Lucy eyed him coyly. “What word?”
“That word.”
“That word,” she said ponderingly. “Oh! Do you mean ‘naked’?”
“Yes, that word. You must never say that word in mixed company. It is vulgar to do so, and vulgarity is, of course, unforgivable.”
She smiled. “I see. So once again, let me assess my understanding of the rules, if I may.”
“You may,” he said defeatedly, “but only if it pleases you.”
“It pleases me.” She lowered her chin and gazed intently at him. “A man may be forgiven for extramarital congress, complete with actual practice of the word I cannot say, but I cannot be forgiven for saying the same unmentionable word in mixed company? Is that right?”
He paused, suddenly recalling the dread of French cannon fire descending on his position. “Ah. Yes.”
She nodded sagely. “Can a man, then, be forgiven for saying that same forbidden word in mixed company?”
“Yes. He can.”
She smirked. “Who made these rules, then? I should like to know.”
“I do not know.”
“Well, then. I am certain it was a man, and likely a very ugly man.”
He chuckled, surprising both Lucy and himself. “Probably so. And yes, many of these rules are, as you so eloquently say, stupid. Thank you for clarifying just how stupid.”
She began rising from her chair. “You are welcome, Mr. Beaumont. Now, if you do not mind, I have drunk too much tea and must attend the loo.”
She dropped a still ungainly curtsy and departed the room. Henry laid his head in his hands and mumbled mournfully.
“So little time.”
…
Lucy’s spirits were buoyant in the afterglow of besting Henry again in a battle of wits. How she had enjoyed watching him squirm as she maneuvered him with uncomfortable questions. How she had delighted in contorting his handsome features into consternation, shock, and finally laughter. His capitulation at the end of the conversation proved both surprising and satisfying. After taking leave of Henry, she spent time alone in her chambers reading, assuming he would go his way until the next day. For that reason, the sound of his voice as she later descended the stairs was unexpected. She padded slowly through the entrance hall, following the sound of hushed conversation between Henry and the duchess. Upon hearing her name, she paused short of the parlor to listen.
“I worry over Lucy’s preparation,” the duchess said. “Do you believe she will be ready for suitors of high station?”
Henry’s low chuckle emanated from the room. “I think not.”
“Explain.”
“You wish her to be prepared for suitors of high station. You are well acquainted with such men of London Society—those with titles. They demand delicate perfection from their wives.”
Lucy’s face fell as the condemning words washed past her. In the pause, she admitted agreement with him. Delicate she was not. He spoke again, his voice lower still.
“Your granddaughter’s manner and behavior would be an affront to men of that station. You know as well as I do that no such men would desire your granddaughter in her current state.”
Tears sprang unbidden from Lucy’s eyes. She turned to leave, but halted. As she considered storming the parlor, the duchess spoke.
“Given your assessment, I worry over a lack of interested suitors.” Deep sadness colored her voice. “Such a scenario might destroy what little social confidence she has acquired. I am afraid it might break her.”
Henry chuckled softly. “Do not worry. I predict an abundance of suitors.”
Lucy cocked her head. An abundance of suitors? The duchess asked the obvious question on her behalf.
“How so, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Every entitled scoundrel, rake, and social climber will turn out in the attempt to win the hand of one with such a significant dowry and such excellent breeding. Gentlemen of high character will refrain from the competition to avoid the stench of impropriety.”
“Surely, you do not believe that!” The tone was defensive. “I believe a worthier class of man will step forward. In fact, I am certain of it.”
Henry hummed. “Perhaps you are correct. However, the class of suitor will not alter her fate.”
“And that is?”
A sigh emanated from Henry. “The man who weds your granddaughter will likely stash her away in a country estate so he may dally with women he considers worthier of his new social status. She will be left utterly alone and discarded.”
Lucy bit her knuckle to keep from crying out. Did Henry truly describe her fate? The duchess appeared to answer the question with resignation.
“My granddaughter will be shut away from Society and forgotten with no recourse but to obey her husband. Is that what you are saying?”
“I believe so. However, I do not wish that for her.”
Lucy blinked rapidly. The softness in Henry’s reply drew her nearer the door. She stopped short again when the duchess spoke.
“What do you wish for her, then, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I…” A moment of silence passed. “I wish that she not be hidden away as if something shameful. Your granddaughter is a wild colt. She must be allowed to run free and not be confined to a cage. I fear further confinement will drain her of life, drop by drop.”
The duchess’s voice grew husky. “I wish the same. How, then, do we prevent her seclusion?”
“I remain uncertain. I know only that we must make every effort to prepare her for the gristmill to come. Only nine days remain for us to effect the necessary changes. Only nine days to manifest a miracle.”
“Then we have no choice. Steady on, and no looking back.”
Lucy raced stealthily away, unable to listen further. Henry’s defense of her raised an astonishing turmoil of emotion. Since the day she had met him, he had been her pursuer, her tormentor, her iron-fisted tutor—an adversary in every sense. But something had changed. She wanted his regard. Despite all her reasoning otherwise, she wanted him to care what became of her. She returned to her room, closed the door behind her, and leaned in to it. Why was she caught in such a whirlwind of angst? With reluctance, she admitted the truth. She had come to care for him, and hoped his defense was a sign of reciprocation. Regardless, he sounded fearful. She clenched her fists while gathering scattered emotions. Resolve welled within her—as it always had when defeat dogged her. So, she was just a prize to be won? A trophy to be shut away in a dark cabinet?
No.