Page 29 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“Well, good morning,” he called out as he grew near, the hound yipping excitedly as Henry rushed forward to greet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Clayton.”
“Barkley!” the boy exclaimed, reaching out to pet the dog.
Tearing her gaze away from Sinclair, she focused upon her pupil. “Ah-ah.Français!”
Frowning, he gazed up at her, the sun forcing him to squint. “How do you say ‘Barkley’ in French?”
She smirked. “The French word for ‘dog’ will do, Henry.”
The boy wrinkled his brow, seeming to try to remember the word she had taught him. Before Lydia could remind him, Sinclair spoke up.
“The word ischien, son,” he offered. “Le chien est marron.”
Henry swiveled his gaze from his father back to Lydia. “What did he say?”
“The dog is brown,” she translated before turning back to Sinclair, eyebrows raised. “Well done, Mr. Clayton. You speak with a good accent.”
“Je vous remercie,” he replied with a little bow and a smile. “You are too kind. I am a bit rusty, but I do remember most common phrases. What brings the two of you outdoors?”
“The fine weather,” she replied. “We were both growing a bit restless cooped up indoors, so I decided we could just as easily practice our French while taking a walk.”
“Papa, are you going hunting?” Henry asked, drawing Lydia’s attention to the rifle Sinclair held braced over one shoulder, as well as the pouch of what she assumed must be ammunition slung across his body on a string.
“Just a bit of target practice,” he replied. “I sent Charles into Ware on an errand for me, and have nothing to do to occupy myself until he returns.”
Henry bounced on the balls of his feet. “May I come, Papa? Please?”
Lydia felt an undeniable yank upon her heartstrings at the stern look Sinclair attempted, but at which he failed horribly.
“Now, Henry … what sort of papa would I be if I pulled you away from your studies?”
She could see that he wanted to indulge his son, and she could hardly resist the pleading look her pupil cast at her. “An hour away from his lessons will hardly disrupt our day.”
Lydia did not add that she thought it would do Henry some good to spend the time with his father, who would soon be inundated with overseeing the summer harvest. That felt more important to her than ensuring the boy practiced his French.
“Very well,” Sinclair relented. “But only if you study twice as hard tomorrow to make up for it.”
“Oh, I will,” Henry replied gravely.
“Miss Darling, would you care to join us?” Sinclair offered, glancing at her as he took hold of Henry’s hand.
She shouldn’t. Going back inside to prepare for the rest of Henry’s afternoon lessons seemed more appropriate than trailing after them. But, she was not yet ready to cloister herself away indoors, or bury herself in her work as she’d done this past week. In truth, she was not ready to be out of Sinclair’s presence.
“I would like that, thank you,” she replied.
The smile he gave her in response flooded her insides with warmth and made her belly quiver. This was dangerous; yet, she could not stop herself from falling in on Henry’s opposite side, walking along with father and son in the direction of the stables. Allowing herself to spend time with Sinclair in any capacity unrelated to her job put her in a position she’d been trying to avoid since she’d discovered his identity. Nevertheless, here she was, desperate for even a few moments near him, close enough to hear his voice, to soak him in. She was truly pitiful.
They passed the stable, Barkley on their heels as they crossed a clearing toward two trees. Between them, a line had been tied, holding several silver implements that Lydia recognized as spoons when they drew closer.
“Your targets?” she quipped as they came to a stop at an ideal distance for rifle practice.
He raised an eyebrow at her and smirked. “The best targets to be found. They do not obliterate when struck, and cannot be killed.”
Back home at Oakmoor, her brother had erected a wooden practice device for his wife, who indulged in target practice often. Brown paper drawn with targets were nailed to the wooden boards, which absorbed the impact of Amelia’s gunfire. The spoons, Lydia could see, would offer more of a challenge.
“Sit, Barkley,” Sinclair commanded without giving the hound a glance.
