Page 36 of Sinfully Mine
“I assume,” her voice grew thin. “Because you perceive I insulted Lady Emerson. Or possibly that little widow.” She sat back as understanding lit her eyes. “You like the little widow, don’t you?” Constance laughed. “How rich. Goodness, do you seduce her while she’s milking the cows?”
“Shut up, Constance.” Drew walked to the door.
She fell back at his rebuke. “You can’t be serious. I’m here and willing to forgive you for breaking my heart.”
He snorted.
“And you mean to leave me here alone for the remainder of the night, all overher?”
“Phalen might still be awake,” he snapped, far too concerned about what Worth may or may not be doing to Hester at this very moment to worry overmuch about Constance or her hurt feelings.
“Try his door. But not mine.”
Chapter Eighteen
Hester’s fingers caughtin the folds of her gown, admiring the pattern of vines along the skirts. She had never owned anything half so lovely before. Dresses, of course, most made of serviceable muslin, worn and mended until there was barely enough fabric left for scraps. But nothing like this. Ready-made and sewn by a country dressmaker, nothing at all like the fine gowns Lady Prissypants had. But still, the olive green silk was the most sumptuous gown, theonlygown, Hester had ever owned in her life. Nothing special by London standards. Still, she loved it.
Even though she couldn’t seem to getoutof it.
This was the reason, she thought, twisting one arm violently over her shoulder. That a lady required a maid. You couldn’t get in and out of your blasted clothing on your own. Not with the dozens of silk clad buttons lining your back.
The edge of her finger glanced off a button, failing to take hold.
A bloody good thing she loved this gown because the garment wasn’t coming off anytime soon. She’d be sleeping in the blasted thing tonight. Her hands stroked the silk once more, hating that she might ruin such a fine gown. Mrs. Ebersole had already promised to pack it in tissue and carefully store it.
“I’ll never wear this gown again. I should just sell it for seed.” She spun about once more, giving a cry of frustration as she failed to reach the buttons.
Mary had helped Hester get dressed this evening, buttoning her in the gown with little effort. But the kitchen maid, as well as Mrs. Ebersole, had gone to bed long ago after spending the entire day running about like rabbits in their attempt to satisfy Sinclair’s London friends. They deserved a good night’s rest before having to once more wait on Blackbird Heath’s unwanted guests.
Sinclair and his stupid London friends.
Not being able to get undressed for bed only added to Hester’s mounting humiliation. Mr. Worthington had not agreed to her brazen invitation at the pond, preferring not to escort Hester up the stairs. She’d greatly overestimated her appeal and that of the olive silk gown. Now she was left mortified that her actions might have offended Worthington and he would reconsider helping her.
Which he also had not agreed to.
“Ugh.” Twisting her arms around the back once more, Hester stretched her fingers, hearing her shoulders pop as she attempted to grab at the row of buttons, spinning around in a circle like a crazed chicken until she gave up once more.
Worthington, far too polite to decline her invitation outright, had wandered off with his cheroot after bidding her good evening. Somewhat humiliated at his rejection, and partially relieved, Hester had made her way up the stairs to her room, careful not to make a sound. She’d listened, cocking her ear as she stood on the landing, for any sound from the drawing room.
The house stayed silent.
Once upstairs, Hester became aware of her situation. At least, she’d managed to rid herself of the petticoats, so that was something. But the corset, a horrid contraption akin to a torture device, was buried beneath the gown. She’d had to take shallow breaths all evening just to keep from fainting.
So much for her brief turn as seductress. It had been a ridiculous plan to begin with. Worthington’s looks dictated he could have any woman he wished. A country widow living on a farm would hardly be his first choice. Hopefully, Mr. Worthington, unfamiliar with Blackbird Heath, hadn’t fallen into the nearby pond with his dangling cheroot or stepped in a pile of animal dung which would only add to her mortification.
Hester flopped back on her bed, rolling about like a small sausage, the bloody corset barely allowing a breath. She spared a thought for Sinclair, wondering if he was still in the dining room, trapped by Lady Downing’s magnificent bosom.
Hester peered down at her own assets.
Pathetic.
Clearly, she was not made to be a lady.
She rolled herself into a sitting position and tore at the pins holding her hair, before flopping down on the coverlet once more. Truthfully, Hester was relieved Worthington had politely refused her advances. He might be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, but he sparked no desire in Hester. No gentle pulse between her thighs or gentle awareness of his presence.
No, those feelings were reserved exclusively for Sinclair.
Frustrated, Hester rolled to her stomach, refusing to give up. Spinning atop the bed trying to reach the buttons, she considered rubbing herself against the wall. Perhaps that would cause the bloody buttons to snap off and thus free her.
