Page 12 of Her Beautiful Bastard
He shrugged. “I am not one ofus, as you have seen fit to remind me so many times in the past. As long as he does not address you in a way that you do not like, I do not see how what he calls me is any of your affair.”
She sighed, the little huff carrying every ounce of her vexation. Good. He’d hate to be the only one.
“Miss Darling is a more than adequate governess, if you care to know,” she went on, as if she’d never brought up the subject of his familiarity with Charles. “Henry seems to like her and has not yet chased her off with his pranks.”
His lips twitched at that. “This Miss Darling has mettle, then. Good. She will need it if she will survive Henry.”
She seemed ready to offer a response, when a coughing fit seized her. Covering her mouth with the bit of cotton and lace, she coughed for near a minute, her slender body trembling from the force of it. He furrowed his brow, studying her more closely than he had upon entering the room.
Dark smudges marred the skin beneath her eyes, and her cheeks had flushed red from her exertions. She had gotten thinner since he’d left Buckton and was practically swimming in her dressing gown.
“Have you sent for Doctor Tunstall?” he asked.
She waved him off dismissively. “It is only a cold.”
“The last ‘cold’ turned out to be pneumonia,” he reminded her. “The cold before that lasted for weeks, and you could barely talk for coughing so much.”
“I am fine, Sinclair.”
He came close again, reaching out to touch her forehead. He’d expected her to be feverish, but she was clammy instead, her brow damp.
She slapped his hand away. “Do not touch me.”
Holding his hands up defensively, he sighed. “I only wanted to determine whether you were feverish. Do you remember when you used to actually enjoy my touch?”
Her nostrils flared as she glared at him, her lovely mouth pulling into a sneer. “That was before I knew how the touch of a real man could feel.”
His teeth ground together as he fought to keep from lambasting her with every insult swimming about in his mind. She knew how to sink her daggers deep, in the places that would hurt him most. A talent she had only honed more and more the longer they were wed.
He should have gotten used to this by now—her constant rejection and contempt. He’d told himself several times that he did not care, that he hated her, wanted no part of her. But deep down, a shred of him still clung to the memory of the girl he’d fallen in love with, the one he’d built his entire life around only to have her destroy him.
“I’m sending for Tunstall,” he ground out, turning his back to her. “I will not let it be said that I let you languish until death while you lay ailing. Prepare yourself to be examined when he arrives.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he stormed into the hall, slamming the door behind him. It never failed—Drucilla always found some way to paint him as a villain. If he pretended not to notice she was ill, she would moan and complain that he never paid her heed. When he tried to care for her, even in such a small way, she shunned him.
Why do I bother?
It was a question he’d never been able to answer, a problem he could not seem to solve. Even hating her as he did, the responsibility of seeing to her welfare, of taking care of her, hung over his head. He’d promised her father, after all, and Lord Strattonhadcared about Sinclair, even if his daughter did not. He’d promised to love, cherish, and protect her on their wedding day … and while he no longer loved her and found it difficult to cherish a woman with as much warmth as an icicle, he could still protect her, if nothing else. He provided well—even she could not complain that he was lacking in that regard.
Taking the stairs up to the third floor, he put Drucilla out of his mind. He’d send for the doctor and stay out of her way whenever he could—which was exactly how they both preferred things whenever he was in residence. He would stay for as long as he was able, craving the time spent with his son. Inevitably, one of his other estates would demand his attention, and he would be forced to depart. However, he was home for now, and he intended to enjoy it—which meant not allowing his wife to get under his skin.
Reaching the third floor, he quickly found the schoolroom and reached for the door. At the sound of a woman’s voice on the other side, he paused. While he could trust Drucilla to see to Henry’s best interest if nothing else, he still wanted to see for himself that this governess was worth her salt. He slowly turned the knob and opened the door a crack, peering into the room. He found Henry seated at his little desk, head bent over his slate. Farther into the room, he spotted Miss Lydia Darling, standing before the slate board he’d had Charles send for from London, chalk in hand.
From this distance and from behind, she seemed like any other governess. Modest attire, the strings of an apron tied into a neat bow at the small of her back. His eyebrows rose at the evidence of a lush, curved form making itself apparent beneath her prim, sprigged muslin frock. Hair the color of spun gold was twisted into a plain chignon at her nape, a stray strand caressing the back of a slender neck. Thank God his son was only four years of age; otherwise, the sight Sinclair now took in would prove enough to distract Henry from his studies.
He read what she scrawled on the blackboard and nodded in approval. Here for only a fortnight, and she already seemed to be coaxing Henry into learning to read and spell.
Straightening, he decided to stop acting the voyeur and make his presence known. He entered the room, the sound of his footsteps alerting Henry to his presence. Sinclair felt as if his heart had been gripped in a vise as the boy glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Papa!” Henry cried, leaping up from his chair and rushing across the small space that separated them.
His eyes stung as the boy threw himself into his arms, and he closed his eyes for a moment while he embraced his son and took in his scent. When he opened his eyes again and looked down into the boy’s face, he experienced the same visceral devotion that had overwhelmed him when he’d held him as a babe. With golden hair a few shades darker than Drucilla’s, his eyes were the same shade of blue as hers, though warmer, more open. While Henry had inherited his mother’s looks, he’d gotten none of her undesirable traits—none of her petulance or scorn, none of her artifice. Sinclair had not thought anything could make him love Buckton more, but his son’s presence here proved him wrong time and time again.
“Well, hello there!” he said with a laugh as Henry clung to him, fighting against being set back on his feet. “Is it possible you’ve grown this much in my absence? You appear to have shot up an entire foot since I last saw you!”
The boy laughed and reluctantly allowed himself to be put down. “Mama had to send for the tailor to fit me for new clothes—the old ones did not fit any longer.”
Sinclair observed the smart new attire Henry wore and recognized his wife’s taste for the finer things. He never understood why she insisted on spending so much to outfit their son as if he were a grown man, when the boy would inevitably find his way into a puddle of mud.
