Page 25 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Nodding decisively, she took up an empty plate and began filling it, taking care to select a bit of every dish, uncertain which might be his favorites. Then, before she could allow herself to think over her actions too much, she quit the room, making a beeline for Sinclair’s study.
CHAPTER SIX
Sinclair glanced up from his correspondence to find a figure shrouded in shadow standing in the doorway. His hand tightened around the paper, the sound of its rustling mingling with the crackle of the fire in the hearth. His gut began to churn, even before he saw her face, for he knew it must beher. The form slowly coming into view as it peeled away from the darkness of the corridor was too feminine to be anyone else’s, though not so slight that he mistook it for his wife’s. Besides, Drucilla never disturbed him here. No, it could only be her.
Lydia.
He released a breath at the sight of her, the flames’ light catching on the golden strands of her hair and setting them aglow while flaunting the angles and planes of her face. He had no idea why she was here, but he wanted her to stay. He wanted her to sink into one of the chairs opposite his desk, curl those dainty little feet beneath her, and stay. Forever.
The heady rush of blood that thought sent through his body went straight to his head, making him feel quite out of sorts. Clearing his throat, he attempted to pull himself together, resisting every impulse demanding he go to her, pull her into his arms, kiss her, strip her bare, and take her down to the rug before the fire. He did not think any such desires had ever struck him with a force this swift, not even when he’d imagined himself in love with Drucilla. Her beauty had inspired devotion and admiration from a distance, like some untouchable, intangible thing. Lydia’s inspired a need to worship up close, to fall to his knees and pay her supplication with his lips, not stopping until he’d tasted every inch of her skin.
“Miss Darling,” he managed, his throat still a bit tight at the arousal wreaking havoc on his body. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She raised one hand, drawing his attention to the plate she held, laden with veal, fish, mashed turnips, stewed peas, and bread. “You missed dinner. Charles has gone for the evening, and I thought … well, I supposed you must be hungry.”
Dual emotions warred in him as he realized two things at once. She had thought of him and had gone out of her way to bring him dinner. She had also referred to his steward by his first name. For a moment, he could not decide whether to be elated that she’d think of him at all, or enraged that she and Charles had become so familiar while she kepthimat a distance.
He decided to focus upon his delight that she’d come to him with a full dinner plate—and that she had thought to include a slice of pound cake for dessert. It seemed preferable over wallowing in envy he had no right to feel.
“That was kind of you,” he said, rising and setting his letter aside.
He rounded the desk, meeting her as she came forward to offer him the plate. Their hands touched briefly as he accepted her offering, but he focused on taking the cloth napkin she extended with her other hand, a knife and fork wrapped inside them.
“Think nothing of it,” she said as he moved back to his desk, using his elbow to shove aside stacks of envelopes and his inkwell to make room for his dinner.
He hadn’t even realized how hungry he’d been, or how many hours had passed since he’d taken the afternoon meal. Most evenings, when he found himself working so late, he’d be left up to his own devices, slinking off to the kitchen in the late hours to scrounge bread and cheese before retiring. Sometimes, if Charles noticed him burying himself in work, he would prod him to go to the dining room to eat. This evening, he’d been too busy distracting himself from thoughts of Lydia that he’d neglected to notice the time.
“I try not to make this a habit—working so late into the night,” he muttered, for lack of anything else to say. He did not want her to go, and she did not seem inclined to, standing where he’d left her, holding a shawl around her body, gaze flitting about his study with curiosity.
Those eyes of hers landed back on him, trailing over his attire. He supposed he must look a tad indecent, having opted for mere half-dress today as his duties had not taken him out of doors. He wore a brocade dressing gown over a shirt and trousers, his stockinged feet slid into comfortable slippers. He’d worn a cravat throughout the day, but had shed it hours ago, opening the top button of his shirt.
He felt the weight of her gaze fall to his exposed throat, locking there and holding for far too long. For so long that he began to fantasize about grasping her hair in his fist, guiding her lips toward the exposed patch of skin until she kissed and nibbled at the point of his pounding pulse. A shudder ripped through him.
“Would you care for a nightcap?” he offered, gesturing toward the sideboard where Amberly kept the crystal decanters full of a variety of spirits. “That is … if you are not in a hurry to get off to bed.”
It had been the wrong thing to say … because now, all he could think about was her going up to her room and taking off her prim gown by candlelight, the muslin falling away to leave her in her stays, chemise, and petticoat. He imagined standing behind her, pulling at the stays to loosen the undergarment, gazing over her shoulder to watch as the full globes of her breasts were freed. His fingers itched as he imagined tossing the corset aside, then using his hands to rub the wrinkles it had caused out of her chemise, as well as her skin. Kissing her collarbone while pulling her chemise off one shoulder, pulling the pins from her hair and making it fall down her back.
Christ, he was losing his grip on sanity. Thankfully, she spoke and snapped him out of it.
“Whisky would be lovely, if you have any.”
His eyebrows shot toward his hairline, shock parting his lips. “Whisky?”
“Yes, of course. And, please, do not do me the insult of offering sherry instead—I detest the stuff. My brother introduced me to whisky years ago, and it is my favorite.”
God, this woman. He had never known anyone like her. No lady of his acquaintance would admit to enjoying a stiff whisky. Drucilla would turn her nose up at the stuff, declaring it unladylike. He wondered what other unladylike predilections Lydia might be hiding.
“You are in luck,” he told her, going to the sideboard and selecting her requested drink. “I happen to have a very fine whisky, fit for any connoisseur.”
He quickly poured three fingers into two clean tumblers, then stoppered the decanter before turning to offer her one. She accepted took a moment to swirl the liquid in her glass, sniffing it and issuing an appreciative hum. He paused with his own tumbler halfway to his lips, unable to help watching as she took her first sip. She shocked him yet again, tasting the whisky like someone used to its sting, barely even wincing when she swallowed. Raising her eyes to look at him, she nodded as if in confirmation of the liquor’s quality.
“It is quite good,” she said.
“I am glad you like it,” he replied, turning to go back to his desk and the dinner rapidly going cold. “Please, sit. I’d like the company.”
She obliged him, still holding her shawl over her chest with one hand and her glass in the other as she took one of the two plush armchairs facing his desk. He sipped his own whisky, enjoying the warmth of it going down before reaching for the utensils wrapped in his napkin.
He began eating, the hunger easing more and more with each bite. Across from him, she sat staring into the hearth, the tumbler held between both hands in her lap. So intent was he in studying her that he forgot to eat for what felt like all of two minutes.
