Page 9 of Her Beautiful Bastard
CHAPTER TWO
The first fortnight of Lydia’s new post went so well, she often felt the urge to pinch herself to ensure she wasn’t living in some sort of dream. After being hired on the spot by Lady Clayton, she had been sent back to Mr. Welby, who had taken her around to introduce her to the staff. Many of them were polite but standoffish—a phenomenon she’d come to expect in any home she worked in. As a governess, she was not quite a servant, but not family, either. It put her in a unique sphere, one only occupied by herself, Mr. Welby, and other servants such as Mr. Clayton’s valet (who traveled with him), Lady Clayton’s personal maid, and little Henry’s nanny, the widowed Mrs. Beecham.
After meeting much of the household staff, Mr. Welby had then showed her to her living quarters on the third floor. The room she’d been given proved larger than any she’d ever occupied. She’d stood in the doorway, open-mouthed, stunned into silence while soaking it in. Bright and airy, it had been decorated in cheery shades of yellow and white. The furnishings were plain and efficient—a simple bed with a matching side table, an armoire, a damask-upholstered sofa facing the hearth, and a table with two matching chairs set near a large window. Said window overlooked the orchard, allowing her a view of the cherry trees growing for acres upon acres and the picturesque countryside in the distance.
It was not so different from her chamber back home at Oakmoor, with only the plainer furnishings distinguishing it. The wood paneling and bright yellow and powder-blue striped wallpaper made it seem more like a room for a distinguished guest, not a mere governess. And while she came from a family that was wealthy in its own right, Lydia had grown accustomed to her new place in the world. She was well aware that this was above and beyond what she should have expected.
Turning back to face Mr. Welby, she had shaken her head. “This is far more than is necessary.”
The man’s lips had curved into an amused grin. “You should see the nanny’s room. In fact, all the rooms at Buckton are thus appointed. I’ve seen the servants’ quarters upstairs and can attest, even they are nicer than what you’d normally find. Mr. Clayton’s doing, that. And because Lady Clayton possesses a knack for decorating, it amuses her to furnish and renovate various rooms through the manor. Compared to some of the other chambers, this one is downright plain.”
She’d moved to the center of the room, turning in a slow circle to soak it all in. “It is a lovely room. I suppose I must endure the hardship of living in it.”
The steward had chuckled at her joke, motioning back out into the hall. “When your things are delivered, they will be placed here for you to unpack. Shall I show you the rest?”
Lydia had followed him down the corridor, where he’d pointed out a water closet, a drawing room, and the place that would become her domain for as long as she worked at Buckton—the schoolroom. She’d found it perfect for her needs, with a desk for herself and a smaller one for Henry. Upon it had sat a brand new slate, ready for his use. Shelves against one wall held books on a variety of subjects, all of them new and in pristine condition.
Mr. Welby had watched from the doorway, chuckling as she’d selected one of the volumes and opened it, inhaling deeply the scent of its pages. She’d flushed at being caught, and had tried to appear nonchalant.
“There is something about the smell of new pages,” she’d explained.
He’d nodded. “I understand entirely, Miss Darling.”
Replacing the book, she’d allowed him to guide her to the nursery, where they had found Henry and his nanny, Mrs. Beecham. The boy was introduced to her briefly before the nanny ushered him off for his afternoon nap, though the meeting had gone swimmingly. She’d found Henry a charming, handsome lad with a golden head of hair a few shades darker than his mother’s, and blue eyes that twinkled with mischief and good humor. The smirk he’d given her while shaking her hand had reminded her of her elder brother.
She knew that look well, and had thought to expect a prank of some sort on her first day teaching him. The thought had made her smile. One of the things she missed most about living at Oakmoor was repaying Michael for some lark or another, and having someone to continue the tradition with at Buckton would make her feel much more at home.
From there, she’d been taken to the dining room, where Mr. Welby invited her to take lunch with him and a handful of other upper servants. They did not eat in the room off the back of the kitchen where the lower servants dined—one more thing separating them, she supposed. The fare at Buckton proved beyond decent, yet another mark in its favor.
After the meal, Mr. Welby had taken her through the rest of the house, pointing out a small library, a lovely solarium with doors that opened onto a terrace overlooking the cherry grove, and several drawing rooms. From there, he’d returned her to her chamber, where her trunks had been delivered and sat waiting for her to unpack. She had taken the rest of that afternoon making herself at home in the spacious, sunny bedroom. She’d filled the armoire with her most modest and efficient garments—taking care to fold and tuck away her men’s togs, which she liked to wear while riding or romping outdoors. Her sister-in-law had made her aware of the benefits of donning breeches, and Lydia often found she preferred them over gowns.
Then, she’d arranged all her toilette items on the washstand, draped her dressing gown over the back of a plush armchair that sat near the bed, and settled the miniature, framed portraits of her family on the bedside table. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she’d stared at the likeness of her brothers, mother, sisters-in-law, and nieces and nephews. The family had grown by leaps and bounds during her time away, with Archie and Hesper adding a fourth child to their brood, and Michael siring a daughter and a son on Amelia within two years. It made her glad to see them so happy; yet, it was also difficult to see—watching them all grow and change, so in love with each other and so blissfully content. All it did was remind her of the one glimmer of passion, desire, and happiness she’d had with another person … a fleeting moment that had changed her forever.
After her kiss with the mysterious stranger, she’d been unable to muster even an ounce of interest in another man—resulting in a miserable Season. She’d looked for him everywhere, kept an ear out for the sound of his voice, searched the face of every stranger of the male sex she’d encountered for those dark, velvety eyes. Despair had set in then, as she’d realized he had stayed true to his word that they would never see one another again. Because she had not known his name, it had been impossible to ask about him. It had occurred to her to describe him to Amelia and ask if she might be acquainted with him, but had decided against it.
What was she to say?
Oh, dear sister, I believe I’ve fallen in love with a stranger who kissed me while sitting in a tree in a garden at a ball. He has the most beautiful dark brown hair and eyes to match, the most perfect lips I’ve ever seen, and a voice that could turn a woman’s knees to jelly. He also happens to be the bastard son of a viscount. Could you kindly help me discover his identity?
Snorting at herself, she had flopped back onto her neatly made bed.
“Pitiful,” she’d muttered aloud.
For all she knew, the man had been fabricated by her desperate, lonely mind. Perhaps he did not exist at all. How foolish she’d been to imagine herself in love with a phantom.
Yet, bringing the tips of her fingers over her lips, she had remembered his kiss so clearly, even after four long years. He had certainlyfeltreal. Closing her eyes, she had imagined the thrilling moment he had pulled her against him, fitting that perfect mouth of his over hers. Lydia’s pulse had raced as she’d recalled the taste of him, his scent flooding her senses, his strong hands touching her, holding her as if loath to let her go.
A light fluttering between her thighs had made her whimper, and she’d squeezed her legs together, trying to stifle it.
What good would come from remembering and allowing herself to long for him yet again? She had resolved to move forward with her life, finding fulfillment by engaging her mind, by shunning closeness with anyone. While she could not pretend she’d been particularly happy, she could say that she was content, that she’d been safe away from eyes that examined her too closely … from her family, who despite their best intentions, would never understand what she’d gone through.
Thus resolved, she’d left the bed and quit the room altogether, determined to make the best of this new opportunity. The rest of her time before dinner had been spent exploring the house, taking her time in the rooms Mr. Welby had already shown her, then venturing outdoors to lose herself in the beauty of Buckton’s grounds. She’d wandered so far and for so long that exhaustion had claimed her shortly after dinner, prompting her to turn in early.
Beginning that next day, Lydia had fallen into the comfort of a familiar routine. Each morning, she took breakfast in the dining room with the upper servants before going to the nursery to collect Henry from his nanny. She began by assessing the boy to determine what he already knew, and found him as bright as his mother had claimed. He could recognize all of his letters and write a few with a neat hand. He excelled at recognizing his numbers, and had duly impressed her with how high he could count. He could also introduce himself in French and had memorized a handful of phrases with an expertise many adults she knew did not possess. She’d decided to begin by teaching him to write his letters and numbers—something he took to with an ease that hardly surprised her.
As she’d suspected, they got on well together, the prank Henry had pulled on her setting the tone for their relationship on the very first day. When she had gone to sit in the chair behind her desk, her eyes had widened at the feel of something mushy and wet soaking her left buttock through the layers of her gown, petticoat, and chemise. Custard, if she hadn’t missed her guess based on its consistency.
Lydia hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash, nor had she taken Henry to task for the custard in her chair. In fact, she had simply launched into the first day’s lesson, keeping a straight face and level voice the entire time. The boy had gone from snickering behind one hand, to staring at her in confusion, to sulking over his slate while forming his letter ‘A’. She’d struggled not to laugh when he had glanced up at her every few seconds as if to determine whether she’d noticed that she sat in a puddle of pudding.
