Page 47 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“You could never be nothing to me,” he replied, lifting her chin and giving her another swift, short kiss. “Even if you never allow me to touch you again, you’d always own a part of me. The parts of me no one else has ever touched … not even Drucilla.”
At the mention of his wife’s name, she took a step away from him, her gaze growing shuttered once again. The phantom presence of his wife between them, even this far from the house, could never be outrun, it seemed.
Silently, he offered her his hand, wanting the closeness with her, the contact of her skin on his until they came into view of the manor. She accepted it, and together, they began the long walk back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The rest of the house party seemed to drag past Sinclair with excruciating slowness, his constant awareness of Lydia making it increasingly difficult to act naturally. Drucilla kept their guests occupied nearly every hour of every day, and most times, the men remained in the company of the women—to encourage romance between the unwed, obviously.
For three days, Lydia remained almost constantly within his line of sight. He heard her laughter as she sat across the room playing cards with a group of other guests. He saw her seated just down the table each night at dinner, her demure gowns not as opulent as those of the other ladies; yet, she outshone them all in his eyes. Drucilla with her pale, untouchable beauty could never compare.
He could smell her every time she walked past him, her fragrance seeming to invade his senses and remain there long after she had gone. His attempts at keeping his eyes off her often failed, though he could not bring himself to care if anyone noticed. That might happen to be because his wife and Lord Wortham drew quite a bit of attention to themselves. He wouldn’t be surprised if everyone left this party with gossip on their lips that the mistress of Buckton had no care for propriety, that she flirted shamelessly with the viscount while her husband stood but a stone’s throw away.
In the past, he might have grown angry over it. He would have cared about Drucilla embarrassing him, would have been hurt at her disregard for his feelings. Now, he couldn’t care less if she opened her legs for Wortham. Hell, she could invite every man at this party into her chambers, and he still would not care. Not when Lydia overtook his every waking thought—as well as most of his sleeping ones.
The night after their encounter in the woods, he had awakened in a cold sweat after dreams of her had worked him to fever pitch. He had stumbled to the washstand, panting for breath as he’d palmed his cock and stroked himself to the memory of touching her, tasting her, watching her fall apart in his arms. His release had nearly doubled him over, the force of it wringing him dry. Even then, his urgency had remained as strong as ever, until he’d had to literally talk himself out of running downstairs to her bedroom and tearing her door off its hinges so that he could finish what they’d begun that afternoon.
He could hardly find it in himself to care that he approached his room each night to the sounds of Drucilla’s giggling and another man’s low, rumbling voice from beneath the crack in her door. Not when he could hardly sleep for wanting and needing Lydia in a way he’d never wanted or needed anyone else.
Now, on this final night of the party, he found himself pondering her words on the day of the hunt.
I do not know what happens now.
Neither did he, though it was clear they could not go on like this. This pull between them would only continue to grow stronger. He could not deny himself when she was near, and her defenses were clearly slipping, as well.
But, what could they do? As long as he was wed to Drucilla, Lydia could never be anything other than his mistress. And what sort of life was that for a genteel lady who had been raised and groomed for far better? He thought of her hidden away in some cottage he would visit whenever he could escape his duties, the children she would bear in shame.
Bastards.
His throat constricted at the thought of any child of his being condemned the way he had been, shunned in certain circles, carrying a mark of disgrace upon them for the rest of their lives. He thought of Henry, who would grow to see his father as a scoundrel who’d created a family separate from his own, siring children he would never think of as his true siblings.
He could never do any of it. Hurt his son that way, or reduce Lydia to the status of mere mistress. He could never acquit himself the way his father had, creating impossible situations for everyone involved.
Turning away from the looking glass with a sigh, Sinclair realized the only thing he could do was send her away. Yet, that prospect hurt him most of all. It made his stomach twist and his heart throb as if a fist gripped it tight. It was the right thing to do, yet putting Lydia out of his reach felt wrong. It felt like the end of him.
A soft knock upon the door drew him out of his reverie.
“Enter,” he called out, wondering who it could be. His valet had left him, and Drucilla dressed in the neighboring room and had no reason to come to his.
He was surprised when Charles appeared, wearing black evening attire, his face set in a grim expression. The two had not spoken much since the incident in the woods. An unusual occurrence, as Sinclair was used to speaking with his friend daily. In any other situation, Charles would have been the one he unburdened himself to over Lydia. However, the knowledge that his friend also had atendrefor her made that impossible.
“I had hoped to find you alone,” the steward said as he closed the door behind him. “We have not had a chance to talk since the hunt.”
Coming toward the center of the room, Sinclair folded his arms over his chest. “Very well. Is there something on your mind?”
He knew exactly what Charles wanted, but would not broach the subject of Lydia first.
Leaning against the door, his friend observed him pensively for a moment before speaking. “If you wanted her for yourself, the least you could have done was tell me.”
Well. That had not taken long. Though, Sinclair realized he should not be surprised. Charles had never been one to hedge around the subject at hand.
“What was I supposed to say, Charles?” he countered.
“You might try honesty,” the other man countered. “A simple ‘I’m in love with the governess’ would have done.”
“What would it have changed?” he argued.
“I might not have made any sort of advances upon her, for a start,” Charles replied.
