Page 42 of Sinfully Mine
Chapter Twenty
Hester sprawled besideDrew in the loft while he traced the tip of her breast with a piece of straw. She tried to keep from moaning out loud.
The straw slipped from his fingers, her breast disappearing inside his big hand as he cupped the small globe of flesh. Drew had decreed earlier that Hester’s breasts were incredibly sensitive and had begun experimenting to see if she might climax by just a caress atop her nipple.
So far, the results had been unsuccessful but incredibly pleasurable.
The hayloft had become their favorite spot for an afternoon tryst since Drew’s friends had departed for London. The barn was often empty in the afternoons and free of prying eyes. The fields surrounding Blackbird Heath afforded less privacy as they’d found out yesterday, when one of Hester’s curious sheep interrupted them. No one at Blackbird Heath seemed suspicious of their relationship but they still couldn’t simply rush up the stairs to Hester’s bedroom whenever the mood struck.
All things considered, the barn wasn’t such a bad spot.
There had been no more talk of selling Blackbird Heath, for which Hester was grateful. Nor could she inquire with Martin Godwick if any progress had been made on her behalf with Bishop Franks. Ellie Godwick had died, in Grantham, while she and Martin had been visiting her parents. He still hadn’t returned to Horncastle and Hester didn’t want to intrude on his grief.
Even if Martin had made progress before Ellie’s death, Hester was afraid to ask, unwilling to allow anything to burst the small bubble of happiness she’d found. Her life had been one of hard work and constant worry over things which were beyond her control. Someday, Drew might take Blackbird Heath from her, but for now, Hester relished having a lover.
While guarding her heart.
“I’d forgotten there were some things I like about the country.” Drew leaned in and pressed a kiss to one of her nipples, before blowing a breath across the tip.
Hester shivered at the intimate touch.
“I’m happy to know you’ve adjusted to chicken dung.” She bit her lip. “Tell me about Dunnings.” The question of Dunnings, which she assumed to be a house or possibly a farm such as Blackbird Heath, had gnawed at Hester since Worthington first mentioned it to her. Now, while Drew was relaxed seemed as good a time as any to ask. “Northumberland, correct?”
His face clouded over, but he answered. “Yes, outside of a village by the name of Spittal, notable only for once having had a leper’s hospital, but little else.”
“How did you come to be there?” Hester leaned into him, running her hand down the length of his naked body, watching his cock twitch at her touch.
“Naughty girl. I once had an elder half-brother by the name of Bentley. The product of my father’s first marriage.”
“Had?”
“He’s dead,” Drew said with a shrug. “I don’t miss him. Bentley was a terrible person. It was he that sent us all to Dunnings, a place best left forgotten.” There was a hard glint in his eyes, seeing the past.
“Why would he do such a thing?” Hester caught sight of her reddened work worn hands as her fingers trailed along his hip. No matter how much salve she used, or gloves she wore, her hands would always be the least pretty part of her.
Drew absently took her fingers and pressed a kiss to her palm.
A small, insignificant action, but one that spoke volumes to Hester.
“My mother,” Drew’s voice grew thick. “Met my father when he was already wed to Bentley’s mother. Mother was an actress. Trod the boards at Covent Garden. Though I don’t think she was talented, only beautiful. She became my father’s mistress, then his wife. You can imagine the scandal, Hester. If you think marrying a gambling wastrel is terrible, I can assure you an actress who was once a mistress is far worse. Lots of shaming. Insults hurled at us. My sister, Tamsin, broke the nose of the Marquess of Sokesby. My father had just died. Banishment followed.”
“You’re joking.” Drew’s family had been and probably still were, members of society. She hadn’t expected that.
“I am not. My mother died at Dunnings.” The sadness in that small sentence filled the air between them.
“I never knew mine,” Hester admitted. “Not really. She died of the ague when I was three or four. My father was never very clear on that. I remember a soft voice and the smell of violets, but little else.” She’d already told Drew about her father, Thomas Morton, though he’d already known. Gossip in Horncastle, she supposed.
Drew’s mouth brushed hers in a gentle kiss.
“My mother was—wonderful. Always dressing us up to perform plays. Malcolm and I were often tasked with being sprites or fairies.” He gave her a smile. “Mother loved Shakespeare. Tamsin, that’s my older sister, blames herself for the banishment because of the nose-breaking incident. Ridiculous. If Bentley could have shipped us to India, he would have. But I suppose Ware will have to deal with the challenge of Tamsin now.”
“Ware?”
“Not important at the moment.” Drew gave a graceful flick of his hand.
Hester understood now, at least somewhat, his reticence about the country, farms, Blackbird Heath. He associated the country with the death of his mother and the banishment of his family. She felt the same way about card playing and dice. “Is that why you don’t like cabbage?”
“The only thing,” Drew’s mouth moved to the line of her neck, “which could thrive at Dunnings. Certainly, nothing else did. Including the Sinclairs.” His fingers dipped between Hester’s thighs. “I do adore that your hair is as red here as on your head.”
