Sunlight streamed through the window behind Hester, keeping her in shadow while near blinding him. He blinked, unable to see her clearly, which was intentional on her part. She’d wanted a moment to take Sinclair’s measure before he tried to take ownership of Blackbird Heath.
“Thank you, Mrs. Ebersole.” Hester tilted her chin, observing the tall, lean gentleman before her.
Hester’s pulse skipped twice before settling.
Handsome. Hester would give Sinclair that much. Far younger than she’d imagined him to be. Well-dressed, which she’d expected for a gentleman of his pursuits. Joshua had always possessed a fine wardrobe. Sinclair’s cravat was snowy white and perfectly twisted but absent of ornamentation. Not that Sinclair required additional adornment, not a man of his magnificence.
A rake of the first order.
The mossy green of his eyes, flashing like emeralds as the light slid across his sculpted features, widened at the sight of her. A brilliant, disarming smile pulled at the sensual mouth in greeting, one she assumed Sinclair used often and to great effect.
Hester was not immune. Her heart fluttered once more, though dislike of him threatened to spill out of her.
“Mrs. Black, I presume.”
“Mr. Sinclair.” Her tone was crisp and polite.
He took a step closer, and Hester caught the scent of cedar and leather hovering around his broad shoulders. Sinclair’s movements were smooth. Practiced. Casually strutting across her study like a barnyard cat looking for a spot in the sun, but much more overtly carnal in nature. Used to drawing the gaze of any woman with whom he crossed paths. He did everything but pose before Hester in all his masculine glory. How many skirts had been lifted with just a wink from those mossy green eyes?
Hester was not impressed. Yes, Sinclair was glorious, but she knew what lay beneath that handsome interior. The overindulgence of a pampered existence. Her hands were likely rougher than his.
“Now that we have those introductions out of the way.” Sinclair slid into the chair across from Hester, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. The fabric of his trousers pulled at the muscles of his thighs, once more drawing her eye without Hester’s permission.
The barest prickling rippled along her skin, the awareness of the large, attractive man just across from her. Unexpected and unwanted. More annoyance than anything else.
She quickly jerked her gaze away.
He was nothing more than a practiced flirt possessed of a charming manner. A manner that was meant to lure Hester into complacency so that he could rip out Blackbird Heath from beneath her.
What arrogance.
“I trust your journey from London was without incident, Mr. Sinclair.”
As if on cue, the maid, Mary, arrived with a tea tray. She bobbed politely, tried not to stare at Sinclair, who frankly, was well worth staring at though Hester hated to admit to it, then bustled out.
“Pleasant enough.” Sinclair agreed in his posh London accent. Another reason to dislike him. She found those from London spoke with a high degree of snobbishness. “I confess, Mrs. Black, I’m surprised. I expected you to be…more Mr. Black’s contemporary.”
A nice way of saying Sinclair had hoped Hester would be a woman of advanced years that he could conveniently ship elsewhere while he stripped Blackbird Heath and sold it.
Her hands curled into fists before she relaxed once more.
“I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Mr. Sinclair.” Pouring out two cups of tea, Hester tried not to glance at her hands as she placed one before him. She should have worn gloves, but the only pair she possessed with a size too large and meant for physical labor.
“Oh, I didn’t say I was disappointed. Only surprised.” The discerning green perused her, lingering overly long on Hester’s waist and bosom.
Cur.
“You, Mr. Sinclair, are exactly as I expected.” Hester stared boldly back at him.
Sinclair’s lips twisted into a half-smile, probably wondering why his usual tactics were having little effect on Hester. “I’m not partial to tea, Mrs. Black. Do you have something stronger? Whiskey, perhaps? Anything Irish?”
Of course. Why not spirits? It was barely noon. The true mark of a gentleman who lived for excess. “I believe there is a bottle at the sideboard. I’m uncertain of its provenance. My husband preferred brandy.” She made to stand.
Sinclair waved her down. “I’ll help myself with your permission.”
How polite. Civilized. It was all Hester could do to keep from screaming that he owned everything at Blackbird Heath but her, so why bother to ask. Slowly inhaling through her nose, she willed the anger at her situation to abate. A loss of temper would be disastrous, especially if she wished to reach an agreement with him.
He smiled at her once more as he sauntered over to the sideboard. Hester half expected him to wink at her.
