Page 22 of Her Beautiful Bastard
With Henry in the care of his nanny for the rest of the evening, she would attempt to finally free her mind of destructive thoughts. Taking the path toward the wooded area ringing the house grounds, she hoped to lose herself in the tangle of trees and underbrush for a few hours. It might even make her feel as if she were getting a taste of home.
Halfway down the path, she encountered a man coming from the opposite direction, a wide-brimmed hat shading his face from the sun. Squinting in the absence of her own headwear, she made out the slender form of Mr. Welby. He smiled as he drew near.
“Miss Darling,” he said, his tone as warm as ever. “I suppose lessons have concluded for the day?”
“Yes,” she replied, finding it easy to return the man’s smile. “I was just taking a walk before dinner.”
“The weather is certainly perfect for it. I’ve just come from enjoying a walk of my own. I will not keep you—”
“Actually,” she said, before he could take his leave of her. “If it isn’t too much of an imposition, I was wondering if you might tell me more about Buckton. I confess to being wildly curious about the place.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled again, something he seemed to do often. “Of course it is not an imposition. My duties are completed for the day, and I have nothing left to do but return home, where I live alone. Walking and talking with a lovely young woman … well, that appeals to me far more.”
Coming from anyone else, his flattery might have sounded hollow. Yet, Mr. Welby oozed sincerity and openness in a way that made him easy to talk to. They’d worked up a rapport during her short time at Buckton, and it was nice to feel as if she had a friend here.
He gestured back in the direction he’d come, so she fell into step with him along the path through the trees. For a short while, they simply walked, the silence comfortable instead of strained. Buckton’s steward struck Lydia as being the sort of man who brought comfort with him wherever he went. Never had she felt uneasy while alone with him.
“So,” he said once they’d been swallowed by the thick woods ringing the main grounds of the estate. “What would you like to know about Buckton? As I am certain you gathered when you arrived, we grow cherries here.”
Thinking of the endless rows upon rows of cherry trees she saw daily through her bedroom window, she laughed. “Yes, I rather thought that might the point of all those trees. How does the estate manage? Are there no tenants?”
He shook his head. “No tenants or farms here, though Sinclair does own a few smaller estates with tenant farms attached to them. However, Buckton is his largest holding, as well as his most profitable.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I had not realized that cherries were so popular … or that they could afford a man such a lifestyle.”
Mr. Welby shrugged. “Sinclair also has a head for investments—has a keen instinct for business, as well. Buckton would never have flourished as it did if not for him.”
At Lydia’s confused expression, the steward smiled.
“Perhaps I ought to start over. You see, it is impossible to speak of Buckton as it is now without tying it directly to Sinclair. He’s the son of Viscount Clayton, if you did not know.”
Remembering the night she’d met Sinclair, and recalling the frank way he had informed her that he was baseborn, she supposed he would not mind Mr. Welby so casually speaking of his parentage.
“Yes, I was aware,” she replied.
“His mother was an actress who died when Sinclair was ten years of age. The viscount had provided well for them before her death, and it was said that he was quite besotted with her. Perhaps that was what compelled him to take Sinclair in and claim him, much to the viscountess’ dismay. The woman was not thrilled to be forced to endure his presence alongside her own children—three boys and a girl. But the viscount adored him, probably more than his own heir, because of the affection he’d had for Sin’s mother.”
Her gaze wandered to the trees surrounding them as she tried to imagine Sinclair as a child. It was difficult to imagine him without the mournful, dark eyes or brooding facial expression, lips pushed into a slight pout.
“It could not have been easy for him,” she remarked. “Being thrust into an entirely new world, amongst people he did not know. He must have missed his mother terribly.”
“I am certain he did. However, being in the Clayton home offered him certain advantages. He was found to be a clever lad and sent to school, where he swiftly caught up to his peers. When he visited home on holiday, the viscount would take him into his study and teach him everything there was to know about money, investments, business. He had an inheritance set aside for Sinclair and wanted him to possess all the tools he would need to grow the seed, to stand head and shoulders with any other gentleman of society. He was being groomed into someone who could command influence, so that his birth would not have to matter in the right circles.”
“How wonderful for him.”
Despite being angry with Sinclair, and as confused as ever concerning his intentions toward her, she knew that life as a bastard could have been far worse for him. At least, he could take comfort in a father who had claimed him and given him the best of everything life had to offer.
“It was,” Welby replied. “At school, he formed connections, which was how he became acquainted with Lord Milton Stratton—elder brother of the woman who would go on to become his wife, Lady Drucilla.”
Her ears began to tingle, her spine straightening as they paused on the path, coming to an opening in the trees. She could hardly pay attention to the gently sloping hills stretching on for miles ahead of them, or the outcropping of buildings in the distance. Not when her palms had broken out into a sweat at the mention of Lady Clayton. Now, he was coming closer to the information Lydia craved for reasons she would rather not examine too closely.
“Sinclair and Milton became fast friends,” Mr. Welby went on, hands braced on his hips as he stood taking in the countryside, eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun. “And because the atmosphere at home could often be strained, Sinclair opted to spend some of his holidays off from school here at Buckton with the Stratton family. Here, he found Milton’s parents, who were warm and accepting of Sinclair, even knowing he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. He found a sort of home away from home, and a closeness with Milton he did not have with his own brothers. And, of course, he found Lady Drucilla.”
She glanced at Welby from the corner of her eye, finding his mouth tightening at the corners at the mention of his employer’s wife. It was a phenomenon she’d noticed amongst the other servants, as well. They were always respectful, of course, but there was a fondness they seemed to express for Sinclair that was markedly absent when it came to his wife.
“He was enamored with her from the start,” Welby stated. “Even knowing he stood no chance with her. His education and inheritance notwithstanding, she was the daughter of an earl, and he the bastard offspring of an actress. That did not stop him from charming her at every turn, something that seems to come natural to a man like him.”
Her face grew warm at the memory of him climbing the garden wall to return her slipper, slyly angling for a kiss, then tipping her world off its axis with the simple touch of his mouth against her own. How well she understood Mr. Welby’s words.
