The picnic at the house party. Her pathetic burst of defiance, when she had allowed Estwood to lead her about the standing stones. He’d made his interest clear that day, and she…had obeyed Father. As she always had.
Things have changed.
“Only if there are large pieces of stones to observe,” she said, seeing in her mind’s eye the barrow they’d visited that day. “Or bronze weaponry to describe and ancient rituals to elaborate on.”
“The bloodier the better.” His voice lowered to a whisper that sent a tingle up her arms, though there was nothing remotely seductive about heathen sacrifices. “You seem to remember the day well enough. Do you recall what came after?”
As if Lucy wouldeverforget. The ball. The words she’d said. “I do.”
Estwood stared at her, far too thoughtfully for her taste, as if she were a puzzle he must solve. The lines of his jaw grew taut.
“I’m—”
“Don’t,” he said softly.
Lucy looked down at her lap. Did he really believe, after her proposal, her attempts to escape Dufton, and seeing her run from Sally today, that she had said such things to him willingly?
Bartle appeared once more and gathered up their plates. He presented, with a small flourish, a lemon cake. “From Pennyfoil’s, madam.” He set it on the table and cut into the cake, releasing the aroma of lemon into the air. He placed a large slice before her.
Lucy stared at the bits of sugared lemon rind decorating the slice of cake. She might cry from happiness.
“Delivered this morning,” Bartle informed her. “There was a note attached, Mrs. Estwood.” He handed Lucy a slip of paper.
She opened the note, smiling at the signature.
Romy told me your news. I hope you don’t mind. Enjoy the cake.
Rosalind.
Moisture filled Lucy’s eyes. Rosalind was Lady Torrington, Romy’s cousin and the not-so-secret owner of Pennyfoil’s, home of London’s most decadent desserts. How often had Lucy walked past Pennyfoil’s but never dared to venture inside? The pastries, tarts, cakes, and pies would have been too much of a temptation. Father would have?—
He no longer controls my life. I can have as much dessert as I wish.
Taking a forkful of the cake, Lucy raised it to her lips, prepared to take a bite of what was sure to be the most deliciousbit of lemon dessert she might ever have, when a commotion sounded outside the dining room.
“Where is she?” a voice thundered. “Where is my daughter?”
14
Lucy’s fork dropped with a clatter to her plate. The roast curdled immediately in her stomach. The cake, which had smelled so delightful mere moments ago, now made her nauseated.
Father was here.
Estwood sat back and crossed his legs, utterly calm, as if Gerald Waterstone wasn’t stomping about his house. “Well,” he drawled. “That took a bit longer than I anticipated. I expected him to show up during the first course. I was going to flick soup in his eye. Stay where you are, Mrs. Estwood. Eat your cake.”
“How dare you,” Father roared just outside the dining room doors. “Refusing me entrance so I am forced to make my way through the kitchens.”
Estwood bit his lip, looking for all the world as if he might burst into laughter. “The kitchens,” he said more to himself than Lucy. “Goodness. I hope he was mistaken for a tradesman.”
Lucy tried to still her trembling fingers. She clasped them tightly in her lap, fingers twisting against the fabric of her skirts. Breathing became difficult.
The door flew open to reveal Father, chest heaving, eyes wild, cravat slightly askew. Sally was a smaller speck behind him, sharp features contorted into a mask of fury. He pointed at Lucy. “There you are.”
Lucy immediately lowered her eyes, body and mind trained to endure one of Father’s lectures.
No. She carefully and resolutely raised her chin.Not anymore.
“Waterstone.” Estwood took a forkful of cake, chewing slowly while Father fumed. “Please join us. Would you like a slice?” He kicked out a chair. No effort was made to maintain the upper crust accent—in fact, he sounded as if he’d never left that blacksmith’s shop in Yorkshire.
