Dobbins stood just to the side of the house, waiting for Drew’s signal to help with the unloading of the coach. Hester had protested, stating she needed him to go to Horncastle for chicken feed, but Drew insisted.
The driver hopped down; no doubt grateful for the assistance of Dobbins in unloading a large trunk from atop the conveyance. Constance’s, no doubt. The trunk sat like a small mountain next to the three valises the men brought for their short stay.
Constance waved at Drew, laughing merrily as Worth came to help her with the stumbling Grout. She paused to give him a seductive look before moving inside.
Hester, in her plain cotton nightgown, with dark copper dancing along her cheek, flitted before his eyes. The sounds she’d made as he kissed her, revealing the passionate nature trapped inside the strident, unrelenting shell she presented to the world. He’d been undone last night after she fled the study, wanting nothing more than to take her to bed. It might be the only way Drew would ever have the last word.
What the hell has happened to me?
Mrs. Ebersole, dour as a bloodhound who’d lost the scent of a rabbit, greeted them at the door.
“Mrs. Ebersole,” Drew said to the housekeeper, glancing behind her to see if Hester was nearby. “Is Mrs. Black available? I should like to make introductions.” The entire point of inviting his London friends to Blackbird Heath was to impress upon Hester what she could expect in the future should she not relent and vacate the premises. He’d thought her anger at him, both for the kiss and the house party, would prompt her to at least snarl at him and his guests from the parlor.
“The potato fields.” She took in Constance with a sniff of disbelief. “Don’t expect she’ll be back for some time.”
Drew gritted his teeth. Hester had deliberately made herself scarce. Well, she had to come back sometime.
*
Good lord.
Hester glanced in the direction of the house, the raucous laughter emanating from a table set up next to her kitchen garden lighting the air. Not content to stay indoors on such a lovely day to play cards, they’d stomped Hester’s rosemary and dill while playing games and swilling spirits. The vehicle conveying Sinclair’s friends to Blackbird Heath arrived hours ago, yet Hester had so far declined to make an appearance. She was in a foul mood. Not only because of this stupid house party Sinclair had foisted upon her but because he’d kissed her and taken liberties.
A sigh left her.
Shamefully, Hester had allowed both.
It wasn’t only the strangers flitting about her garden and house that kept her away.
Hester had not had a great deal of affection in her life. Certainly, no physical closeness though she’d been married. Until the intimacy she’d experienced with Sinclair the previous evening, she’d no idea how much she craved the touch of a man. His hand had cupped her breast. Toyed with the nipple in such a way that the memory alone had Hester aching between the thighs. She wondered if that was the next tactic Sinclair would take to get rid of her.
Seduction.
Hester shook her head and headed in the direction of the barn.
A feminine, high-pitched giggle lit the air.
She even sounds snobbish while laughing.
Sinclair’s band of merry card players also included, much to Hester’s surprise, a woman. A shockingly beautiful one. Poor Mary, the kitchen maid, had been pressed into service as lady’s maid for the duration of the woman’s visit, while one of Mary’s sisters helped Mrs. Ebersole in the kitchens. Crates of spirits now sat in the basement, pushing aside all of Hester’s careful stores of parsnips, turnips, carrots, and the potatoes that hadn’t yet gone to seed, along with a few precious jars of tomatoes.
This ridiculous house party of Sinclair’s was costing Hester a small fortune. If he continued to invite his friends too often, he’d bankrupt Blackbird Heath within a year. No wonder he’d been poring through the account books. Searching for every bit of coin he could command. Hester had grown accustomed to carefully hiding some of the profits when Joshua was alive and thankfully had continued to do so. She hoped Sinclair hadn’t noticed.
The woman laughed once more, deep and sensual, the sound floating to Hester along with the breeze stirring the grass.
Was there no escape?
She strode into the barn, settling herself atop a small three-legged stool she used for milking. Her scheme of convincing one of Sinclair’s friends to help her keep Blackbird Heath now seemed ludicrous after peering at the group through the bushes surrounding the garden. The gentlemen were well-dressed and the woman, a lady. Nothing short of glorious, dressed in crimson with jet dangling from her ears.
The idea that Hester Black, work-worn hands and unspectacular bosom, charming any one of the gentlemen in the garden, was mad. Her deficits in both appearance and breeding were glaring when placed next to that gorgeous creature stomping on the poor thyme and parsley. The gown Hester had purchased with such hope and determination yesterday now seemed foolish, for Mrs. Tartt couldn’t possibly compete with a London modiste. She should have bought the bat guano being sold for fertilizer instead.
“Or better yet, put the coin aside,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m going to need every farthing if Sinclair keeps this up.”
She’d spoken at length with Mrs. Ebersole this morning and explained how she found Sinclair, omitting the obvious. The housekeeper was in agreement that Sinclair had likely been in his cups, and if he hadn’t merely stumbled into the stone wall of the house, possibly he’d had an altercation with a farmhand, but it seemed unlikely.
Maybe it had all been a ploy to either garner Hester’s sympathy to make it easier to seduce her, or start a trail of false accusations which might force her from Blackbird Heath. A shame really, because for the first and probably only time in her life, Hester had felt…desirable. Even though she’d been wearing an ancient nightgown so patched and mended it more resembled a quilt than anything else.
Why did it have to be Sinclair who’d made her feel wanted?
