Page 15 of Her Beautiful Bastard
She had. She’d believed him so ardently that she had manufactured an entire future for them in her mind. Lydia had imagined it so many times—Sinclair appearing at one of the parties in London, spying her from across the room. He’d smile, relieved to see her, regretting that they’d parted ways that night. He’d ask her to dance and tell her his name … he’d call upon her at Ashton House, where she’d taken up residence for the Season. He’d woo her with honeyed words, sweet kisses, and secret caresses. Then, one day, he would declare his love for her and ask her to be his wife. She’d imagined their wedding night while touching herself, stroking her body to climax … thought over how many children they might have and what their names would be.
“Idiot,” she spat, shaking her head, appalled at herself for such naiveté.
No matter. He had made a fool out of her once; he would not do so again. She was here to educate Henry. Mr. Clayton, who she’d been told was rarely in residence at Buckton, would not ruin this for her—the final chance she had at securing and keeping a long-term position.
As she neared Mr. Welby’s office, she fixed her face into a genial mask, hoping it adequately concealed her anger and despair. She had splashed her face with cold water several times more before leaving her chamber, and it had helped with the redness of her cheeks caused by weeping. When she lingered in the open doorway of the steward, she presented the bland façade of an unassuming governess.
The man glanced up from his work when she cleared her throat. A genuine smile brightened his features, and he stood, motioning for her to come inside.
“Miss Darling,” Welby said, his voice as warm and welcoming as the day they’d met. “I trust you are enjoying your day off.”
Forcing a smile, she sank into one of the chairs facing his desk, folding her hands in her lap. “I am, thank you. You wished to see me?”
He sat again, leaning back in his chair with the casual air of a man comfortable in his surroundings, as much a part of Buckton as the cherry trees and fine furniture.
“Yes,” he replied. “Mr. Clayton has asked me to inform you that your wages are to be increased.”
Outwardly, she showed no reaction to Welby’s words. However, her insides whirled in a chaotic storm of emotions. Confusion, first and foremost, anger quickly coming on is heels and overwhelming it all. Lydia’s stomach churned as she thought over all the reasons Mr. Clayton might wish to increase her pay. Silence, perhaps?
Her tone was more clipped than she intended when she replied. “I see. I was led to believe that Lady Clayton would be handling the matter of Henry’s education as well as my employment here. I was quite content with the two-hundred-fifty pounds per annum she so generously offered. It is far more than I was paid at my previous posts.”
Welby’s eyebrows knit together, and he inclined his head, studying her as if trying to puzzle out her sudden shift in demeanor. “While that is certainly true, Mr. Clayton has the final say in all financial matters—including the payment of Buckton’s staff. He is quite generous with pay for all his servants and employees. When apprised of your salary, he informed me that he wished the amount doubled to five hundred pounds per annum.”
Lydia fumbled for words as Mr. Welby’s reply sank in, jarring her quite effectively. “Five hundred? Mr. Welby, the amount is absurd! No governess I’ve ever known can command such a sum.”
The steward smiled at that, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps not, but then, those governesses never worked at Buckton.”
“I cannot accept that,” she argued, her hands clenching together in her lap, fingers aching from how hard she gripped. “It is too much.”
It was too much for a governess to command. But what if Mr. Clayton had something else in mind? What if he thought paying her so much money entitled him to demand other things from her—indecent things? Her face reddened with equal parts embarrassment and rage. What would the rest of the household think of her should word of her obscene salary become known?
“Mr. Clayton has demanded it, and as steward, it is my job to distribute pay to the household staff,” he informed her. “You will be paid five hundred pounds per annum for as long as you are employed here, unless Mr. Clayton says otherwise.”
Pinching her lips together, she fought the urge to declare that Mr. Clayton could go to the devil. She did not think the steward would think so highly of her if she allowed that to slip.
“I understand,” she said after getting her wayward tongue under control. “Is that all?”
Mr. Welby nodded. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Darling.”
Relieved to be dismissed, she rose and gave the man a little nod. “I will. Thank you, Mr. Welby.”
His only reply was another one of those genial smiles, so she turned to leave, clenching her shaking hands around the skirt of her gown. Her skin still felt hot, too tightly stretched over her flesh, so she made a beeline for the front doors. She burst out onto the front steps, squinting against the late afternoon sun. It wasn’t proper for her to be out in the open without a hat and shawl or spencer, and she supposed that ought to make her concerned over what her employers might think should they catch her being so indecorous.
Yet, she could not bring herself to care, holding up her skirts as she descended the front steps, setting off in no direction in particular. It was her day to do with as she pleased, and just now, she needed the soft breeze and the warmth of the sun on her face. Going back inside where she might encounter Mr. Clayton was out of the question.
As she drew farther away from the house, Lydia began to turn over her current dilemma in her mind, examining it from all angles. Abandoning her post within a fortnight of accepting the job was not an option. She could not afford the blow to her reputation as a governess. She would be seen as unreliable, inadequate, someone who should not be taken seriously. Besides, she had no desire to leave, not when she and Henry got along so well.
The small problem of Mr. Clayton was easily remedied. At the first opportunity, she would simply inform him that she was not a whore who could be bought, and she had no intention of telling anyone what had happened between them in that garden, so he had no need to purchase her silence. She was here to take on the education of his son, nothing more. He would be made to understand that, and Lydia would go on with her life, doing her best to pretend he did not exist. With any luck, the man would leave on business or some other pretense, freeing her from the vexation of his presence.
By the time she had reached the stables, she felt better about the entire thing, her mind slightly eased. A nice walk or ride always helped her to clear her head and manage her thoughts, this time proving no exception. She smiled at the scent of hay and horse that came at her from the wooden structure, the smells reminding her of home. Oakmoor boasted massive stables, with large paddocks built around them, where the family’s horses were brought out for exercise and training.
She missed Apollo, the palomino quarter horse Michael and Amelia had purchased as a gift for her eighteenth birthday. The last time she’d visited home, she had taken him for long, bracing rides across the estate, reveling in the feel of the beast between her legs and the whip of wind through her unbound hair. That visit felt so far behind her, a lifetime of hurt and loneliness stretching between herself and the girl who had loved to ride so recklessly. In truth, that girl now seemed like a different person than who she’d become, someone she no longer knew.
So lost in thought was she, as she paced toward the open doors of the stable, hoping to simply take a look at the animals inside, that she did not hear the rumble of his voice until it was too late. She came up short just within the building, breath catching at the sound of those deep, warm tones echoing through the space and filling it until there was room for little else.
Lydia spied him on the far end of the stable, crouched on one knee and affectionately petting a massive bloodhound while a second beast lay on the ground just beside him. The one he petted panted and snorted, the little sounds holding the excitement of a dog thrilled at the return of its master. Its tail whipped back and forth through the air, declaring for all the world its joy.
“Who’s a good boy?” Sinclair murmured, using both hands to chafe the dog’s short coat, a broad grin pulling back his mouth to expose his teeth. “Yes, I missed you, too, Barkley.”
