Page 30 of Her Beautiful Bastard
The dog responded to the authority in his voice and promptly sank onto his haunches, tongue lolling out of his open mouth. Lydia stood back and watched as Sinclair loaded the rifle, his hands swift and deft as if he did this often. She watched with interest as he urged Henry to stand back before lifting the rifle, pulling back the hammer, and taking aim. He had good form, his body angled just so, grip firm but relaxed, the butt of the weapon pressed against one shoulder. A light squeeze of the trigger produced the familiar sound of gunfire, and the bullet was sent careening through the air toward the string of spoons hanging between the trees. Her lips parted into a stunned smile as his shot hit true, striking one of the spoons with a ‘ping’, sending it spinning on its string.
Henry released a little sound of surprise, then began jumping up and down. “Again, again!”
She fought down the urge to mimic him, wanting to see the impressive display once more. Sinclair obliged them, taking a moment to reload before treating them to a repeat performance. He fired off five rounds back to back, striking true three times, but missing two. Henry cheered, his eyes bright and wide as he looked on. When he begged to take a turn, Sinclair obliged his son—something Lydia began to see he did often. There did not seem to be a thing Henry could ask for that his father would not give.
What must it be like to be lavished with such devotion from him? Had he once been this indulgent with Lady Clayton? If so, how could the woman not wish to spend her every waking moment basking in his attention? Had she any idea what she had in Sinclair?
Biting her lip, she tried to reel in her wandering thoughts, which had begun taking her into forbidden territory. Coveting her mistress’ husband was surely a sin and would likely only result in more misery. She must not allow herself to entertain such thoughts.
Oh, but it became harder by the minute, as she watched Sinclair go down on one knee, positioning the boy in front of him. Father patiently showed son how to hold the rifle, ensuring the butt was braced against his own shoulder so that its recoil was absorbed by him. In a low, firm voice, he murmured instructions to Henry—how to pull back the hammer, how to curl his finger around the trigger. He was patient with the boy, gentle yet firm. Watching them together reminded her of her own father, who had exhibited those same qualities.
The two spent some time practicing, Sinclair pausing between shots to instruct Henry before reloading and letting him try again. The boy missed more spoons than he struck, but Lydia found herself impressed with the ease with which he handled such a large weapon. She supposed Sinclair’s confidence emboldened him.
After a moment, Henry turned to gaze at her. “Now you, Miss Darling!”
Sinclair rose from his place on the ground and grinned. “I am not certain if Miss Darling would want—”
“Actually, I’d love to,” she interjected, stepping forward and holding out one hand for the rifle. “I haven’t practiced in ages, but I used to be a crack shot.”
Sinclair started, obviously taken aback. His gaze traveled over her, taking in her hat, her demure clothing … her femaleness. He seemed dubious, which should have insulted her. Instead, it amused her, made her itch to wipe that doubtful expression off his face.
“Is that so?” he said, his tone light and teasing as he loaded the rifle before handing it over. “I am intrigued.”
Turning to face the targets, she raised the rifle to her shoulder, surprised at how easily her hands returned to embracing the weapon. It was as if she’d never stopped practicing. A little smirk pulled at her lips as she adjusted her stance, closing one eye in order to aim at the spoon of her choosing. She felt Sinclair’s gaze on her, Henry’s awe at the sight of her handling the weapon as well as his father.
She took a slow breath, then exhaled, pulling the trigger with an ease born of experience. Across the yard, her bullet struck the spoon with a resoundingclink, sending the utensil spinning on its twine.
“I say,” Sinclair blurted, the shock in his voice quite satisfying. “Bloody good shot, Miss Darling!”
With a little smile, she lowered the rifle and turned to face him. “Shocked?”
He chuckled, reaching into his pouch to retrieve another bullet to offer her. “Yes, but I realize now that I should not be. Whywouldn’tyou be able to shoot a spoon at twenty yards with a rifle?”
She could not resist answering his grin with one of her own, the familiar quiver in her middle striking again. She could have stood there for hours just basking in that smile of his.
Clearing her throat, she tore her eyes away from him and focused upon the task at hand. Just then, she was thankful for the distraction of the rifle as she reloaded the weapon and prepared to take aim once more. It offered a diversion from the man who was rapidly stealing all her focus. Bad enough she could hardly stop thinking of him when they were not together; now, she could not even stand in his presence without the urge to drink him in with her eyes, gorge herself on the sight of him.
They spent another hour taking turns with the rifle, Henry drumming up a bit of competition between her and Sinclair by keeping a tally of who struck the most spoons. By the time they left to return to the house, Sinclair’s ammunition pouch had gone empty, and Lydia had bested him with twelve spoons to his eleven.
“You are quite good,” Sinclair remarked as they took their time walking toward the manor.
Ahead of them, Henry ran with Barkley, circling back every few minutes, then venturing further ahead.
“Better than good, actually,” he added. “I gather one of your brothers taught you how to shoot.”
She scoffed. “Archie is an abominable shot, and Michael would never have thought to teach a girl. No, it was my sister-in-law, Amelia, who taught me. When she wed Michael and came to Oakmoor, we became fast friends. One of the first things she ever taught me was how to shoot. I’m quite fair with a pistol, as well.”
Sinclair shook his head with another little smirk. “I can only imagine. You, Miss Darling, are full of surprises.”
She’d just opened her mouth to reply when Henry’s surprised shout from farther up the path drew her attention to the house. The boy dashed toward the front steps, at the top of which his mother stood. Lydia stumbled over her own two feet, quickly righting herself at the sight of Lady Clayton, out of bed and impeccably dressed. White muslin draped her willowy frame in soft frills, and her elegant chignon accentuated a slender neck and the angle of a perfectly formed jaw. She was a vision framed by the house’s front pillars as she opened her arms to the boy rushing up the stairs toward her.
Lydia’s stomach twisted, her heart picking up a rapid cadence. The unmistakable sensation of guilt suffused her as she glanced at Sinclair from the corner of her eye.
But, why? She had nothing to feel guilty for. The time spent with Sinclair and Henry had been perfectly innocent, a pleasant diversion for the boy. So, why did returning from behind the stable with Lady Clayton’s husband and son make her feel as if she’d been caught doing something she oughtn’t?
Sinclair’s jaw tightened, his eyes seeming to darken as if storm clouds passed over them at the sight of his wife. By the time they reached the front steps, Henry had begun to chatter excitedly to his mother, filling her in on everything she had missed while abed.
“Good afternoon, Miss Darling,” Lady Clayton said in her soft, lyrical voice as they drew near. “I went to the schoolroom expecting to find the two of you there … yet, here you are.”
