Page 49 of Her Beautiful Bastard
The party had reached a crescendo of merriment when everything turned sour in an instant.
Sinclair happened to approach the sideboard to help himself to a tumbler of whisky when he overheard a group of men talking about the one subject guaranteed to snare his full attention.
Lydia.
“A lovely thing,” one of the men was saying as they stood near the sideboard, sipping their spirits. “Far too pretty to work as a governess.”
“Not that you could ever do anything about it, William,” another said. “Being leg-shackled already, and all.”
Sinclair joined them, silently sipping his whisky and following their gazes to where Lydia stood in the midst of the other dancers, letting Charles lead her through a country reel. He could not help but notice that she danced just as he’d known she would—boisterously, with a smile on her face. She drew every eye in the room to her, joy emanating from her like a beacon. She made every man in the room want to dance with her, Sinclair included.
“Must be distracting with such a lovely bit of skirt about all the time, eh, Clayton?”
Sinclair blinked, tearing his gaze away from Lydia and Charles and glaring at the man who’d asked the inane question. Some acquaintance of Drucilla’s … he could not even remember the idiot’s name.
“I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Grenville slapped him on the shoulder with a chuckle. “Come, now, Clayton. There is no need to play coy around us. Many a man has succumbed to such temptation … especially when it is so readily available.”
“You are mistaken,” he snapped, the rigidity of his tone leaving no room for argument. “Miss Darling is Henry’s governess and does a splendid job of it. That is all. I certainly do not make a habit of bedding my household staff, and if you had any sense at all, you would not, either.”
His hands shook as he raised his tumbler to his lips, the whisky doing nothing to soothe his frazzled nerves. Did they know? Had someone seen them together in the woods? Or had they merely been able to see what Charles had observed?
No, he told himself. It was all conjecture on their parts; it had to be.
“Don’t be foolish,” argued the first man, the one whose name Sinclair still could not recall. “With Lady Clayton for a wife, a man would be hard-pressed to find his head turned, even by so pretty a lady as Miss Darling.”
Chuckles and murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, and Sinclair relaxed a bit.
Until Lord Wortham’s voice cut through the laughter, setting his teeth on edge once again.
“Well then, Sin … if you aren’t going to help yourself to the girl, then I just might.”
Sinclair’s teeth ground together, his empty hand curling into a fist at his side. “What was that?”
Wortham, fool that he was, merely smiled. “Well, as you stated, you have no claim on her, and her other admirers seem to be leg-shackled. Which leaves only me. Mother has been after me for some time to settle down. A lady such as Miss Darling would do nicely, indeed.”
Sinclair’s hand tightened around his tumbler, shaking as fury swept through him, hot and fast. Just the thought of Wortham anywhere near Lydia made him want to smash the glass against the man’s face.
“Miss Darling is far too good a woman to be corrupted by your sort,” he ground out.
The other men took this as a jest and began to roar with laughter, drawing the attention of several in the room. Wortham, however, clenched his jaw and met Sinclair’s challenge head-on.
“Is that so?” he replied. “Perhaps I will put that to the test. You might find yourself on the hunt for a new governess should I have my way, Clayton.”
More laughter, but Sinclair found nothing amusing about any of it. Despite knowing Lydia wanted only him—she’d said as much herself—he thought of Wortham pursuing her in earnest, and his blood ran cold. He’d charmed Drucilla right out from under Sinclair, was known for his ability to have any woman in his company simpering and blushing within seconds of meeting him. Could Lydia be swayed by him, as well?
His grip on the tumbler clenched even tighter. “Have you not had your way enough with my wife? Now, you must try pilfering my governess, as well?”
He’d spoken the words low, yet silence fell over those gathered around them. Apparently, Wortham wasn’t the only one who’d heard. Sinclair took a step toward him, not caring who saw or who heard. He’d reached the end of his forbearance for this man who had once been his friend, but had revealed himself to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Wortham’s eyes darted about, his mouth pinching at the corners. “Have you gone mad?”
“No, but you must have,” Sinclair retorted. “If you think I will stand here and listen to you speak that way about a woman under my care, then you are in for a rude awakening.”
Wortham frowned, leaning close and lowering his voice so no one else could hear. “What is this about, truly, Sin? Are you bedding the little governess, and now grow afraid that a real man will come along and take her from you, too?”
Sinclair’s hold on the tumbler clenched until the glass cracked, and before he could stop himself, he’d taken a swing, crashing it against the side of Wortham’s head. Screams and cries of alarm rang out through the drawing room, the music coming to an abrupt stop as Wortham went down on one knee, hand over his bleeding temple. Whisky mingled with blood trickled down the man’s face, slivers of glass sprinkled over the carpet. Sinclair barely registered the sting of his palm from cracked glass.
