Page 10 of Her Beautiful Bastard
She’d managed to keep her composure, right up until the moment had come to approach his desk to check his work—when she’d stood, she had pressed her hand into the mess on her chair and taken it with her behind her back. Still pretending nothing was amiss, she’d braced one hand on the back of his seat and leaned over to view his work, praising him for his penmanship and reminding him to attempt to keep his lines straight. Then, she’d patted the top of his head and murmured ‘well done,’ walking away after leaving a healthy serving of the custard in his hair.
They’d shared a laugh over it, and spent the following days playing pranks on one another between lessons. Not difficult to feel affection for a boy who reminded her so much of her own brothers, and who applied himself so readily to instruction. Even after such a short time at Buckton, she had already decided that this family, this home, was her favorite. Even if she rarely saw Lady Clayton—who spent most of her time shut away in the ethereal white drawing room, where she received her many callers. While she still seemed quite ill, she also proved popular, entertaining a steady stream of visitors each day from the comfort of her preferred chaise. Henry would be sent for in the evenings to spend time with his Mama, after which he’d be returned to his nanny to prepare for bed.
Everything was going smoothly, even if her days had grown a bit predictable, monotonous, even. It was the life she’d chosen, one she had grown accustomed to. And for the nonce, she could allow herself to feel a sense of security, as Mr. Welby assured her that Lady Clayton was pleased with her work, and that Mr. Clayton would be, as well.
So accustomed to her routine had she grown, that the day a third person stepped into the schoolroom, Lydiafeltit. The air in the room seemed to vibrate with the intruder’s presence, and she knew before she’d even turned around that this was not Mrs. Beecham, Mr. Welby, or even Lady Clayton.
She’d been standing with her back to Henry, scrawling a few short words for him to begin learning to read and spell on the slate board nailed to the wall, when she’d realized they were not alone. Lydia had known even before Henry did … even before she’d registered the sound of the boy’s chair scraping back from the desk and his hurried footsteps over the floorboards.
“Papa!” the boy cried.
With a little smile, she set her chalk aside, then wiped her hands on the apron she’d tied around her waist over her morning gown—a practice she’d learned to adopt after having been governess to little boys. Their grubby hands never failed to make a ruin of her gowns. It would seem their instruction was finished for the day. Henry sounded so happy to see his father, Lydia would never dream of forcing him back into that chair.
She swept a hand over her hair to ensure it hadn’t been mussed too badly, and took a deep breath, preparing to meet her employer. Yet, when he spoke, she found herself rooted to the spot.
“Well, hello there!” Mr. Clayton exclaimed with a chuckle. “Is it possible you’ve grown this much in my absence? You appear to have shot up an entire foot since I last saw you!”
Henry laughed and said something in response, but Lydia could barely register it. She could only stand there while that deep, resonant voice vibrated through her, that belly-warming laugh suffusing her with heat from the inside out. Her palms became damp, and she clung to her apron to try to still their shaking. Her ribs seemed to constrict, robbing her of breath, making her heart hammer wildly in her chest, her mouth going dry.
No … it could not be him. She was hearing things, her imagination running away with her. Her mother had chastised her often for being prone to flights of fancy, and this proved just another instance of her mind running off to places that did not exist in reality.
But then, he spoke again, and she felt certain—absolutely certain—that she had heard things correctly.
“You must be the new governess,” he said to her back. “Welby tells me nothing but good things.”
Her spine stiffened as she steeled herself to turn and face him, to put a face she already knew to the voice that seemed to echo through her very soul with a haunting reverberation. That voice had disturbed her nights, robbed her of sleep, sent her pulse aflutter with longing … and now, it was here, in this room, in this house, wrapping itself around her like a warm blanket.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she turned, her eyes going wide as her gaze fell upon him for the first time in four years.
Her mystery gentleman … her heart’s most acute but ridiculous desire … the bane of her existence for all the havoc his memory had wreaked on her life.
Time had changed him very little. The perfection of his bone structure, the line of his jaw, the straight ridge of his nose. His eyes were as dark and fathomless as ever, even the light of the sun streaming through the schoolroom windows not enough to lighten the rich hue. His hair sat in tousled waves about his head, that one lock falling over his forehead, same as it had the night they’d met. Her stare lowered to his mouth at the memory of their kiss. His lips parted slightly, and hers followed suit, a sharp inhale flooding her senses with his scent, mingled with that of horse, leather, and the outdoors.
He spoke again, drawing her eyes back up to meet his. It was low, nearly imperceptible, but she heard him clearly when the one word fell from his lips … an incredulous question mingled with a sigh of … relief?
“Angel?”
Sinclair Clayton had never felt happier to be home. Despite owning a handful of estates ranging from opulent to modest scattered across England, he had always preferred Buckton over the rest of them. It was a testament to his hard work, to the numerous obstacles he’d overcome in order to call this place his own. He knew every part of it—every cherry tree and blade of grass, every hillock, every creek and well-worn path. He had left the house mostly as it had been left to him, as he’d fallen in love with the place on first sight.
As he’d arrived back in Hertfordshire after four weeks’ absence, he had relaxed in the saddle, a soft smile curving his mouth. No, life here was not perfect; it was where his wife preferred to reside, after all. However, it was also where his son lived, and he’d missed Henry so much, as he always did when matters of business took him away from Buckton. It was where he felt most at peace, the one place where he did not have to bear the scorn or curiosity that inevitably followed someone finding out he was the bastard son of the late Lord Clayton.
He made haste to the stables, leaving behind the coach and driver bearing his belongings. Sinclair had never been able to abide staying in a cloistered carriage for long periods of time, preferring the open air of the outdoors and sitting astride his own horse. It got him to the stables quickly, where he dismounted and handed the reins off to a groom before making his way toward the house at a trot. After his long ride, he was in need of a hot bath, clean clothing, and a meal, but he would greet his family first.
He grinned at the thought of appearing in Drucilla’s sitting room wearing dusty boots, no cravat, and his most worn, comfortable frock coat. She valued appearances as much as any other well-bred woman born to privilege, and nothing irked her more than him tramping about their perfectly decorated home in a state of dishabille.
He took the front steps two at a time, a wide smile breaking out over his face. He had so few joys in life, so he would take much pleasure from standing close enough for her to catch wind of the scent of horse and the outdoors clinging to him.
The front doors swung open, and he found Amberly, the butler, awaiting him with a smile. “Welcome home, Mr. Clayton.”
“Thank you, Amberly,” he replied, pausing to clap the man on the shoulder.
Drucilla often accused him of being too familiar with the help, but he’d never seen the sense of putting on airs when everyone in Hertfordshire knew who he was and where he’d come from. Who was he to look down on people who must work for a living, when he himself knew what it was like to be in their position? In many ways, he identified with them—how it felt to be looked down upon, perceived as ‘less than.’ Thinking of his servants as family instead of people to be ill-treated was another one of those things that made Buckton feel like his true home.
“Shall I send for a bath and a meal?” the butler offered.
“Just the meal for now,” he replied, removing his gloves and handing them off to an approaching footman, along with his hat. “Have it sent to my chambers. The bath can wait until after I’ve greeted Drucilla and Henry.”
Combing his fingers through his undoubtedly mussed hair, he watched Amberly bustle off to do his bidding. Just before he set off for the staircase, he found his steward, Charles Welby, striding toward him, an ever-present smile on his face.
