Page 44 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“Charles, I am flattered,” she managed, once she found her voice.
“I’d much rather hear that you return the sentiment,” he replied, his words holding an unspoken question, his gaze searching as he looked into her eyes.
She forced a smile, very much aware of the fact that he was still touching her. His hands were strong, large, firm on her arms, but still gentle enough that she could escape him if she wished. At the moment, she was not certain what she wanted. On one hand, she could not stop thinking of Sinclair, and how she’d rather feel his touch than Charles’. However, she could not forget her position and Sinclair’s marriage. This man liked her, could come to love her … and if the way he was looking at her was any indication, he wanted her. What could be the harm in testing herself—letting herself see if she could feel anything for him beyond friendship?
“I … I like you, as well,” she stammered, maintaining his gaze, willing herself to do this. She had to do this for herself, for her own sake. Going about life pining after a married man was no way to live.
He smiled at that, leaning in closer—so close, their bodies touched, pressing together from chest to hip. The man had a pleasing form, slender but wiry, much like Sinclair. Yet, even such close proximity did not spark half as much desire in her as she felt when Sinclair stood this close. Hell, she felt more for Sinclair when he was clear on the other side of the room.
His breath whispered against her cheek, and his lips found her there, gently, questioningly. She lifted her head in response, granting her permission, holding perfectly still and awaiting the kiss. His lips moved, hovered over hers, close enough that she could almost feel them. She parted her own and waited, holding her breath.
The kiss never came.
Footsteps crunched over the foliage on the ground, warning them of someone else’s arrival. Lydia gasped, backpedaling from Charles far too late. Someone appeared from between two trees before his hands had fallen away from her, and as she turned to find Sinclair entering the clearing, her stomach twisted violently until she felt she might be sick.
Sinclair stood watching the pair standing in the little copse of trees, far removed from the hunting party. When the rest of the group had come together, only for him to discover Charles and Lydia were not among them, he had urged the others to return to the house for afternoon tea without him, then set out to find them himself. He was not certain what he expected to find. That they’d gotten a bit lost, perhaps. Instead, he’d walked into the clearing to discover Lydia in the arms of his closest friend, her head tipped up invitingly, waiting for a kiss.
He’d been forced to admit to himself that they made quite a sight—golden heads, young, handsome and beautiful, a matched set. And taking notice of that only made matters worse. He felt fit to kill as he approached, ensuring to make as much noise as possible as he pulled Barkley along, boots crunching over the twigs and leaves in his path.
The two moved swiftly away from each other, the shame bringing redness to Lydia’s face satisfying him in a way he knew he had no right to feel. That did not stop him from being glad he’d stopped the kiss before it could happen, that Lydia now looked as if she wished the ground would open up and swallow her. It did not stop him from wanting to tackle his friend to the ground and beat him into the dirt, perhaps wrap Barkley’s lead around his throat and squeeze until he ceased to draw breath.
“There you are,” he snapped, coming near enough that he could clearly see Charles’ irritation over having been interrupted. “We grew worried when we all came together on the path and did not see you.”
His tone held a heavy measure of accusation, which seemed to draw Lydia’s attention. She looked up at him with wide eyes.
“We are fine,” she said, her voice a bit hoarse.
From desire, he wondered? Desire for his friend? Had Charles affected her when he’d touched her, drawn her into his arms? Tension seized his neck and spine, and he felt as if the vein in his forehead might burst at any moment.
“We simply wandered from the others a bit,” she added.
“Yes, well, we are all going back inside for tea,” he said, swiveling his gaze toward Charles and narrowing his eyes. “I would like a word with Miss Darling, and Barkley has gotten a bit restless. If you would not mind returning him to the kennel …”
His request was really a disguised order, and Charles knew it. He stood rooted to the spot for a long while, staring at Sinclair with equal parts disbelief and annoyance dancing in his eyes. Sinclair met the other man’s challenge without speaking, inclining his head slightly and raising his eyebrows, daring him to object. Using his power as the master here should have made him feel like a cad. Instead, it only made him grateful when Charles nodded with a sigh and came forward to take the hound’s lead.
“Of course.”
As he accepted the lead, he cast Sinclair a ‘look.’ One that told him they would speak of this later … not as employer and steward, but as friends. Sinclair did not care, so long as the man took his leave before he was forced to do him bodily harm.
“I am certain you know the way,” he said as Charles brushed past him, Barkley in tow. “You know these lands well.”
Charles stiffened, but did not reply, simply continuing on until he disappeared through the trees. Sinclair waited until he could no longer hear the sounds of the other man’s footsteps, his gaze falling onto Lydia and holding. She met his stare without speaking, hands balled into fists at her sides, chest heaving as if she had run a long distance and now struggled to draw breath.
The rushing of his blood did not let up. On the contrary, he found that every drop of it now seemed to make its way toward his groin, pooling with liquid heat. The sight of her, face flushed, lips parted, hair slightly mussed from the exertions of the day … all of it was enough to stoke his desire as well as his fury. Charles had been about to kiss her, and she had seemed willing enough. If Sinclair had not happened upon them, she would have allowed it. A muscle in his jaw ticked, his teeth grinding together.
“Well?” she prodded when he simply stood there, observing her without speaking. “You wished to have a word with me?”
Inclining his head, he took one step toward her, then another, closing the space between them. She stiffened, but did not flee, standing her ground to await his approach.
“I take it you and Charles are enjoying the house party,” he stated, his words coming out far harsher than he intended. He could not seem to help himself, this beast inside of him roaring and growling at the thought of anyone else touching her.
She flinched as if he’d struck her, brow furrowing. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
He was so close now, he could see her lower lip trembling, detect the thump of her pulse in the hollow of her collarbone.
“It should come as no surprise that the two of you should develop atendre,” he remarked, ignoring her question. “After all, many a romance has begun during a house party. In fact, I’m certain it is often the aim of these affairs to match eligible bachelors with unwed chits.”
“Mr. Clayton—”
