Page 51 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“Come, Dru,” he snapped, reaching out to take her arm. “You must retire to bed while I send for Doctor Tunstall.”
She reared away from him, upper lip curling back in disgust. “Do not touch me! I cannot abide the feel of your filthy hands on me.”
Sighing, he shook his head. “Dru, cease this. We’ve made enough of a spectacle of ourselves for the night, don’t you think? You need to get into bed.”
“I told you, it is only a cold,” she protested, right before being seized by another coughing fit. “Stop pretending … as if you give a bloody damn … about me.”
This time, the coughing did not stop, seeming to go on and on while Sinclair crouched to try helping her to her feet again. She sagged, forcing him to put an arm around her to keep her from falling. Her face fell against his chest as she began coughing again, her slight body so violently seized by the hacking that he was surprised she did not shatter into a thousand pieces.
More gasps rippled through the room as her head tipped back to reveal the bright stains she’d left against his pristine white cravat, more of the same marring her lips and chin.
Blood.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lydia stood near the window of her bedroom, staring listlessly out at the moonlit night. She shivered, despite the warm fire she’d just stoked in the hearth and the shawl draped across her shoulders over the nightgown she’d changed into upon retiring for the night.
Hours had passed since the shocking incident in the drawing room, and she was still reeling. Her gaze grew unfocused, her mind returning to the moment Hell had broken loose among the guests, gasps and cries of alarm warning her of the brawl taking place on the other side of the room. Things had been going so well, despite the tension thrumming between herself and Sinclair. It had been difficult, trying to act naturally after what had occurred between them in the woods. Especially when she felt as if the truth of those stolen moments had been written across her face for the world to see.
Yet, the final evening of the party had been jovial, with a wonderful dinner, and dancing afterward. It had been years since anyone had asked her to dance, and despite the turmoil still simmering in her gut regarding Sinclair and the uncertainty of the future, she’d found herself enjoying being partnered to the music. Four songs into the impromptu ball, and she had been partnered for each one, smiling and chatting with Charles, who was all polite friendliness after their near-kiss a few days before.
She was not certain what had been done or said to set Sinclair off that way, but one moment she’d been dancing and having a lovely time; the next, she’d stood by watching in numb shock as he pummeled Lord Wortham half to death. Thankfully, Charles had known what to do.
“Help me calm him,” he’d said, taking her arm and propelling her toward the mêlée. “He will listen to you.”
She hadn’t been certain about that, very much aware of the reasons for Sinclair’s anger. Yet, he had shocked her by calming almost instantly once she’d gotten close enough to touch and speak with him.
It had all happened so fast—the fight and the resulting fallout, then Lady Clayton’s collapse. From there, she’d been all but forgotten as Sinclair had swept his wife off her feet and bellowed for Charles to send for the doctor. There had been a flurry of movement, guests dashing about, offering a cold compress for the lady’s head, exclaiming over the copious amount of blood she had just coughed up all over Sinclair’s cravat. Lydia had found herself the center of attention then, the remaining guests watching her with a scrutiny that made her anxious to hide, to escape their probing eyes and their eventual sly questions and innuendo. So, she’d murmured “excuse me,” then had fled, swiftly making for her own chambers.
And here she had remained in the hours that followed, the sounds of footsteps and voices from overhead as anxious and frenzied as the beating of her heart.
What would happen now? She felt certain that the little display downstairs had let the party guests in on quite a few of the Clayton family secrets. Anyone who had wondered but been uncertain about the affair between Lady Clayton and Lord Wortham would now have their suspicions confirmed, which could only lead to more scrutiny toward Henry. And she had felt the eyes upon her as she’d knelt to help calm Sinclair, feeling the way their assessing stares had watched her as she’d touched him with such tenderness and familiarity. There would be gossip about her, too, about the tart of a governess who had seduced her pupil’s father. If Lady Clayton decided to toss her out on her ear—a distinct possibility—she might never find work again.
Sighing, she drew her shawl tighter around herself and leaned forward, resting her forehead against the windowpane. So much had happened in such a short period of time, she hardly knew how to fathom it all. She only knew that her heart ached from a longing to do something for Sinclair, to soothe the turmoil and pain that seemed ever present in his eyes, turning those warm dark orbs into pools of despair. He’d truly lived a life of loneliness, even in the midst of all the wealth he had accumulated, even with a wife and son … he had always been completely, utterly alone. It made her want to be everything that no one else ever had been to him, even if that meant compromising her morals, tossing aside propriety and rational thought. It frightened her to no end.
A soft knock upon the door warned her seconds before the sound of the knob twisting rang out through the room, the panel creaking open. She turned to find Sinclair standing on the threshold, the meager light from a lamp he held illuminating him with a yellow glow.
He had cleaned up and changed out of his evening attire, his hair brushed back from his face, appearing slightly damp from being washed, a brocade dressing gown belted at his waist over trousers and a clean shirt. As he swiftly entered the chamber and closed the door behind him, her gaze fell to the hand holding the lamp, and she gasped at the sight of his tortured knuckles. She rushed to him without thinking, taking the lamp from his hand and holding it up, inspecting the rapidly darkening bruises staining his knuckles. The skin had torn on one of them and seemed to have bled before being cleaned. They were tender and swollen, a red ring glowing angrily around the purple stains.
Gazing up, she found him watching her closely. Maintaining his stare, she lifted the hand to her lips and brushed them over the bruises. She heard his sharp intake of breath in reaction and kissed him again, pressing her mouth to him more firmly, kissing each knuckle before turning his hand over and holding his cheek to her palm.
He released a long, low sigh as he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Lydia.”
She closed her eyes, stroking her cheek against the inside of his hand, holding fast to his wrist, keeping him close. “Sinclair.”
“I came as soon as I could,” he said, cupping her cheek on his own accord, his thumb stroking her skin with absent movements. “I wanted to come to you right away, but—”
“I understand,” she interjected. “How is Lady Clayton?”
He scowled. “Doctor Tunstall is with her now. He has offered to watch over her through the night. This does not feel like the other times she fell ill. It is far worse.”
Despite the things the woman had done, Lydia hadn’t been able to help the sting of pity she’d experienced watching Lady Clayton collapse, blood staining her lips. She could not imagine becoming so ill so swiftly, nor the sort of pain that must accompany the coughing up of blood.
“I would rather not speak of it just now,” he declared when she didn’t answer. “I had hoped we could talk about what happened this evening.”
Taking his hand once more, she drew him farther into the room, toward the little table where she sat to compose her letters. She motioned for him to take one of the chairs, but he simply stood, waiting for her to be seated. Then, he knelt right in front of her, his hands falling over hers where they rested in her lap.
“You do not need to explain anything to me,” she said, gazing down into his eyes. “It became clear to me when I first saw Lord Wortham in the same room with you and Lady Clayton that there must be some history there. The two of them wounded you deeply, didn’t they?”
