Page 56 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“There are things I want to say to you,” he murmured. “But I do not think it wise to do so. You must know by now that I …”
She nodded, a tear wetting her cheek and falling into his palm. Her voice came out rough and tortured when she replied.
“I know, Sin. I do, too.”
He pulled her down to him for a kiss, swiping away the remnants of the shed tear. Their bodies came together once more, her curves fitting perfectly against his planes, his cock having sprung to life yet again, insatiable after its four-year period of denial. She parted her legs for him without hesitation, letting him impale her, his hands maintaining a hold on her hips as he moved her in the rhythm he wanted, showing her how to ride him.
Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the ecstasy of the moment and tried not to think overmuch about the words he so desperately wanted to say to her. But, if he said them, how could he ever prove it to her while married to someone else? His words would ring hollow, becoming meaningless with each passing day, week, month, and year in which he was incapable of giving her everything she deserved.
He did not regret what they had just done, and had a feeling they would be unable to cease after this one encounter. Yet, in the back of his mind, Sinclair could not help but wonder if they had just damned themselves by surrendering to a love that would eventually tear them apart.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sinclair remained in Lydia’s room for as much of the night as he was able, taking as much pleasure as he could derive from having her in his arms. He held her and slept, awakening to find his body already straining toward her, his cock hard and pulsing. Despite knowing she must be sore after their first joining and the one that had followed, he’d taken her again, then again by the time the first rays of dawn had appeared on the horizon. Each time, he’d forced himself to pull away from her to spill his seed, aware of what planting a child inside of her could mean for her future. While he owed his own existence to such a circumstance, he could not do that to Lydia. As badly as he wanted more children—with the woman he loved, at that—he could never be so selfish. If she noticed that he did this, she did not remark upon it.
As a bedmate, Lydia turned out to be far more than he’d ever expected. But, he should not have been surprised to discover how eager she was to please, to explore her own wants and needs and learn his. It should come as no surprise that she was as vivacious in bed as she was out of it, coming alive in his hands.
He had not wanted to leave the warm haven beneath the counterpane with her, but he’d understood the sense in leaving before servants began to stir. As well, he had not yet spoken with Doctor Tunstall, who he’d left with his wife without asking any questions about her condition. He’d been too angry, rubbed raw after the incident with Wortham. Now, he felt as if he could face the world with a level head, the usual turbulence in his gut going to complete stillness.
Rising from the bed, he quickly donned his clothing, then bent over the bed to kiss her one last time.
“You are to remain abed for as long as you wish,” he urged. “Henry will be too worried about his mother to focus upon his studies, so I’m giving you both a day of respite.”
She smiled. “I should feel guilty about it, but thanks to you, I am so bloody tired.”
He laughed, smoothing her hair back from her face. “As am I. If I could stay and rest with you, I would.”
He would climb back into that bed with her and never leave.
“You have matters to attend,” she said with a yawn that had no right to be so endearing but still made him smile. “I understand.”
She promptly fell asleep then, her eyes sliding closed, head burrowing beneath her pillow to block out the light of the rising sun. He reluctantly took his leave, hastening to his chamber. He did not bother ringing for his valet, seeing to his own toilette using the water that had been set out for him last night but had now grown cold. He washed, shuddering and shivering, then dried and dressed, donning comfortable half-dress since he had no intention of leaving the house today.
By the time he made his way to his wife’s room, Doctor Tunstall had roused from his vigil beside the chair and was waiting for him. Based upon the man’s expression, the diagnosis would be far more dire than croup.
“Doctor,” he said, shaking the physician’s offered hand. “Thank you for staying with her through the night. Her little spell last evening took us all quite by surprise.”
He glanced over to where Drucilla lay sleeping, her emaciated body nearly swallowed by the bedclothes. She lay with her back to them, as well as the windows allowing in the light of the sun. Even from where Sinclair stood, he could hear her breathing, the sound shallow, with a slight rattle to it, as if she’d swallowed a handful of nails.
Removing a pair of round spectacles, Doctor Tunstall ran a hand over his weathered face. “Do you remember when I first came to Buckton to meet and examine your wife, Mr. Clayton?”
He remembered distinctly. They’d only been married a few months at the time, and while Sinclair had known Drucilla to be prone to such illnesses, she’d become sicker than he had ever seen her. He’d been frightened to death when he’d sent for Tunstall, afraid his wife would die before they ever had the chance to begin a real life together.
It was ironic now, that the man had become such a part of their lives, as much as the bitterness and scorn they felt toward each other.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “That was some time ago.”
“And do you remember what I told you about your wife’s condition?” the doctor prodded. “Do you remember me telling you that it was a miracle Lady Clayton had even lived to become a woman grown, and that her days might be numbered?”
Despite recalling the words, Sinclair was still taken aback by their sudden resurgence. “Yes, but … that was ten years ago. You and I both know that Drucilla is a force of nature. She has survived every illness that has befallen her over the past decade, and the ones that afflicted her as a child. Are you now telling me that something has changed?”
Tunstall sighed, crossing his arms over his chest and giving him a measured look. “Nothing has changed. Your wife was born ill, and has been ill her entire life. The defect of her lungs cannot be healed by medicine. She has survived a long time, yes, but … I am afraid she will not last much longer. She will survive as long as a month if she is fortunate, mere days if she is not. The coughing up of blood is a sign I have been watching and waiting for—one I’ve seen in others with her same affliction, and the outcome is always the same. We are near the end, Mr. Clayton.”
Sinclair blinked, his vision beginning to swim. His head spun as the doctor’s words sank in, penetrating deep. His conflicting emotions did war with one another, leaving him uncertain how to feel or even what to say.
Tunstall, seeming to mistake his confusion and numbness for grief, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry, Mr. Clayton, but I have tried to prepare you for this over the years. You can only keep her comfortable … she may eat whatever she wishes if her stomach will allow it. Broth or tea will soothe a sore throat. I daresay she’d welcome laudanum or spirits for the pain. I can remain for as long as you need me.”
He cleared his throat, forcing a swallow past the lump that had formed there. “I understand, Doctor. Thank you. I think that we can manage things from here. I am certain you’re anxious to return home and rest.”
