“What would you need Mrs. Ebersole for?” Hester’s lips pulled together.
“Preparations.”
“Preparations?” This was bound to be unpleasant.
“Goodness, you sound like a parrot.” He took a forkful of eggs. “I’m having a little house party here at Blackbird Heath. Well, more an excuse to play cards while watching the chickens, I suppose. You were correct in assuming I’d grow bored in the country, so I’ve invited some of my friends from London for a visit.”
Shocked, Hester couldn’t think of how to respond. London gentlemen invading the sanctity of her home? To play cards? In Lincolnshire? Good lord, what if Sinclair wagered Blackbird Heath?
“Would you mind passing over the currant jelly?” he drawled.
Her fingers closed over the jar, considering what would happen if she bludgeoned him with it while he enjoyed his eggs. Mrs. Ebersole would clean up the mess. Probably help Hester hide the body.
She pushed the jelly across the table.
“Thank you.” The green of his eyes landed on her, warmth and amusement dancing in the depths.
The delicious feeling, like spooling honey sank into her skin, sliding down between her breasts to tighten into a loose knot between her thighs. Insistently fluttering no matter how she pushed her legs together.
“I hardly think Blackbird Heath an appropriate destination for a house party, Sinclair. What will you do, throw dice while I milk the cows in the barn?” Hester had terrible visions of finely dressed idiots tramping through her fields. Scaring her chickens. Making Mrs. Ebersole wish to commit murder.
Sinclair put down his fork. “Blackbird Heath is lovely for all that you’ve turned this once stately manor into a farm.”
“I didn’t—” Hester tried to put a damper on her rising anger. “If you think that inviting a troupe of gin-swilling card players to prance around in the manure for a few days will induce me to vacate the premises, you are incorrect.” She tossed down her toast.
“I hadn’t imagined you to be so dramatic. Gin swilling? Brandy, perhaps. French wine, at the very least. I’m having trouble locating the whiskey I happen to enjoy. Mrs. Ebersole will come up with an adequate menu. But no cabbage.” His eyes narrowed on her.
This was ridiculous. Blackbird Heath was a farm. Not a sanctuary for card players from London. “How do you expect to pay for this house party?”
“How do you think, Mrs. Black?” Sinclair picked up his fork once more. “As you’ve so often told me, the estate is profitable. My friends and I may find being in the country so amusing Blackbird Heath might become a regular destination. I could hold a house party at least twice a year, possibly more.”
Hester’s mouth popped open.
“I’ve finally made you speechless with excitement.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a mischievous grin. “Thankfully, I’ve found an excellent purveyor of spirits in Horncastle. Don’t worry, I won’t overtax Mrs. Ebersole. Depending on how things go.” Sinclair took another bite of eggs. “I’ll hire a chef and extra servants.”
The expense for nothing more than amusement. “The farm can’t afford—”
“I disagree.” A commanding note entered the previously jovial conversation and his eyes took on the hardness of emeralds. “After all, I’ve examined the ledgers.”
A squeak came from Hester.
“This is the arrangement you wished, isn’t it? I take the majority of the profits for my pursuits, and you managemyproperty.”
Yes, but she hadn’t expected him to actually look at the ledgers to see how much was at his disposal. Joshua rarely did. After a time, he simply took whatever she offered. But if she’d known Sinclair would actually review the accounts, she would have madeadjustments. As she had with her husband.
“I can see that your previous offer no longer seems so agreeable. Two of my guests are financiers in London. It is their opinion I should sell Blackbird Heath, but perhaps you can convince them why I should not.”
Hester tossed down her toast. The alternative, Hester supposed, would be to tolerate a round of snooty Londoners invading her home, disturbing her animals and crops. The bees didn’t do well when interrupted in their honey making. Mrs. Ebersole was an adequate housekeeper but unprepared to prepare the sort of lavish meals Sinclair would demand. Hester wasn’t even sure they had enough linens for all the beds. The other rooms upstairs had been shut up for years.
“I’m not leaving, Mr. Sinclair,” she finally bit out.
“I don’t expect you will,” he answered, once more digging into his eggs.
Chapter Eleven
Drew struggled notto laugh and spit out his mouthful of eggs. Hester was woefully transparent. She’d be a terrible card player. The upcoming invasion had so thoroughly unsettled her that her luscious mouth had pulled into a tiny, tight rosette. Not to mention the way she kept eyeing the jar of currant jelly as if it were a weapon.
Honestly, the thought of Hester attacking him over the breakfast table was highly arousing. Those sleek legs, usually only discerned through a pair of baggy men’s trousers she sometimes wore, would wrap tightly, strangling him like that poor garden snake had attempted to. They’d both be naked, of course. She’d be intent on murdering him and—
