Lucy gritted her teeth. Shedidvalue her life. But Helena had a point; she valued Helena’s more. A fact Lucy couldn’t argue with, since she’d agreed to an arranged marriage, then sat around appeasing Lady Bridgewater for three years with no groom in sight, all to improve Helena’s chance of happiness.The two of them never talked about it in such terms. But deep down, Lucy worried Helena knew her reasons for agreeing to this marriage. “I swear onyourlife that Mr. Harrison was in Fenswallow, delivering goods and stocking the shelves for the young lady working there.”
Helena’s shoulders dropped. “You're serious.”
Finally. “Yes. Absolutely serious.”
“But it makes no sense. Are you certain it was him? You only caught a glimpse of him the day he ran off.”
True, but she had seen dozens of portraits of him while living with Lord and Lady Bridgewater. And he had stiffened when the shopkeeper mentioned Lady Bridgewater’s name. Lucy might not have even noticed him if it weren’t for that. “It was him.”
“He looked the same?”
“No, he was broader, tanner, and rougher around the edges, but it was Mr. Harrison. I’m certain.”
“Broader, tanner, and rougher, eh?” Helena raised a brow. “You didn’t simply wish for this man to be your Mr. Harrison? Or conjure him from thin air?”
Lucy’s cheeks warmed. As handsome as her intended had looked in the churchyard three years ago, she must admit that seeing him up close didn’t do him any disservice. Neither had his work. Thetonmight prefer their men pale and thin, but Lucy didn’t mind the idea of a husband with more meat on his bones. “No, I didn’t conjure him.”
“But why in the world would Mr. Harrison, the future Baron of Bridgewater, be delivering items to shops, in the tiny town of Fenswallow, no less?”
The answer to that was obvious. Lucy dropped her eyes to her lap. “It seems he would rather put ribbons on shelves and be mauled by a shopkeeper than marry me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Helena grabbed Lucy’s hand and stilled it, then gently started removing the pins herself. Her voicewas low when she continued. “Lucy, he hasn’t even met you. If he had, he’d be thanking his lucky stars our parents wished for a titled son-in-law.”
“I hadn’t methimand I was willing to marry him.”
“I think he might have been willing to marry you, as well, until we pulled that stunt on him.”
Lucy didn’t know what part of their conversion made Helena feel the need to bring blasted logic into it. “That was three years ago. Even if I had looked like a child then, I should have grown up some over the course of the past three years. He should have come and checked on me at least.”
“If he came, he’d either have to marry you or break the engagement. He couldn’t have simply come to look in on you and see if you looked of marriageable age yet.”
“Why are you taking his side? You don’t even know him.”
“I know him a little—more than you, at least. And I liked him.”
“How can you like him from one measly conversation?”
“How can you dislike him without even having one?”
Lucy gritted her teeth and started yanking on pins again. Why had she bothered to tell Helena? Keeping the secret would have been preferable. “I don’t dislike him. I’m disappointed in him. That’s all.”
Helena leaned down and put her mouth near Lucy’s ear. “Because of the shopkeeper? Do you think she is the reason he isn’t coming home? Was she truly mauling him?”
Lucy slid her jaw to one side. “No. But she didn’t seem to mind brushing her hands along his shoulders or grabbing his elbow while he worked.”
“Was her name Sally Duncan? Sally Duncan was a tradeswoman.”
“No.” At least, she didn’t think her name had been Sally Duncan. She’d never thought to get the shopkeeper’s name. Butover the past three years, she’d done some due diligence on that name, andthattradeswoman was now married and had been far too successful to be selling goods in a milliner’s shop. “I don’t know her name, but she definitely wasn’t Sally Duncan.”
“But youwerejealous.”
“No, I was angry. He is my fiancé. If anyone should be brushing his shoulders, it should be me.”
Helena raised her eyebrows. “Sounds a bit like jealousy.”
She shouldn’t have told Helena. Lucy pulled out the last pin and reached for her brush, but Helena grabbed it before she could. Helena slid the brush through Lucy’s hair with the precise movements of a maid, even though the only hair she’d ever brushed was Lucy’s. With each stroke, tension eased out of Lucy’s shoulders until, finally, her hands dropped softly into her lap.
Helena divided Lucy’s hair into three sections and started braiding it. “So,” she started softly. “What are you going to do?”
