Page 27 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Lydia nodded, though she studied him as if wondering if there might not be more to it than that. Of course, there was more; but how could he explain? How could he speak of the way his marriage had decayed so badly he could hardly stand the sight of the woman he’d married? How could he tell herwhyhe’d come to feel this way?
“You know quite a bit about my family,” he said, hoping a change of subject would ease the tension thrumming between them, vibrating like a plucked cello string. “But I hardly know anything about yours. Tell me something, Miss Darling … something about your life in Norfolk.”
With a sigh, she leaned against the back of her chair, her gaze growing wistful. “There is not much to tell.My father was a gentleman farmer, and my elder brother is one after him. I grew up at Oakmoor, in Norfolk, as you know. My life was like that of any other country girl. I had my parents, my elder brothers, Michael and Archie. As time went on, my father died—from pneumonia, of all things. It is odd, living in Oakmoor without his presence. He always seemed so strong to me. A large man who could not be broken by anything.”
“I am very sorry to hear about your father,” he said, his heart breaking at the forlorn picture she presented, a young girl who obviously missed her papa. “I understand all too well how it feels to lose that strong presence. It is something one never quite recovers from, isn’t it?”
Her eyes took on a glassy sheen, as if she might cry. “No. I do not imagine I could ever fully recover. But, Michael fills his shoes nicely. He is like my father in so many ways; hardworking, loving, dedicated. He has turned Oakmoor into a warm place to live, despite its size and the demands of the estate. The manor is quite massive, but seems to overflow with people. There are Michael and Amelia, and their two children. Archie and his wife Hesper live there, as well, with all four of their brood. My mother is in residence, a doting grandmama.”
Sinclair smiled at the image her words conjured. It was the sort of thing he’d wanted at Buckton—the warmth of a growing family, the halls echoing with the laughter of children. His heart sank at the reminder that he would never have what he so craved.
“I imagine she is very proud,” he replied. “A grandmama with so many little ones to lavish with love.”
Lydia giggled. “She spoils the little beasts rotten, that is for certain.”
He stared at her for a moment, a burning question sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Why did you leave?
Seeming to pluck the unspoken question out of thin air, she answered as if he’d asked aloud.
“My sister-in-law, Amelia … she is the sister of a marquis. A powerful man with many connections. When she wed Michael, it was thought that she might be able to help me make an advantageous match in London. It was what I’d always wanted, you know. I was young and naive … I did not understand that the things Itrulywanted would not be mine just because I managed to capture the attention of a man with a title and lands. But I wanted it—the glamor of a London Season, the balls and parties, the attention. I wanted a dream that could never be real.”
He wanted to assure her that it could be real, that the right man had to be out there, somewhere, languishing in loneliness for wanting a woman just like her. But, how could he do that when his own dreams had come crumbling down around him within a few short years of marrying Drucilla—when he had striven so ardently to have everything he’d ever wanted, only to find that none of it was what he’d truly desired?
“After that one Season, life at Oakmoor did not feel the same,” she went on when he did not speak. “I felt like a stranger in my own home … an intruder among those two perfect couples and their beautiful children. Because I would never marry, never have the things they had, it felt like torment to keep subjecting myself to life there. So, I left. I struck out to find a family who would hire me as a governess. It was the only occupation I possessed the skills for, and it neatly removed me from the home I’d come to feel like a prisoner in. I suppose you must think me daft. I know that my friends and family do.”
He shook his head, leaning forward and resting his chin in one hand. “No. I understand entirely. I know exactly how it feels not to belong anywhere. You might be able to blend in where you are required to … you might even be able to convince others that you belong there. But only you know the truth. Only you can feel the restlessness of needing something that cannot be found.”
This time, the quiet that followed his words was comforting, a moment of connection with someone who could understand better than anyone else how he felt. Just as he’d known on the night they’d met, Sinclair could see how alike they were—how their standing amongst society as outcasts of sorts tied them together. As close as he was with Charles, even he could not understand how Sinclair was a part of high society, but only as far as his wealth could take him. And even then, the stain of his birth followed him, marking him for all the world to judge. Only Lydia understood. For the first time in years, he felt just a little less alone.
“The hour has grown quite late,” he remarked, as he noted the darkness outside his windows and the nearly spent fire in the hearth.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, setting her empty tumbler aside. “Heavens. I hadn’t realized … I should go.”
He rose at the same time she did, his entire body tensing, a dull ache blossoming in his chest at the thought of her going away from him, leaving him alone in the cavernous study once again. A room that usually offered him solace in solitude now felt cold, hollow.
“It is late, and the corridors are darkened,” he insisted. “Let me see you upstairs.”
Even in such meager lighting, he saw her discomfiture. She bit her lip, her eyelashes fluttering downward as she glanced at her feet.
“I would not want to inconvenience you …”
“It is no trouble,” he pressed, already rounding the desk toward her. “I must pass your floor of the house to get to my own. It is on my way.”
She ceased protesting when he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. That light touch seared him through the layers of his dressing gown and shirt, through his skin and muscle, imprinting itself as deep as the bone. He could not bring himself to put distance between them, when he felt as if he’d been starving for her for four long years … when he hadn’t experienced a woman’s touch in so long. She stiffened slightly, but did not refuse him, keeping her grasp on his arm light as he took up a taper and began leading her from the room.
Sure enough, the servants had turned in for the night, leaving the hallways dark and empty. No one ever expected a soul to prowl the house this late save him, and he always lit his own way with a taper or a lamp. The little circle of yellow light guided the path upstairs, which they took in silence. With the thick blanket of night wrapped around them, he could not help but be aware of her in every way—her scent, the soft curves of the body just inches from his own, even the way loose tendrils of golden hair fell past her chin, caressing her neck.
They reached her chambers far too quickly. She opened the door to the room Drucilla had chosen for her—a spacious chamber done up in cheery shades of yellow and powder blue. He’d known the room would suit her, and realized just how true that was as she stepped inside, his candle working with the moonlight streaming through her open curtains to illuminate her and creating quite a charming sight. Lydia amongst white lace and sunny yellow wallpaper. It was just like he’d imagined.
Turning to face him, she smiled, though this time it seemed strained. “Thank you for seeing me up, Mr. Clayton.”
Sinclair,he railed inwardly.Just one time, angel … say my name.
He bit the inside of his cheek, the sudden sting chasing the words off the edge of his tongue. It would be reckless to utter them, to destroy the fragile camaraderie they’d only just found.
“You are most welcome, Miss Darling. Rest well.”
