Page 26 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Sinclair grimaced at the realization that he would only go on staring at her, slack-jawed, instead of eating, if he did not do something to fill the silence. Clearing his throat, he lowered his gaze to his plate.
“How do you occupy yourself once you’ve quit the schoolroom for the day?” he asked, keeping his tone light.
Their past few conversations had been heavy and loaded with the unspoken. This time, he would endeavor to avoid such.
“Most evenings, I indulge in reading, writing letters, or needlepoint,” she replied.
The low tone of her voice mingled with the crackling fire to create a sort of intimacy. Despite the door hanging wide open across the room, he felt as if they were cut off from everything else—from Drucilla and the rest of the house, from the world.
“If the weather allows it, I like to walk for exercise,” she continued. “Tonight, the weather was so fair, I indulged in a little exploration of the grounds. I was fortunate enough to encounter Charles, who gave me a bit of a tour and told me more about the cherry groves.”
His insides twisted as his friend’s first name fell from Lydia’s lips for the second time. He did not like the way it made him feel to know how familiar they’d become. It made his food taste like ash.
“I see,” he remarked, glancing up at her between bites. “And what do you think of my precious Buckton?”
She met his gaze, giving him a little smile. That slight motion of her lips struck him like a fist, temporarily winding him.
“I will admit to being quite impressed,” she replied. “He told me Buckton’s history—your hard work in turning it around, specifically. It was quite the intriguing story.”
He inclined his head and studied her more closely, wondering just what Charles had told her. Sinclair knew he could trust his friend not to divulge too much, which meant she must only be privy to the means by which he’d acquired the estate through Drucilla’s father. Those memories proved bittersweet when he allowed himself to dwell on them. He’d loved Lord Stratton as much as he had his own father, the two lords having shaped him into the man he had grown into—one who boasted more successes than failures, a great deal of wealth and land. The disadvantage of his birth had meant nothing with the two of them guiding him, molding him, elevating him above his bastardy.
“The old earl was good to me,” he stated. “I was fortunate to learn from him, to be given the opportunity to apply what he’d taught me to Buckton and help it flourish.”
She shook her head, slouching in the chair a bit so that she sat more comfortably. “I think you do yourself a disservice by crediting the men who raised you up. They were certainly instrumental, but no other man could have achieved what you have. You’re a singular oddity, Mr. Clayton … an anomaly of the best sort. It is inspiring.”
Now, instead of being deprived of air, he overflowed with it, his chest swelling until he felt it would explode. A grin stretched across his face before he could stifle it. He must look like quite the idiot, smiling as if she’d just pulled the sun out of the sky and presented it to him. It was a heady feeling, earning this sort of respect from her when he’d done nothing to deserve it.
“Thank you,” he said, attempting to rein in his joyous expression. “I’ve been more fortunate than most men in my position. I take none of it for granted.”
“No,” she murmured, lowering her gaze to her tumbler, breaking his gaze. “I would imagine you do not.”
Silence fell over them once again, as tense and loaded as ever. There were a hundred things he wished to say to her, none of which felt appropriate. So, he bit the words back and returned to his dinner.
This time, it was Lydia who broke the silence.
“How fares Lady Clayton?”
He swallowed a bit of mutton, his teeth grinding at the mention of his wife. It was bad enough that her phantom presence invaded this space between them, a constant reminder of why he could never have what he truly wanted with Lydia.
“Well enough,” he remarked, setting his fork down and reaching for his tumbler. Drucilla drove him to drink even when she was not in the same room with him. “I suspect she will be back to her usual self soon enough. This is not the first time such illness has befallen her, and it will not be the last.”
At her puzzled expression, he took another sip of whisky and continued.
“For as long as I have known her, Drucilla has been prone to these spells. A weakness of the lungs, the physicians say. Some strange disease that makes her disposed to croup, pneumonia, and other such things. A common cold is enough to lay her up for weeks at a time.”
Lydia’s eyes went wide with concern. “How awful for her.”
In the past, he’d been inclined to agree with such a sentiment. It had been part of what had drawn him to Drucilla—a seemingly fragile woman, displaying such beauty and strength even when illness laid her low. He’d doted on her, cared for her, remaining as close to her side as propriety had allowed in those days before their marriage when she’d become ill. She’d seemed to revel in his attentiveness, relying upon him when she grew weak. Over time, however, as her scorn for him had grown, she’d begun shunning his attention. Now, she would hardly countenance his presence in her sickroom.
“Yes,” he said. “It is difficult for Henry, as well. He worries for his mother.”
“And do you worry for your wife?”.
As quickly as the words came out, she gasped, shaking her head as if wishing she hadn’t spoken at all.
“Forgive me. I should not have—”
“It’s all right,” he interjected with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The truth is … no. I do not worry about Drucilla when she is ill. Honestly, her disease has been a part of our lives for so long. I have seen this before, lived through it often. Drucilla is far too … strong-willed to allow herself to be laid low by croup.”
