Page 13 of Her Beautiful Bastard
“You look quite the gentleman,” he said aloud, smoothing a wayward lock of hair back from the boy’s forehead. “Are you being a good pupil for your new governess? Charles tells me she is good.”
Henry nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes, Papa. Miss Darling is ever so nice … she even plays pranks!”
He smirked at that, understanding the importance of this to his son. The boy liked nothing better than to get the best of someone. It was nice to know that this governess would not be chased off as easily as the others.
“I should go introduce myself,” he said, leaving Henry lingering near the desk and coming farther into the schoolroom.
The governess had put her chalk aside, but still had her back to him. He noticed her smoothing her hair; she seemed to take a moment to compose herself. He felt terrible about imposing on her during their lessons, but had wanted to meet the woman who had taken on the education of his son.
“You must be the new governess,” he said, trying to keep his tone light and put her at ease. “Welby tells me nothing but good things.”
Tension gripped her, making itself apparent in the way she squared her shoulders and straightened her back before turning to face him. He wondered if Drucilla had told her something unflattering about him. He certainly would not put it past her.
She seemed hesitant to face him, to speak or move or even breathe. Yet, she did move, turning to present him with the rest of her.
What he found stole the air from his lungs.
A pair of vibrant, cornflower-blue eyes met his, ringed with long, spiky lashes the perfect shade of gold. They went wide at the sight of him, recognition flickering in the depths. His own gaze began to wander, tracing over the lines and planes of a heart-shaped face, taking inventory of all the things that called to mind an evening in a dark garden, hidden away from the world and theton. A night that had changed him profoundly, in a way that only he could see or feel. This face … he could never have forgotten such a face. The wisps of perfectly shaped eyebrows over those enchanting eyes, the softness of cheeks that had flushed when he’d put his lips to her wrist, the shape of a mouth made for kissing, the tiny cleft in her chin that lent character to a face that might otherwise have been thought unassuming. But, if anyone thought her plain, they simply were not paying attention. Beauty was written into every one of her features, with sensual allure embedded in the lush curves of a body made for sin. Even that prim little gown and apron couldn’t hide her from him—the breasts he’d remembered being pressed against his chest, the softness of a waist that wasn’t overly thin, the flare of hips that could fill his hands and cradle him with softness and warmth.
No, he wasn’t seeing things. It was her, after all this time, here, standing in front of him.
He could hardly find the presence of mind to consider the ramifications of this, not when the breath he’d been holding came out on a sigh of relief. He felt as if he’d been waiting for her for every day of the four years that had separated them … and now, here she stood.
Despite now knowing her name, he couldn’t help the word that fell from his lips; a word he hadn’t uttered aloud to anyone since the night he’d given it to her.
“Angel?”
CHAPTER THREE
For a long moment, Lydia was incapable of speech. She could only stand there, eyes wide, mouth hanging open as she soaked him in. Her stranger in the flesh, his presence a heady reminder that she hadn’t dreamt their encounter four years ago—solidifying her memories of him with his scent, his nearness, the impact of his allure. Her dark, beautiful mystery … but no, not a mystery anymore, not a stranger. He was Mr. Sinclair Clayton, the father of her pupil. Thehusbandof her mistress, Lady Clayton.
The shock of it doused her like the splash of frigid water thrown in her face, and she shook her head, breaking the haze that had fallen over her at the sight of him. He, however, seemed to be lost in that place, his gaze roaming over her as if memorizing every inch, his hand coming up as if to touch her face.
She recoiled with a gasp, backpedaling just in time to avoid his touch. Her cheek burned as if his fingertips had made contact, the painful realization that she wanted them to rippling out from the center of her chest. Of course he could not touch her—he could never touch her again. He was her employer, and she a governess hired to join the ranks of the servants who cared for his family.
God … the man she’d spent four years fantasizing about and longing for had afamily. He had a wife, and a son, and had obviously moved on from their encounter in that garden.
Clearing his throat, he seemed to remember himself, coming back to the present as abruptly as she had. Inclining his head at her, he gave her a little smile. It was forced, holding none of the seductive promise she remembered from that night in London.
“Sinclair Clayton, at your service,” he said, his voice a bit strained, the warmth she’d heard when he had addressed Henry gone.
She executed a swift curtsy, lowering her eyes so she did not have to look into the velvety brown depths of his. “Miss Lydia Darling. It is good to meet you, my lord.”
A little sound escaped him—a derisive snort. “Mr. Clayton will do. Becoming wealthy and marrying the daughter of a marquis were not quite enough to endow me with the title of Lord.”
Her face flamed hot, and a mass of horrified embarrassment dropped heavy in her gut. She’d known that, had been taught the difference in the various ranks and how to address them. She was also well aware that the circumstances of this man’s birth meant he would never be called ‘lord’ despite his father being a viscount.
His sudden reappearance had muddled her mind, and now, she was making a complete fool of herself.
“Yes, of course,” she managed. “Mr. Clayton.”
Silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity. She felt him looking at her again, felt the stroke of his eyes to the far reaches of her body.
“Henry tells me he has enjoyed having you as his governess thus far,” he said suddenly, the words coming out rushed, as if he’d just plucked them out of thin air.
Her gaze settled on the boy, peering at her from around his father’s leg—a safer place for her to set her eyes. “Yes, we are getting on quite well. Henry is a bright child, as I am certain you already know. He takes to numbers especially well.”
Sinclair beamed down at his son, the pride and love he felt toward the lad on full display. “That is good to hear. I do apologize for imposing on you in the middle of your lesson, but I have been away for weeks and could not wait to see Henry.”
