Page 36 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“Besides,” Drucilla continued when he did not respond. “I did not suppose you would be in attendance. You never bother to remain at Buckton longer than necessary. I had assumed you would be on your way back to Essex, or London, or wherever else it is you run off to so you may escape me.”
At his side, Charles choked on a sip of tea, coughing and sputtering as he reached for his napkin. Sinclair clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he gazed up at his wife. She merely gave him a decorous smile, deceptive sweetness thinly veiling the animosity radiating from her.
“Actually,” he ground out, his fingers curling around his fork as he battled the urge to throttle her. “I had thought to remain a bit longer. My affairs are quite in order at the other estates, and I’d like all the time I can get with Henry before I’m obligated to depart again. So, I am sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll have to tolerate my presence for at least another month or more.”
Drucilla’s smile widened, a cat-like motion of lips and a flashing of teeth akin to a predator about to devour its prey. “For Henry.”
Her gaze flickered to Lydia, and she chuckled.
“But, of course. I had quite forgotten howeageryou’ve been to spend time with our son. It will be lovely to have you for the party.”
His nostrils flared, and the urge to strangle her became more acute than ever. Across from him, Lydia had gone red, her eyes lowered and her hands folded in her lap under the table. Most of her food remained untouched, and for some reason, that angered him most of all. One thing he’d learned about Lydia was that she possessed a hearty appetite. That she was not eating disturbed him.
“I must get to the schoolroom now,” she declared, slowly rising from her chair without meeting anyone’s gaze.
“Of course,” Drucilla declared before anyone else could reply. “Have a pleasant morning, Miss Darling.”
Lydia gave a silent curtsy, then quit the room. Sinclair set his own fork down and leaned back in his chair, his own appetite obliterated, the conversation having left a bitter taste in his mouth. Not surprisingly, his wife went on eating as if nothing were amiss, her own taste for food stronger than ever now that she’d gotten over her illness.
Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he stood, nodding at Charles to indicate it was time to begin their day’s work.
“Plan your house party,” he said to Drucilla. “But, do try not to beggar me in the process. If you would keep the expense reasonable, I would be grateful.”
“But, of course,” she replied. “I thank you for your generosity, dearest husband.”
Sinclair did not have it in him to spar with her as he usually did, so he simply pinched his lips together and left the room. As usual, she’d begun to wear on him, and predictably, the desire to leave Buckton to get away from her began to rear its ugly head. Only, this time, that desire warred with the need to stay, because Buckton was now the place where Lydia resided … the place where he could glance around a corner at any moment and find her there, all golden hair, big blue eyes, and lush lips.
“I suppose we’ve a bit of incentive to get the harvest done in time,” Charles quipped from his side as they walked toward their connected studies.
Sinclair, who abhorred opening his home to a dozen or more people he barely tolerated, snorted disdainfully. “On the contrary. If not for the fact that the cherries might spoil, I’d insist we draw the harvest out for as long as possible.”
His friend laughed at that, which helped to lift his spirits a bit. He decided that this house party might not be a terrible idea. If it would distract his wife, all the better. That meant she would not be underfoot to irritate him, or terrorize Lydia.
That decided, he turned to Charles with a grin “What do you say we shun work for a few hours in favor of a ride?”
He was too restless at the moment, and a short time spent out of doors would do him more good than harm.
Charles’ expression melted into one of relief. “I say that sounds like a fantastic idea.”
In the fortnight that followed Drucilla’s announcement of the house party, Buckton became a flurry of activity. While Sinclair and Charles oversaw the cherry harvest, his wife set the household staff to work with preparations for their arriving guests. Invitations were sent out, meals planned, activities decided upon, with Sinclair only being consulted about which days he might wish to take the men out hunting.
As the event drew nearer, guest chambers were prepared—linens laundered, rooms aired out, coal gathered for hearths, additional servants hired in from Ware in order to ensure the needs of each guest was met. New drapes were ordered for the largest drawing room, where Drucilla would do the bulk of her entertaining. The best silver and china were prepared, and amodistehad been sent for to fit his wife with new clothing for each day of the affair—for it would never do for her to be seen in garments she’d worn in public on other occasions.
Meanwhile, Sinclair immersed himself in what must surely be the busiest time of the year for Buckton. Those who had been hired on to assist with the harvest came at dawn each morning. He and Charles rolled up their sleeves to help, climbing the wooden ladders to fill woven baskets with cherries, which were then packaged into crates and loaded onto wagons—some to be washed and transported to various places, others to be processed into jam, candles, and other such things right here at Buckton. The house grounds bustled with wagons coming and going from their destinations, he and Charles riding back and forth between the groves and the various buildings to ensure everything went smoothly.
They worked from sunup to sundown, which kept him away from the house in the hours Henry and Lydia might be about. He spied them at times, out for walks, or even through the open windows of the schoolroom. However, there were no more late evenings in his study with whisky and conversation, no more stolen moments in closets, or even small talk over breakfast. It might have been for the best, as his self-control where she was concerned would only grow weaker. Maintaining his distance was torture, but standing close enough to touch her and being forced to resist would be even more so.
By the night preceding the house party, his weariness had sunk bone deep, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep. By midday tomorrow, twenty guests would descend upon them, and Sinclair would be forced to appear at Drucilla’s side to greet them. While a few days of respite after the grueling harvest would be welcomed, he did not look forward having to pretend as if he did not loathe the woman he had married for the benefit of people he hardly ever saw. It would entertain Henry, at least. He would be excited for the moments when Drucilla sent for him, as it always amused her to flaunt their son before company, to dazzle everyone with how handsome and bright he was. Perhaps he would even bring Henry along for the hunt. The boy had seemed to enjoy learning to fire a rifle.
Tired as he was, when he stood on the front steps of the manor and gazed out at the setting sun, he could not find it in himself to go inside. Instead, he wanted to enjoy being outdoors without dozens of people underfoot, and cherries greeting him at every turn. While the fruit was his livelihood and had helped him amass much of his fortune, this time of year, Sinclair grew sick to death of cherries and quite often felt as if the sight of one might make him wretch. So, when he set off for his walk, he went in the opposite direction of the groves, deciding to head toward the rolling hills stretching away from the house instead. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, he stared at the horizon, studying the mottle of orange and pink, a thick curtain of navy blue beginning to fall over the world. Overhead, stars had begun to appear, small and distant.
He wandered for some time—until the house had become a tiny speck in the distance—and even then, exhaustion nagged him. He ignored it, restlessness plaguing him and chasing away the fatigue. He knew that if he went to his bed now, he would only toss and turn, unable to find any sort of peace.
After a while, he spotted another lone figure not far ahead, perfectly outlined by the vibrant sunset, the soft breezing pulling at the ends of a shawl.
“Lydia,” he murmured, recognizing her even from such a distance.
His hands clenched, then opened, his legs propelling him along faster. Suddenly, getting to her felt more important than anything else. Even if just to look at her, breathe her in, hear her voice.
