Page 32 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“I beg your pardon?” she managed.
Lady Clayton simpered, raising one perfect, blonde eyebrow. “Oh, come now, Miss Darling. We are both worldly women, are we not? Surely, we may speak frankly with one another. While I have languished in my sickbed, my husband has lingered at Buckton for far longer than usual. I think we both understand why.”
Her mouth fell open, then snapped closed, gaping once again as she struggled for words, certain she must appear like a fish out of water. “I … that is … Mr. Welby mentioned that the summer harvest would be soon. And I … well, I am certain that Mr. Clayton has also missed Henry. The two have spent much of their time together.”
Lady Clayton made a little noise—a disdainful huff that set Lydia’s teeth on edge.
“That might be so, but Sinclair’s presence is hardly needed for the harvest when Mr. Welby practically runs Buckton. I suppose the arrival of a pretty new governess has piqued his renewed interest in the place.”
Lydia’s face flushed hot, her jaw clenching as she thought of Sinclair’s loneliness, his seclusion in the study each night, the story Charles had told her of all he’d done to secure Buckton and made it flourish. The woman’s words did not fit the picture the two men had painted for her, and the words to defend Sinclair lingered on the tip of her tongue. However, instead of using them, she decided to defend herself. After all, she could be out of a job if this woman believed Lydia had designs on her husband.
“My lady, I can assure you that I am here for one purpose, and that is to teach Henry,” she said carefully. “I find both you and Mr. Clayton to be kind employers, and I enjoy living at Buckton. In my years as a governess, I have never acted in an unseemly fashion, and do not intend to now.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Lady Clayton said between sips of tea, her gaze too knowing by half. “You seem a good sort, Miss Darling … intelligent and far too sensible for your head to be turned by someone like my husband. I simply thought to warn you.”
Lydia frowned, once again taken aback. “Warn me? Whatever for?”
“Do you think you are the first to catch his eye?” Lady Clayton countered. “My husband is a man of … healthy appetites. He has made it clear to me on more than one occasion that he prefers the beds of others over mine.”
Lydia gasped, one hand coming up over her open mouth, but Lady Clayton went on.
“I can see I’ve shocked you, and I apologize for that. However, you are of an advanced age and are no simpering miss. Matters of marriage should hardly be shocking to you. A man must satisfy himself some way, mustn’t he? And my husband is never here long enough to do so with me. It is no secret that he … well, he seems fond of a certain type. Blondes are his favorite.”
For a moment, Lydia could only sit there, her face burning as if she’d been slapped. Her mind reeled as she remembered first meeting Sinclair, then encountering him again at Buckton. Their every interaction flitted through her mind, and she tried to remember his words, his actions, tried to decipher the intent behind them.
Her eyes began to sting as she wondered how many other young debutantes he had kissed, how many fair-haired women had stood in as a convenient replacement for Sinclair’s wife. She could not deny the ring of truth in Lady Clayton’s words. She’d been told by household staff that he never remained at Buckton for long. She’d heard chambermaids whispering about how the master and mistress of the house never shared one another’s beds. She had seen the evidence of their estrangement with her own eyes.
Sinclair had spoken of their kiss as some sort of singular event, a moment of weakness for a lonely man. But, what if that wasn’t the case at all? Her head began to spin as she tried to untangle her thoughts, to make sense of the things she knew and fill in the gaps of what she did not know.
Lady Clayton moved until she sat perched on the edge of the sofa, reaching over the table to rest one of her hands atop Lydia’s, which were folded in her lap. The other woman’s pale blue eyes glittered with something that made Lydia’s blood run cold, a complete contradiction to the warmth and pity in her voice.
“Do not feel badly, my dear,” the lady crooned. “It is hardly your fault, and I regret that you’ve been put in such a position. But do not worry. Sinclair grows bored quite easily … this I know from experience. He will soon turn his interest elsewhere, and I am sure you will be relieved.”
This woman was quite the skilled actress, displaying sympathy and camaraderie on the surface while the underlying threat in her voice was made quite clear. Lydia had been put in her place and reminded that her position here could be temporary, that she could be cut loose for encouraging Mr. Clayton’s wandering eye. She did not need to be told these things to be able to clearly puzzle them out.
“I think we understand each other,” Lady Clayton added when Lydia remained silent.
Nodding, Lydia attempted to force herself to move, to speak, to extricate herself from this situation so she could retreat to her bedchamber in peace. So she could escape this woman and her husband and the complications of their lives, at least for the rest of the day.
“Yes, my lady,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from the emotion she fought to keep at bay.
“Good,” Lady Clayton replied, removing her hand from Lydia’s and settling herself comfortably upon her sofa once more.
Clearing her throat, Lydia kept her eyes lowered, working to take deep, even breaths. “May I go now, my lady?”
She hated being put in this position, resented being forced to make a graceful exit after having been verbally threatened and put on edge. Yet, her position required it, demanded it, even.
“Of course,” Lady Clayton answered with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You may have the rest of the day to yourself. After Henry awakens from his nap, I intend to take him out in the carriage to visit a neighbor of ours.”
She rose swiftly, dipping into as good a curtsy as she could manage. “Thank you, my lady.”
Swiveling toward the door, she forced herself to walk slowly and not run, tear the door off the hinges and go barreling down the corridor. She must keep herself together until she could find some place to be alone. The piercing eyes of Lady Clayton followed her, stabbing her through the back and impaling her heart, which Lydia felt might never stop aching. Her head continued to whirl, her thoughts so convoluted, she did not know what to think, what to believe.
Her wish to be left alone would not be granted, for at the exact moment that she approached the stairs, she found Sinclair coming up from below, one hand scraping through his wind-tousled hair. She faltered, her heart stuttering to a near stop before picking up a rapid drumbeat, pounding against her ribs. Her hand came up to the spot just beneath her breast, and she could feel the organ hammering with relentless insistence, her veins tingling from a heady rush of blood.
Sinclair paused, one foot on the stairs, another on the landing, his brow furrowing as he took her in from head to toe. He observed her stricken expression, her posture, seeming to understand almost immediately that something was amiss. His gaze darted to the door of the drawing room, which still hung lightly ajar, and understanding seemed to dawn, alighting in his widening eyes. His jaw grew slack, and he surged toward her, arms outstretched as if to reach for her. She moved away from him, smothering a strangled cry as she narrowly escaped being taken into his arms.
“Lydia,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. “Whatever she said—”
