Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 28
Which was empty. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented, and Andrew McBride was nowhere in sight.
Chapter 8
Satiation. That was key. When bodily needs overtook the senses, it was time to relieve them so one could concentrate. Even doctors said that.
Sinclair looked into Clara Thomalin’s eyes as he shut the door on his upstairs study, taking in her smile, her blue eyes, her pleasing curves. She was pretty, willing, and as lonely as he was. Nothing wrong with passing a night together. They were grown people, had both been married and could be discreet, knowing the way of the world.
So why did Sinclair feel so much reluctance? This was bodily passion alone—it was for Clara as well, he could see. They’d come together, soothe their desires, and return to everyday life.
Clara’s smile widened as Sinclair slid off his frock coat then came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her bodice was cut to expose much flesh—shoulders, upper arms, and br**sts to just above her ni**les. Clara’s skin was cool, not much heat in it, and its color was what ladies called alabaster. Pure white, like a statue. A woman who hid herself from the sun.
Was the rest of her body as pale? Clara had very fair hair, true blond, no artifice. Which meant her hair elsewhere wouldn’t have much color either.
A contrast flashed through his mind—a young woman with dark hair, pink cheeks, and a mouth widening in delighted laughter. A Cockney accent and a teasing tone while she told him exactly what she thought of him.
Sinclair closed his eyes, shutting out the vision, as his lips met Clara’s cool ones. Clara knew exactly how to kiss—her answering pressure was demure enough to indicate she didn’t have this sort of liaison all the time, firm enough to tell him she’d shared a bed with a man before and liked it.
No unpracticed but enthusiastic kisses that meant she was excited to be kissing him. No shy smile when she drew back, no excited laughter.
Don’t think about it. Just get on with it.
Sinclair slid one arm around Clara and pulled her up to him. She wasn’t any warmer when closer.
He moved his hand to her br**sts. Clara exhaled in satisfaction, but good Lord, this woman’s skin was cold. Perhaps he should summon a doctor—
Thump. Thump. “Mr. McBride?”
Sinclair ripped away from Clara, his heart banging. She stepped back, startled and flushing. “Who?” she mouthed.
Bertie. The name burst into Sinclair’s brain, but he said nothing.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. McBride.” Bertie’s voice was stiff and stilted, trying to mask the London backstreets in her words. “I need to come in.”
“The governess,” Sinclair said softly. He put a hand on Clara’s chilled shoulder. A shawl—that’s what the woman needed. It was December, for pity’s sake, and she’d bared a good portion of her body to the winter air. Astonishing she wasn’t sniffling with a head cold. “I’d better see to it.”
Clara nodded, understanding. She had children, she’d told Sinclair, two grown sons. They’d spent most of their childhood at school and now university. She’d looked surprised when Sinclair had mentioned that Andrew hadn’t yet been shipped off to a school.
Sinclair strode to the door and wrenched it open before he remembered he was in his shirtsleeves. Bertie stood on the threshold, her eyes bright, but not with mirth. She took in his loosened shirt and rumpled waistcoat with a look that told him she knew exactly what was going on in here.
“Andrew is missing,” she announced.
Clara, hidden from Bertie’s view by the door, looked concerned. Sinclair gave her the faintest shake of his head.
“Andrew is frequently missing,” he said to Bertie. “Find Macaulay and ask him to help you search the house. Macaulay knows all his hiding places.”
“I don’t have to search the house,” Bertie said. She had so much color in her—dark blue eyes, pretty flush of her cheek, red lips. “I know exactly where he is. If you’ll just let me . . .”
Bertie ducked under Sinclair’s arm and into the room before he could stop her. Her warmth spilled over Sinclair as she brushed past, and he wanted to lean into her, gathering her heat to him. He’d tumble her mussed hair, bury his face in it.
Bertie walked past Clara, pretending not to notice her, and heaved open the double pocket doors that led to Sinclair’s bedchamber. She swept inside Sinclair’s bedroom without hesitation, striding straight to his bed.
The room inside was dim, only one gaslight turned low for illumination. Bertie turned the light up with a competent hand, and threw back the covers from a lump in the middle of the bed.
Andrew exploded out of the blankets, launching himself directly at Sinclair, who staggered back as he caught his son.
“Papa!” Andrew shouted, flinging his arms around his father’s neck. “I was waiting for you!”
Andrew was so warm. Love flooded Sinclair, and he gathered his son to him in a hard embrace. Andrew’s love poured back over him, the boy generous with it. Holding him was like waking from a bad dream to relieving reality.
Andrew soon squirmed, not liking to be confined. “Put me to bed, Papa. And tell me a story.”
Sinclair was supposed to grow outraged, thump Andrew to his feet, thrust him at Bertie, and snap at her to mind her charges. Banish his only son so that he could get back to the business of carnal satisfaction.
“All right, Andrew,” Sinclair said. “I’ll take you up.”
He glanced at Clara, who looked disappointed but also understanding. The understanding made Sinclair soften a little toward her. She couldn’t help that her skin was as cold as a dead fish’s.
Chapter 8
Satiation. That was key. When bodily needs overtook the senses, it was time to relieve them so one could concentrate. Even doctors said that.
Sinclair looked into Clara Thomalin’s eyes as he shut the door on his upstairs study, taking in her smile, her blue eyes, her pleasing curves. She was pretty, willing, and as lonely as he was. Nothing wrong with passing a night together. They were grown people, had both been married and could be discreet, knowing the way of the world.
So why did Sinclair feel so much reluctance? This was bodily passion alone—it was for Clara as well, he could see. They’d come together, soothe their desires, and return to everyday life.
Clara’s smile widened as Sinclair slid off his frock coat then came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her bodice was cut to expose much flesh—shoulders, upper arms, and br**sts to just above her ni**les. Clara’s skin was cool, not much heat in it, and its color was what ladies called alabaster. Pure white, like a statue. A woman who hid herself from the sun.
Was the rest of her body as pale? Clara had very fair hair, true blond, no artifice. Which meant her hair elsewhere wouldn’t have much color either.
A contrast flashed through his mind—a young woman with dark hair, pink cheeks, and a mouth widening in delighted laughter. A Cockney accent and a teasing tone while she told him exactly what she thought of him.
Sinclair closed his eyes, shutting out the vision, as his lips met Clara’s cool ones. Clara knew exactly how to kiss—her answering pressure was demure enough to indicate she didn’t have this sort of liaison all the time, firm enough to tell him she’d shared a bed with a man before and liked it.
No unpracticed but enthusiastic kisses that meant she was excited to be kissing him. No shy smile when she drew back, no excited laughter.
Don’t think about it. Just get on with it.
Sinclair slid one arm around Clara and pulled her up to him. She wasn’t any warmer when closer.
He moved his hand to her br**sts. Clara exhaled in satisfaction, but good Lord, this woman’s skin was cold. Perhaps he should summon a doctor—
Thump. Thump. “Mr. McBride?”
Sinclair ripped away from Clara, his heart banging. She stepped back, startled and flushing. “Who?” she mouthed.
Bertie. The name burst into Sinclair’s brain, but he said nothing.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. McBride.” Bertie’s voice was stiff and stilted, trying to mask the London backstreets in her words. “I need to come in.”
“The governess,” Sinclair said softly. He put a hand on Clara’s chilled shoulder. A shawl—that’s what the woman needed. It was December, for pity’s sake, and she’d bared a good portion of her body to the winter air. Astonishing she wasn’t sniffling with a head cold. “I’d better see to it.”
Clara nodded, understanding. She had children, she’d told Sinclair, two grown sons. They’d spent most of their childhood at school and now university. She’d looked surprised when Sinclair had mentioned that Andrew hadn’t yet been shipped off to a school.
Sinclair strode to the door and wrenched it open before he remembered he was in his shirtsleeves. Bertie stood on the threshold, her eyes bright, but not with mirth. She took in his loosened shirt and rumpled waistcoat with a look that told him she knew exactly what was going on in here.
“Andrew is missing,” she announced.
Clara, hidden from Bertie’s view by the door, looked concerned. Sinclair gave her the faintest shake of his head.
“Andrew is frequently missing,” he said to Bertie. “Find Macaulay and ask him to help you search the house. Macaulay knows all his hiding places.”
“I don’t have to search the house,” Bertie said. She had so much color in her—dark blue eyes, pretty flush of her cheek, red lips. “I know exactly where he is. If you’ll just let me . . .”
Bertie ducked under Sinclair’s arm and into the room before he could stop her. Her warmth spilled over Sinclair as she brushed past, and he wanted to lean into her, gathering her heat to him. He’d tumble her mussed hair, bury his face in it.
Bertie walked past Clara, pretending not to notice her, and heaved open the double pocket doors that led to Sinclair’s bedchamber. She swept inside Sinclair’s bedroom without hesitation, striding straight to his bed.
The room inside was dim, only one gaslight turned low for illumination. Bertie turned the light up with a competent hand, and threw back the covers from a lump in the middle of the bed.
Andrew exploded out of the blankets, launching himself directly at Sinclair, who staggered back as he caught his son.
“Papa!” Andrew shouted, flinging his arms around his father’s neck. “I was waiting for you!”
Andrew was so warm. Love flooded Sinclair, and he gathered his son to him in a hard embrace. Andrew’s love poured back over him, the boy generous with it. Holding him was like waking from a bad dream to relieving reality.
Andrew soon squirmed, not liking to be confined. “Put me to bed, Papa. And tell me a story.”
Sinclair was supposed to grow outraged, thump Andrew to his feet, thrust him at Bertie, and snap at her to mind her charges. Banish his only son so that he could get back to the business of carnal satisfaction.
“All right, Andrew,” Sinclair said. “I’ll take you up.”
He glanced at Clara, who looked disappointed but also understanding. The understanding made Sinclair soften a little toward her. She couldn’t help that her skin was as cold as a dead fish’s.
