And a proposal to make.”
