Page 40 of Her Beautiful Bastard
The guests milled about in pairs, as well as threesomes and foursomes, their voices held to socially acceptable levels as they chattered about their journeys to Buckton and indulged in other manners of small talk. A few eyes strayed to them as they came farther into the room. However, the attention of the majority of the guests seemed centered upon Lady Clayton, who sat in their midst holding court.
She’d placed herself on a settee arranged in full view of the entire room, her white skirts spread decorously around her. White muslin draped in lace covered her from bosom to feet, her neckline a bit more daring than was typical for a morning gown. As if to enhance the effect, a silver and pearl brooch had been pinned between her breasts, drawing the eye straight to the slight swell of her décolletage. The lightest hand had been used with cosmetics upon her face—so light, one might think the pink flush on her cheeks and dark ring around her pale blue eyes to be natural. The rouge applied to her lips was just enough to make her mouth noticeably pink. Her hair had been styled in artful dishabille, soft waves disturbed only by a white silk bandeau, a white muslin flower pinned near one ear. She was a vision, at her most vibrant when surrounded by so many people.
Lydia could see how Sinclair had fallen under her spell … how he’d fallen so deeply in love with her without truly knowing her. She was magnetic, and truly at her best when lavished with such attention. It appeared half the men in the room were besotted with her, the women both envious and admiring.
As the lady noticed their approach, she stood and smiled, the expression as artful and controlled as the rest of her appearance.
“Ah, here they are,” she exclaimed, opening her arms and rounding the low table holding yet another tea service and platters of food. “Come, come, allow me to introduce you to everyone.”
She took Henry from Charles and proudly presented the boy to those gathered around.
“I do not know if you’ve all had the chance to meet my son,” she said, holding the boy close against her side. “Henry, say hello to everyone.”
Henry lifted his chin and squared his shoulders in a way Lydia knew he’d been taught. “I am Henry Lewis Ulrick Clayton, and I am very pleased to meet you all.”
This produced raptures from several women, and a few chuckles from the men. Some came forward to shake his hand, which the boy accomplished with so much grave concentration, while one lady approached to pinch his cheek and fuss over him.
Then, Lady Clayton indicated Lydia and Charles. “Mr. Welby is the steward of Buckton, and Miss Darling is Henry’s governess. They will be joining us, of course.”
Lydia detected a few murmurs of what a benevolent mistress she must be to allow members of her staff to enjoy the house party. Others murmured polite greetings, and within moments, everything returned to the way it had been before their arrival. Lady Clayton took Henry onto the settee at her side, treating him to tea and a plate filled with the delicacies he liked best. Freed from her duties as Henry’s nursemaid for the day, Lydia gestured toward a cluster of unused chairs near a sideboard laden with refreshments.
“Shall we sit?” she asked Charles.
Her companion nodded. “Of course. I am famished, aren’t you?”
“Positively starved,” she said with a smirk. “We can remedy that right now.”
They went undisturbed for a few minutes as they helped themselves from the sideboard before occupying two armchairs flanking a small end table the perfect size for resting their cups and plates upon. While she sipped tea and nibbled a scone, Lydia allowed herself to study the occupants of the room more closely. She did not recognize any of the guests, nor did she see Sinclair among them.
“Where is Mr. Clayton?” she asked.
“There was a matter in Ware he had to attend to this morning,” Charles answered. “He should return shortly, I imagine. He will not hurry back out of excitement, of course. He abhors affairs like these.”
She murmured something in response, her attention suddenly stolen by a man standing behind Lady Clayton’s settee. He was gazing down on Lady Clayton, his hands resting on the back of the chair as she gazed up at him over her shoulder. The two exchanged smiles, their glances trading silent secrets. Lydia’s fingers tightened around her teacup as she observed the exchange, her teeth clenching when the man’s hand came down upon the lady’s shoulder. The touch was far too familiar, his thumb stroking slow circles near her neck, where her pulse might thrum.
“That would be the Viscount Wortham,” Charles stated, seeming to notice the direction of her gaze.
Blinking and tearing herself away from the pair, she looked to Charles, whose expression had gone grim.
“A friend of Lady Clayton’s?” she asked.
A muscle ticked in Charles’ cheek, and if she weren’t mistaken, his lips curled in something like disdain. She’d never seen him wearing anything other than a smile, this sudden change in demeanor puzzling her.
“Of a sort,” he ground out. “I did not know he had been invited, so I know Sinclair didn’t, either. He will not like it.”
Glancing back at the viscount, Lydia watched as he conversed with a smiling Henry, chuckling at something the boy said. She furrowed her brow, something strikingly familiar about the man eluding her. Taking stock of his appearance—the golden hair, high forehead, and aristocratic features—Lydia tried to place what made her feel such a strong sense of déjà vu.
Then, the man glanced up and in her direction. Having caught her staring, he inclined his head and gazed right back at her. After a moment, his lips parted in a smile, the motion heavy with unspoken innuendo. He grinned like a viper, and she half expected a forked tongue to appear between his teeth. It sent a shiver down her spine, reminding her too much of the sorts of men she’d been warned to avoid before her London Season. Everything about him was off-putting, despite his classical handsomeness. Yet, she found herself unable to look away, and in an instant, the reason why overwhelmed her, forcing a gasp from deep in her chest.
She could not look away because she realized just then what it was about the man that struck her as so familiar. It was subtle—the line of his nose, the shape of his mouth, the light cleft in his chin. Each and every one of those features had been etched, in a smaller, more innocent way, onto Henry’s face.
Sinclair hovered in the doorway of the blue drawing room, hands clenched so tight, he was surprised the bite of his nails into his palms did not draw blood. Admittedly, he had not paid much attention to Drucilla’s efforts in planning this house party, not only because he didn’t care much for the details, but also because the harvest had consumed so much of his time. So, he had been caught off guard to return home after his morning trip to Ware to find Lord Miles Wortham amongst the guests milling about his drawing room.
He stood stone-still, his blood roaring, the rushing cadence of it pounding through him blotting out all other sound. His jaw clenched until he grew surprised his teeth did not shatter. If his spine were drawn any straighter, it might snap. It took every ounce of his discipline to keep from charging into the room, upending every one of the serving platters, crashing the china against the walls, and roaring like the beast he felt growing within. He fantasized about staining the rugs with that man’s blood before wrapping his hands around Drucilla’s throat and squeezing until her lips turned blue.
She dared to bring this man into their home … dared to flaunt him before Sinclair and their guests. Drucilla had always been bold, and she’d proved time and time again how vindictive she could be, but he would never have thought she possessed so much gall. And she knew he could do nothing about it with so many people in the room, several of which he conducted business with on a regular basis. The cunning little witch had him over a barrel at the moment, and she knew it.
He realized just how much she knew it when she glanced up and noticed him standing there, giving him a smile that made flames of rage roar in his belly.
