“That is how I became acquainted with Dufton,” he said, regarding her carefully, as if searching for some sign Lucy meant to betray him. Harry’s suspicions of her hadn’t faded completely. Perhaps they never would, which was troublesome.
“He shares my opinion of railways,” Harry continued. “And other matters, though his interest isn’t easily discerned, given his title. Earls don’t generally dig around in blast furnaces orenjoy smelting iron, though as you once mentioned, he owns an ironworks or two.LordDufton,” he emphasized the title, “can see the way things will go. Mostgentlemendo not.”
Would he never let this go?
“My father cares a great deal about titles and breeding. But I do not share his opinion. As you have surely ascertained.” She slapped the newspaper back into his hands. Annoyed.
Turning her gaze to the passing scenery outside the window, Lucy wished for an entire plate of biscuits to throw at his head.
24
“Well, what do you think?” Harry gestured to the four-story residence standing alone amid a series of small rolling fields just outside of the village of Ormesby. “We’re a bit of a ride from Middlesbrough, but I expect that is why the Pendergast family decided to build here. Didn’t care to be too close to the ironworks or those who worked there. Mrs. Pendergast fancied herself a fine lady and this her palatial estate.”
Lucy’s lips twitched, eyes roving over the monstrosity of a house, and shrugged, looking him in the eye. “Rather large.”
Ah, no lisp. No hesitation at speaking to him directly or looking Harry in the eye. And his wife’s tone held a hint of sexual innuendo which he found ridiculously arousing.
Progress.
Lucy’s shield of reserve had begun to wane as soon as the train had left London. The farther she was from Gerald Waterstone, the more she bloomed. He’d been careful with her during their journey, concerned for her welfare after having spectacularly relieved Lucy of her maidenhead. Selfish prick that he was, Harry had taken her more than once that night.A gentleman would have left his wife in peace after the initial bedding.
Yes, but I’m not a gentleman.
Not in the least, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be considerate of his wife. Lucy was still sore, as evidenced by the way she kept shifting about on the seat in the carriage. Harry hadn’t touched her since London, beyond a kiss, though he dearly wanted to.
“The Pendergasts were one of the wealthiest families in Yorkshire,” he said. “The ironworks was only a small part of their fortune.”
“What happened to them?”
“Oh, nothing terrible. Still stupidly wealthy, as far as I know. Mr. Pendergast sent his two sons off to boarding school while he and his wife, who had always longed for the delights of London, decided to move there after selling the ironworks to your father. Behind my back. Even though Pendergast and I had already reached an agreement.”
The entire affair still annoyed Harry to no end. He’d been blindsided.
“So you bought their house,” she said, her voice a trifle soft, but loud enough to be heard. “You’re sentimental about Pendergast, given you and Bartle once worked there. My father found out. No wonder he went to such great lengths to acquire the business.”
Ah, Lucy.
So much more astute than anyone realized. Not Harry, of course. He knew his wife was intelligent, and instead of being intimidated, as some men might be, he planned to make good use of her clever brain. Lucy had an uncanny knack for connecting irrelevant pieces of information, shuffling them about, and then forming a broader picture. A rare skill not many possessed. Had Waterstone made his daughter more than asilent partner in his enterprises instead of treating her like some imperfect porcelain doll, he wouldn’t be facing impoverishment.
“I’m not sure he went to great lengths,” Harry said. “He knew I meant to purchase Pendergast. He kept track of all my business dealings. A hobby of your father’s.” Though someone had to have informed Waterstone of Harry’s affection for the ironworks. Likely the same individual who’d told Dufton about Marsden.
Colm. Pendergast’s soon to be unemployed ironmaster.
“Patently untrue,” Lucy replied with a sigh. “He did go to some trouble. Father used my dowry to buy Pendergast.” She looked up at Harry, the blue of her eyes nearly matching the sky. “Mr. Hopps informed me some time ago. He was most regretful.”
“Your dowry?” Yet another reason to dislike Gerald Waterstone. “So you were going to strike out on your own? Perhaps tour the Continent with the funds?”
“I only wanted to have dessert, when I wished it.” A tiny smile crossed her lips. “Ironic, don’t you think? He took the dowry from me to take Pendergast from you. Now you have me and the ironworks.”
An inky curl blew out of the loose chignon at the base of her neck, batting gently over her shoulder. Without thinking, he reached out, twisting the curl around his finger. Harry’s chest tugged, as if someone had stuck a bloody hook into his heart and Lucy held the other end.
“Yes.” Harry retracted his finger, watching the curl slide away.
He hated the feeling he had for Lucy. Worried over it.
Drifting about like the tragic heroine of a gothic novel. That was how Harry had always thought of her, waiting for rescue. Lucy reminded him in many ways of his mother, whom he had not been able to save.
I am no one’s hero.
