Page 48 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Running a hand through his hair, Sinclair let out a little huff of frustration. “And why not, exactly? You are unattached, and so is Lydia. I …”
“You what?” Charles asked. “Love her? Want her?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, his voice raising to fill the room. “Yes, I want her! Yes, I love her! But what good is any of that while I’m married to Drucilla?”
Charles gave him a pitying glance, coming farther into the room. “I have been your friend for a long time, Sin. I’ve watched you love Drucilla and try to give her the world. I have also watched her shun you, spurn you, and make a fool of you in return. I watched you grieve after she gave birth to another man’s child, then pull yourself together and take that boy as your own. I do not know a more honorable man than you.”
“Then why do I feel like such a cad?” Sinclair asked with a shake of his head. “Why do I feel as if I am ruining Lydia by loving her? She should be with someone who can give her the things I cannot. She should be with a man like you.”
Sighing, Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “In another situation, I might agree with you. I admire Lydia, but it became clear to me after truly observing the two of you these past days that she loves you as you love her. And maybe … maybe it is all right for the two of you to take what happiness you can find.”
Sinclair’s mouth fell open as he eyed his friend in disbelief. “Are you suggesting that we indulge in an affair?”
“I am not suggesting anything,” Charles hedged, raising his eyebrows. “I am simply saying that you’ve suffered long enough, and perhaps, so has she. I am saying that a situation like this one is never completely right or wrong, black or white. If it were, you would never have been conceived.”
Sinclair thought about that for a moment. He thought of his parents, of his father who had declared his love for his mother openly and often. It was why he’d given Sinclair everything he’d been able to; it was why he’d been claimed and raised alongside his siblings. He had once hated his father for siring him on the wrong side of the blanket, for subjecting him to life as a bastard. But his mother had always told Sinclair that he’d been the joy of her life and thought that perhaps, in a way, he’d been a gift to her. Perhaps, for her short time on Earth, his mother had found a bit of happiness with his father, and with him, as well.
“She deserves better,” he argued feebly.
Charles smiled, bracing a hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. “I do not know a better man than you.”
He smiled back, but it was weak, strained. His mind still whirled dizzily, every possibility, every choice swimming back and forth before him, each one with its advantages and pitfalls.
“For the sake of our friendship, I will not pursue her any longer,” Charles added.
Sinclair shook his head. “I cannot ask that of you.”
“It is for my own sake as well as yours,” his friend quipped. “If I’d actually managed to kiss her, I believe you might have killed me.”
That got a laugh out of him, and as they approached the door to leave for the final dinner of the party, Sinclair felt a little less burdened. It was not right nor fair for him to be glad Charles would not pursue Lydia. Yet, he was glad all the same.
As they entered the corridor, they found Drucilla coming through the door of her chamber dressed, as always, in pure white. This particular evening gown had been etched with silver thread along the bodice and hem, a silver bandeau enhancing her white-blonde curls. Ropes of pearls decorated her neck, while more of the white stones adorned her ears. A white and silver embroidered shawl with a delicate fringe hung decorously from one shoulder, draping over the crook of her opposite arm.
“My lady,” Charles said, pausing to bow to her. “You look lovely this evening.”
Drucilla gave him a tight smile. “Thank you, Mr. Welby.”
At the rough, tortured sound of her voice, Sinclair frowned, taking a closer look at her. She was paler than usual, her eyes a bit red-rimmed. Producing one of her lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, she coughed into it for a few seconds, shoulders trembling.
“Dru, are you all right?” he asked. “You look a bit pale.”
As always, she shunned his concern, even after she’d spent the past several nights with another man in her bed while her husband slept in the next room. Even after she’d forced him to occupy the same space as the man who had cuckolded him.
“It is just another cold,” she insisted. “The cough isn’t nearly as strong as it was during that bout of croup.”
He looked her over, certain she was falling ill yet again. He’d come to know the early signs, such as her glassy eyes and overly-rosy cheeks. Yet, he only offered her his arm—the obligation of escorting her downstairs not going away just because he loathed her.
“As you say,” he relented, deciding he would send for Doctor Tunstall first thing in the morning. He had a feeling she had overtaxed herself planning and executing this house party when she ought to have been resting.
They descended the stairs, and soon found themselves among the guests milling about in the drawing room. From there, everything went as usual. Sinclair affixed a mask of polite boredom and tried his best not to look at Lydia, who was modest but lovely in the same green gown she’d worn to dinner on the first night. Her only adornment aside from the gown were the flowers she’d fashioned into a little cluster and pinned to her bodice. They adorned her better than any rope of pearls or string of string diamonds could have.
The night began without a hitch. After drinks in the drawing room, there was dinner, which the cook had turned out with resplendent flair, having saved his best dishes for last. After the sumptuous meal, they returned to the large drawing room, where someone declared there should be music and dancing, which prompted one of the young ladies to take a seat at the pianoforte and begin to play. Furniture was moved, a few rugs rolled back, and then the dancing began. Those who did not wish to dance sat to watch.
Drucilla ordered champagne brought in, and while the footmen served their guests, he found himself obligated to lead her in the first dance. Always the dutiful husband, always attending to appearances and helping to squelch gossip, he took her in his arms in the midst of the others who had joined them in the center of the room. Her movements were sluggish and slow, lacking the crisp grace of a dancer as accomplished as her. He compensated for her to keep from embarrassing them both, then deposited her into a chair near the piano.
“Rest, Dru,” he muttered in her ear before leaving her.
She surprised him by remaining seated for most of the songs, though shedidmuster the strength to dance with Wortham before taking her chair once again. The sounds of her coughing rang out through the drawing room periodically, making it impossible for Sinclair to ignore her for long. Yet, every time he glanced her way, she talked with her guests, smiling, hands moving, face animated. If her eyes looked far too glassy or her cheeks far too flushed … well, she had made it clear that was none of his concern.
