Page 7 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Mr. Welby shrugged one shoulder. “If I have not missed my guess—and I am almost never wrong about such things—Lady Clayton will like you. I expect you’ll be offered the position on the spot. If you are ready, I will take you to her now.”
Lydia nodded eagerly, relieved that things were going so well thus far. She had known that the letter of introduction from Katherine would help ease the way, but had not expected to be so warmly welcomed, or to be assured of her new position in the household so soon.
“I would like that, thank you, Mr. Welby,” she said.
He stood, and she followed suit, and before long, they were exiting the small office. As she walked along beside him, she stifled a giggle at the oddness of her circumstances compared to four years ago. As a debutante, it would never have done to be found alone with a strange man. Now freed from such strictures, no one seemed to think it strange that a butler would leave her alone in a room with the steward, and she preferred things this way. The rules and morals of the Londontonwere ridiculous at best, and hypocritical at worst. She was grateful she no longer had to abide by them.
They came to the front hall again, but this time, Welby took her toward a steep staircase leading to the next level of the house. She noted more of the opulence marking this as the home of people of means, but mostly focused upon the meeting at hand. While Mr. Welby seemed to like her, the lady of the house would have the final say. What if she found Lydia too young, or decided that she’d worked too short a time for her previous employers?
All she wanted was a chance to start over, and this opportunity was the best she’d come across. She needed this position.
Mr. Welby paused before a set of double doors painted white, with ornate knobs affixed to them. “Wait here. I will ensure she’s ready to receive you.”
Lydia nodded her agreement and watched as he knocked and waited for a response. A thin, lyrical voice bid him to enter, and he opened the door, stepping inside and leaving her in the hall. Their muffled conversation came at her through the door, and a moment later, Mr. Welby reappeared.
“Lady Clayton will see you now,” he announced. “Best of luck, Miss Darling.”
“Thank you. Mr. Welby.”
He stood back, watching her, and she supposed he waited for her to go inside before he took his leave. She slipped into the room and pulled the door shut behind her, taking one last look at the kind steward before she did. He gave her an encouraging nod just before disappearing from sight.
Stepping farther into the room, Lydia was swallowed by a place that seemed as if it came from a dream. Decorated in nothing but white, the space gleamed with the light of the afternoon sun shining through half a dozen floor-to-ceiling windows. Pristine white couches and chairs littered the space while white rugs and silver-filigreed wallpaper made the room glow like the moon. Sheer curtains allowed in plenty of light, and the polished silver sconces and other fixtures made her feel as if she stood inside a diamond.
And in the center of it all, reclining on a chaise longue, was the most stunning woman Lydia had ever laid eyes upon.
Lady Clayton lay draped in a pale pink dressing gown, the bottom of a white garment peeking out from beneath its hem. Dainty feet sported matching slippers, with ribbons tied around slender ankles and adorned with flirtatious bows.
As Lydia approached and soaked Lady Clayton in, she noted a waif-thin frame that bordered on emaciated, though it did not rob the woman of her beauty. In fact, it seemed to enhance it. Everything about her was delicate and graceful, from the tiny feet to the long, slender hands scrawling something in a little leather-bound book. White-blonde hair hung loose over her shoulders in a tumble of near-perfect waves. It framed a sharp, angular face that looked as if it had been sculpted from pale, white marble—aristocratic nose, thin but shapely lips, prominent cheekbones. The limpid blue eyes that peered up at Lydia from beneath a fan of pale blonde eyelashes should have looked overlarge in the slender face, but instead appeared as perfect as the rest of her.
Now she grasped the purpose of the room’s décor. It seemed a calculated decision, one meant to enhance and call attention to the angelic beauty of its occupant.
As Mr. Welby had predicted, Lydia understood why her own attractiveness would pose no problem in this household. What man in his right mind would give her a second glance with the ethereal Lady Clayton ruling over Buckton like some sort of goddess?
For a moment, the woman met her gaze with those pale blue eyes, and a foreign sensation trickled down Lydia’s spine. Despite their limpid beauty, those eyes were razor sharp at their edges, cold and glittering like hard chips of ice. In that moment of silent staring between them, she felt like some hapless doe stalked by a predator. As if at any moment, the woman might lunge across the space between them and rip her to shreds.
But then, the lady blinked before offering her a little smile, and Lydia wondered if she had not imagined the entire thing.
“Good afternoon, my lady,” she managed, once she had recovered from the shock of laying eyes on such a ravishing creature. “I am Miss Lydia Darling.”
The woman let the book fall into her lap, turning slightly to set her pen on a nearby side table. “It is lovely to meet you. I am Lady Drucilla Clayton.”
As Lydia neared, Lady Clayton gestured toward a nearby armchair. She followed the unspoken command and sat, trying not to stare at her too overtly. Yet, the signs of sickness she had missed upon first entering the room made themselves apparent close up. A slight redness around the eyes, a light flush to the cheeks, and an unmistakable sheen to her pupils marked Lady Clayton as quite ill.
The lady retrieved a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown and held it over her nose and mouth as she began to cough. The hacking lasted for a while, leaving Lydia concerned and feeling quite guilty for her previous thoughts. Brows furrowed, she searched the room, standing when she found a tea service nearby along with a china cup in a saucer that looked as if it had already been used.
She did not ask for permission, reaching out to pour tea and lace it with sugar while the unfortunate Lady Clayton went on coughing into her handkerchief. Finding a bowl of wedged lemons beside the service, she took one and squeezed its juice into the cup, recalling that lemon had always soothed her sore throat whenever she had a cold.
By the time she approached the ailing woman with the cup and saucer, Lady Clayton had gone silent, resting her head against the arm of the chaise with a sigh. She accepted the offering of tea, with a tight smile.
“Thank you,” she said in the soft, lyrical voice, which was now strained from her coughing fit. “What a sweet thing you are.”
Lydia took her seat once more. “Think nothing of it.”
“Do forgive me,” Lady Clayton murmured between sips of tea. “I am never quite certain when such fits will befall me. It seems to have passed now, so we can begin. You came highly recommended by our neighbors, the Egglestons.”
Lydia nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Eggleston is a dear friend of my family. They’ve graciously taken me in while I seek a new position, and I am grateful to them for leading me to you.”
Lady Clayton glanced up from her teacup, her delicate brows pinching together. “Darling … Darling … I know that name. Would you happen to be a relation of Lady Amelia Darling, sister to the marquis of … oh, something or other.”
