Page 43 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Rushing into her room, she went to her armoire, rifling about until she found the clothing she’d hidden away toward the back of the cabinet. The worn buff breeches and brown waistcoat had been tailored to fit her, and once paired with a brown coat—also made to fit her—and matching boots, proved to be her favorite attire for romping out of doors. Back home at Oakmoor, she owned several other ensembles such as this, but these were the only men’s items she had brought with her to Hertfordshire, and in truth, had never thought to wear them outside her chamber.
Becoming downright giddy as she replaced her muslin and lace with the buckskin and leather, she could not get back downstairs fast enough, taking the stairs two at a time. Once she reached the front steps, she found the men waiting for her as promised, rifles slung over shoulders, hounds held on leashes. The dogs barked and bounded about as far as their leads would allow, excited to begin the hunt. Sinclair stood at the forefront, Barkley yapping excitedly, leaping up to rest his paws on his master’s chest.
The men all seemed to turn to notice her at once, expressions of amusement, shock, and open interest widening their eyes. Sinclair turned his head at the exact moment she began descending the stairs, his jaw going slack as his gaze traveled over her from head to toe before he looked up into her eyes. His irises simmered like hot coals, his nostrils flaring and his face conveying a hundred words that his mouth could not say. She faltered on the bottom step, locked in his stare, her pulse racing as she tried to imagine what she must look like through his eyes. The coat fell to her hips, but did little to conceal how the breeches clung to her thighs, the supple leather of her boots cleaving to her calves. She’d buttoned her shirt to the throat, and the waistcoat concealed her breasts while its tailoring flaunted the curve of her waist.
She’d never felt anything but free in these clothes, comfortable. With his gaze on her that way, they took on an entirely new allure for her—making her feel more sensual, more womanly than she’d ever felt in any gown.
He had been staring at her for far too long without speaking, though no one else seemed to notice. A few of the men had begun to applaud while others laughed and made comments about how ‘fetching’ she looked in men’s clothing. She grinned and took a little bow, which amused them all the more and kept them from seeing the way Sinclair’s fist tightened around Barkley’s lead, his jaw clenching as he stood there listening to them shower her with compliments. Raising her eyebrows at him, she cleared her throat.
“I’m ready.”
“Wonderful, we’re all here,” he replied, finally snapping out of it with a shake of his head. “Shall we go?”
The handlers of the restless hounds were all-too happy to oblige, following Sinclair toward the woods. Along the perimeter of the trees, servants waited nearby for the hunt to begin, so that they could come behind the hunters to collect their kills and take them to be skinned and cleaned.
Charles approached her, a second rifle extended in silent offering. She accepted it, murmuring her thanks as he also offered her a pouch of ammunition, which she slung across her body.
“As always, you shock me, Lydia,” he remarked as they walked, following the others through the trees and deeper into the thickly wooded area surrounding the house grounds.
She issued a little huff of laughter. “I do hope I have not caused you to think badly of me.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his gaze slipping down to the breeches allowing the world to see just how plump her hips and thighs were. Becoming accustomed to having these parts of her body so prominently displayed had taken some growing used to, and now, she hardly noticed unless someone made a point of looking. However, she found the same appreciation for her figure in Charles’ eyes that she had noticed in Sinclair’s.
“On the contrary,” he replied, meeting her gaze once more. “The more you shock me, the more I find I admire you.”
She looked away swiftly, unable to maintain his gaze while the back of her neck burned hot in reaction to his words. Not the first time he’d said something of the sort to her; yet, she could not become excited over it. Here was a man she could admire, respect … even come to care for if she allowed herself. He made a good life for himself a steward, and he was quite possibly the kindest man she’d ever met aside from her brothers. In fact, Michael and Archie would probably get on well with Charles, and she could almost see the three of them lounging about Oakmoor, talking about horses and rifles over whisky.
So, why, then, did her heart plummet into her gut at the thought of him there instead of Sinclair? Why did her mind shrink away from the thought of opening herself up to the possibility of any sort of romance with Charles, who clearly saw her as more than a mere friend? Why couldn’t she stop thinking of the way Sinclair’s hand had caressed her face under the moonlight and how badly she’d wanted his kiss then?
What the devil was wrong with her? Sinclair could never truly be hers. After she had given up on marriage, meeting Charles might be the best thing that could have ever happened to her. Where was her joy that here, finally, was a man other than Sinclair who took an interest in her—the true Lydia who enjoyed unconventional pursuits and did not fit in with the London misses?
“You flatter me,” she simply murmured, realizing he would expect a response. “I simply find it refreshing to be myself and enjoy the things that make me happy. I cannot do that if I worry over appearances and conventions.”
If anything, these words proved the exact wrong ones to say. They only seemed to make that gleam in Charles’ eyes brighter when he smiled at her again.
“Indeed,” he said. “Wise words from an exceptional woman.”
Thankfully, she was saved from replying when the howling of the dogs ahead of them indicated prey had been found. She and Charles hastened to join the others, and the hunt was on.
For hours, they tracked hares, pheasant, and foxes through the woods, even encountering a buck, which Sinclair felled with a magnificent shot. The party split into two groups after a time, then three, and before long, Lydia found herself alone with Charles, the two of them having fallen behind the leader of their pack and the hounds guiding them along.
Their pace had begun to slow, and she supposed that soon enough, the decision would be made to return to the house. Glancing about, she found no one near, did not even hear any of the others’ voices. Only the distant barks and howls of the hounds rang out at them through the trees.
“I hope you do not find me too forward,” Charles said, breaking the silence.
Frowning, she turned to glance at him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Only that I do not wish for you to misconstrue my compliments toward you. I would not want you to gain the wrong impression.”
She sucked in a sharp breath in reaction to his words. They struck curiosity and fear in her with equal measure. Feigning confidence she did not feel, she laughed and waved him off.
“Oh, do not be silly! Of course I would not allow a few compliments to lead me to believe you are interested in me.”
His hand came gently around her upper arm, drawing her up short. As she was forced to a stop, turning to face him, he grasped her other arm, holding her far closer than could be appropriate. There was no way to misconstrue this.
“Of course I am interested,” he murmured, his eyelids lowering over his eyes, the warmth in his voice leaving no doubt to his meaning. “I simply meant that I would not want you to think my interest is of a salacious nature. I like you, Lydia. I find you charming and lovely, and quite frankly, I’m perplexed as to how you’ve managed to go unwed for so long.”
It should have been insulting. However, she’d heard the sentiment before. Everyone ‘liked’ her. No one could understand why she remained a spinster governess. It had stopped being an insult, and was now simply a fact.
