Page 28 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Reaching for the door, she began swinging it closed. “You, too.”
He maintained her gaze until he couldn’t any longer, the door clicking closed with an echo that struck him to the soul. Releasing a rushed breath, he reached up and braced a hand against the panel and closed his eyes. It was torment, standing on this side of the door, with something he’d wanted for so long just on the other side. But he could not have it, touch it, taste it. He could not use it to find relief from the strain of a life that wore upon him more with each passing day.
With another sigh, he forced himself to lower his hand, to turn away and seek out his own bed. All the way to his chamber, the worst imaginable thought crossed his mind. That Buckton should have been the place where Lydia could belong, where she might find the same sort of contentment he’d discovered for himself. Yet, on its heels came the reminder that while Buckton was his, he could not give it to her. He’d already built it up as a shrine to a woman who neither wanted nor appreciated it. A woman he’d offered his heart to, only to have her crush it in her fist.
In truth, nothing was his to give to Lydia … and that thought brought on a sorrow the likes of which he’d never known. It made each of his steps heavy as he climbed the stairs, his heart sinking into his gut and staying there. It made his empty chamber and cold bed hurt far more than it ever had.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Another sennight passed Lydia by, during which life at Buckton became far less strained. It was as if her evening conversation with Sinclair over whisky had changed everything. While there was still so much she had yet to learn about him—or the family she served—they seemed to have reached an understanding of sorts. Whatever had driven Sinclair to kiss her that night at the ball, it had not been as nefarious as she’d first supposed.
That much became clear the more that was revealed about him. He’d appeared forlorn in his study alone, so late into the night, and she’d begun to realize that such loneliness ruled his days, as well. He closeted himself away in his study with Charles, before the two would ride or walk out over the estate to attend to matters in preparation for the cherry harvest. He spent time with Henry whenever his work allowed it, and those seemed the only moments he appeared truly happy. Lydia would watch from afar as father and son rode together toward the woods or ran about between the house and stables, the hounds chasing them in circles, barking happily.
She no longer avoided him, and even engaged in small talk over the meals they shared in the dining room with Charles. And if she noticed him watching her intently, his gaze wandering to places that set her face on fire, then she pretended not to notice. No good could come from allowing herself to be flattered, to let her attraction to him make her forget her place. She threw herself into her work, finding contentment in Henry’s quick grasp of any subject she put to him.
However, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, she found him restless. As she approached his desk to inspect the haphazardly written words he’d scrawled on his slate, she sighed. The fair weather had held up, with today being one of the warmest and brightest in weeks. The poor lad would much rather be outside, and Lydia could not find it in her heart to reprimand him for woolgathering.Shewould much rather be outside herself.
“Well done, Henry,” she declared, bracing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
He turned to glance up at her, then down at his tablet and back out of the window once more. “Thank you, Miss Darling.”
Her lips curved in amusement at his clear suffering. She’d be a horrid governess indeed if she subjected him to any more of this when the sunny sky and rolling hills so obviously called to him.
“I think that is enough of writing for today,” she declared. “In fact, I do believe it is time we leave the schoolroom altogether.”
Henry frowned, watching as she began untying the strings of her apron. “But, it is not yet noon.”
“I know. But, it is too fine a day to remain cloistered indoors. Perhaps we might go for a walk and practice our French? We will seek out objects and name them inFrançais.Oui?”
The boy’s eyes grew wide, and he looked so enamored with her in that moment, her heart gave a little pang. She was becoming quite fond of Henry, and it only had a little to do with the fact that she was also hopelessly enamored with his father. Henry also reminded her so much of Michael, and that seemed to ease a bit of her homesickness.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Darling!” he blurted, jumping from his seat and rushing forward to wrap his arms around her legs. “I would like that ever so much.”
With a smile, she ruffled his golden hair, its shade a richer, darker hue than his mother’s near-silver. “Very good. Off to Mrs. Beecham … inform her you are to be dressed for the outdoors. I shall come collect you from the nursery once I am ready.”
With a nod, he released her and dashed off to the door. She watched him go, then neatly hung her apron on a nail beside her slate board. After setting her desk to rights, she then went to Henry’s desk and took a moment to clean his slate. He would be so happy with her over this, she could look forward to at least a day or two without one of his pranks. That made her chuckle as she left the schoolroom, quickly ducking into her chamber for a hat. She left off a shawl or any other covering as the day was far too warm, and she wished to feel the sun on her skin. The brim of her hat would suffice to keep her cool as the summer afternoon grew hotter.
She found Henry waiting anxiously for her, in a pair of old trousers with leather braces over his shirt, his eyes glittering with excitement. Taking his hand, she urged him to slow down once they’d reached the stairs, his excitement enough to send them both tumbling if he wasn’t careful.
Once outside, she released his hand and let him run, watching as he hopped down each of the front steps, landing in the grass with an excited ‘whoop’. She followed, skirts held in her hands as she trotted to catch up.
“Come now, Henry,” she called out, urging him back to her before he could dash off across the lawn. “Tell me … what is this?En Français, s’il vous plait.”
She pointed down at the grass, and he promptly responded.
“Herbe.”
“Très bien,” she replied. “And its color?”
“Verte.”
“Well done,” she said, leading him down the path.
They continued on that way for several minutes, pausing on the path as she pointed out a flower, the sky, the clouds, the trees. She helped him with words he did not remember, correcting his accent when necessary.
As they neared the line of trees leading into the wooded area surrounding the house grounds, the sound of barking drew their gaze toward the east, where they found both hound and master coming toward them over the grass.
Lydia’s pulse fluttered at the sight of Sinclair in riding attire, snug breeches clinging to his sinewy thighs, dusty brown boots flaunting well-formed calves. He’d forgone a coat due to the heat, his shirtsleeves cuffed at the elbow to display his forearms. She found herself unable to look away from the exposed skin, the dark hairs lightly sprinkled over it, prominent veins showing along lean cords of muscle.
