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.
“Bertie, fetch Macaulay and tell him to see that Mrs. Thomalin gets home. I’ll lend her my carriage.” Sinclair made a bow to Clara. “Good night, madam.”
Clara returned the nod politely, as though they were still fully dressed in the reception room filled with people below. “Of course. Good night, Mr. McBride.”
Bertie, again pretending not to notice her, moved past Sinclair and through the door, her skirts holding her heat as they flowed past Sinclair’s legs. Sinclair followed her out, carrying Andrew up through the darkness to the bright warmth of the nursery.
By the time Bertie returned from fetching Macaulay and closed the door, Sinclair was tucking Andrew into his bed, the planned night with Clara Thomalin dissolving into nothing.
Bertie sat nearby, mending Andrew’s shirt—Andrew ripped his clothes every day, so there was always mending—listening while Sinclair told his son and daughter stories about his travels in the army.
He’d been to Egypt and the Sudan, had seen the wonders of the pyramids and tombs of civilizations long gone. The two children laughed or shivered, depending on the story, hanging on every word their father said. He really had a way with them, Bertie observed as she stitched. Pity he had to shut himself up with his dry papers and his stuffed-shirt fellow barristers all the day long.
After a while, eyes grew heavy and both Cat and Andrew began to yawn. Sinclair kissed Andrew’s forehead, then carried Cat, who’d come to Andrew’s bed to listen to the stories, back across to her own bed. He laid her in it and tucked the covers around her, making sure to include her doll.
When Sinclair turned to Bertie, however, the fatherliness fled and the sternness of the barrister returned. He beckoned for her to follow him out into the hall and firmly shut the nursery door.
“Andrew wanted to see you,” Bertie said quickly, before Sinclair could speak. “You can’t blame him.”
“I don’t. I blame you.” Sinclair folded his arms and fixed her with a severe look.