Page 38 of Her Beautiful Bastard
He raised an eyebrow at her. “I believe you underestimate the effect the sight of a woman holding a weapon can have upon a man. It could only be heightened if you were to don men’s attire.”
Biting her lip, she edged closer to him, her eyes glittering like those of a young girl about to disclose a secret. He found himself leaning in, holding his breath to hear whatever it was she might say.
“Back home at Oakmoor, I wore them all the time,” she whispered, her voice low as if she worried someone might overhear.
When he breathed again, it came out on a rough wheeze, his chest burning and his gut clenching at the thought of her wearing snug breeches. With the lush flare of her hips and the sturdy legs he’d glimpsed that night in London, he could not imagine a more enticing sight.
“Is that so?” he managed, barely able to think past the throb in his groin caused by his wandering mind. “How … interesting.”
“Oh, yes,” she continued, oblivious to the effect she’d had on him. “I found breeches to be quite the most comfortable thing I’d ever worn. My sister-in-law, Amelia, is the one who introduced me to wearing them. She is known in London for her preference for men’s clothing, you know. I suppose being the sister of a marquis afforded her the freedom to do as she pleased. Well, that and a sixty-thousand-pound dowry.”
“This sister-in-law sounds like a horrible influence,” he joked.
“Oh, she is the absolute worst,” Lydia said, though her voice was too heavy with affection for Sinclair to mistake her words as anything other than ones of love. “She is the one who taught me to shoot, as well. If you think I am good, you should watch her. In truth, she was the first person …”
She fell silent, clamping her lips shut as if she’d thought better of whatever she had been about to say.
Taking another step toward her, he reached up and cupped her face. He did not think anything of it until his fingers made contact with her skin, and by then, it was too late. He was touching her again—something he knew he ought not do; yet, it felt too good to stop, her skin like satin against his palm.
“The first person who what, Lydia?” he prodded, having a feeling that what she’d been about to say was important. He needed to hear it.
Her chest heaved as she stared up at him, her eyes wide as she seemed to struggle with herself for a moment. As if wondering whether she could trust him with her words, her thoughts, her secrets.
“The first person who made me realize that it was all right for me to be who I am without shame,” she murmured. “My mother … she is a wonderful woman. But she does not understand a girl who cannot play the pianoforte, or who would rather run about outdoors than spend her time composing letters or managing a household. I spent so much of my life learning all the things that would make me an acceptable young lady—a marriageable one. But, then Amelia comes along, and she is unlike any other woman I’ve ever met. She shoots, rides astride, and wears breeches. She speaks her mind, and people love her for it, even when they hate her. I suppose she was the first person I’d ever encountered who made me feel as if it was all right for me to be unlike the other ladies. That it was enough for me to simply be me.”
He caressed her cheek with his thumb, counting the freckles adorning her face, observing the way the moonlight made prisms of darker blue come alive in her irises.
“If it means anything, I would never want you to be anyone other than you,” he remarked with a little smile. “The girl I met in that garden … she was like a breath of fresh air after so much London fog. She was too …”
“Something,” she finished for him with a smile of her own. “Too something.”
“Exactly,” he replied, his thumb still stroking, wandering over her face, smoothing a cheekbone, the arch of an eyebrow … then back down the slope of her face and toward her lips.
Instead of drawing away, she tilted her head back in a silent offering, her lips parting. Her breath raced against his thumb as he gently traced the curves of her upper lip, then the edge of her lower one.
Her eyelashes fluttered, and in that moment, Sinclair knew he could have had her lips. He could have kissed her, drawn her close. In the dark, removed from the house, he might have had more than a kiss. He’d never wanted anything more in his life, his body on edge, his mind overrun with all the possibilities.
Yet, her words from the linen closet came back to him now, and guilt assailed him so powerfully, he was forced to unhand her and take a step away.
He would never forgive himself if he caused her to do something she would regret. She had made herself clear on the matter of avoiding temptation.
She blinked, a frown marring her features as she seemed to come back to her senses.
Clearing his throat, he gestured toward the house once more. “Shall we?”
Her gaze grew shuttered as she gathered her shawl tighter around her body. Her only response was a swift nod.
He did not offer his arm again; to touch her right now would prove a grievous error. He was so on edge, one touch from her would hurl him into a pit of insanity. He would forget all his good intentions and kiss her, keep kissing her until she acquiesced to his every salacious desire.
They walked side by side, until they’d come close enough to the manor that the yellow light spilling from inside illuminated them both. He paused, just outside that circle of light, gazing up at the house.
“You ought to go in ahead of me,” he said. “In case …”
He did not need to explain why, even though they hadn’t actually done anything wrong. The touch of his hand to her face hadn’t been nearly as intimate as their heated kiss in the linen closet. Still, he felt the weight of it in his belly, yet one more encounter he would remember with fondness and longing.
“Of course.” With a cursory glance back at him, she added, “Good night, Mr. Clayton.”
“Good night … Miss Darling,” he replied, watching as she made her way swiftly up the front steps.
