One Week as Lovers (14 page)

“Nick, it wasn’t him!”

He paused in the act of pulling his fist back to give the wall a good beating, then swung back to look at Cynthia. “Of course it was him.”

“No, I’m quite sure it wasn’t.”

“Bram then. Is that it, Cyn?” He dropped to his knees to meet her eyes. “Did Bram…did he hurt you?”

“I told you he never touched me.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It was someone you don’t know. That’s not the point.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Whoever it was, I’ll kill him. No man who’d take a woman against her will deserves to live. Just—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Nick. I didn’t say I was forced. I was quite willing, if you must know the truth.”

“But…” Perhaps the event had shocked her so much that she couldn’t recall the details anymore. Because her words didn’t make any sense. Cynthia Merrithorpe was a good girl who lived out in the fresh, clean air of the country. She didn’t go to balls and flirt with London rogues who might tempt her into ruin. She wasn’t the type to accept one man’s hand while clasping another to her bosom.

The clock ticked louder in his ears. His knees began to hurt. “I’m sorry but…what do you mean?”

Cynthia sighed. “To use your turn of phrase, I placed a priceless jewel in the hand of a passing friend. Now the important thing is—”

“Who?” he shouted.

Cynthia pulled her chin in and shut her mouth.

“I apologize,” he said. “But would you please tell me who it was?”

“Why?”

Why? Because it was only the most important question he’d ever asked her. Cynthia Merrithorpe had made love with some man. With some
other
man. Could she not see how horrifying that was? “Please?” he pleaded.

“He’s no one you know,” she sighed, slumping in the chair.

“How? I know all the gentlemen in this county. Oh, God, it was Harry Baylor, wasn’t it?”

“No! Good Lord, Nick, you’re missing the entire point.”

“I don’t think I am. You gave away your virginity and I’d like to know
why.
And also
who.
”

Cynthia stared at him, her eyes unflinching. If he’d expected shame on her part, it seemed he’d be waiting a long time. She looked more irritated than regretful.

“Why?” she repeated. “There were two reasons, I suppose. First, I thought my lack of a maidenhead might deter any unwanted suitors my stepfather foisted on me. Second, if he managed to find a man who would take me, unwilling as I was, at least I would’ve had my way in one thing. I chose who my first lover was. No one else. Small as that is, it might have been my last free choice.”

Her explanation was logical, he supposed, but rather emotionless. “So you were in love with this man?”

“With
James
? No, definitely not.”

James, she’d said.
James
. Lancaster felt his nails dig into his palms. His knees screamed in protest, so he finally backed up to his chair and collapsed.

“It was years ago and—”

“It was?” He heard his own voice rise on a note of hope. Not that it should matter when it had happened. But he was very glad it hadn’t been last year. Or last month.

“Oh, bollocks. I shouldn’t have told you at all. You’re as insufferable as the rest of them.” Cynthia pushed up from her chair, clearly meaning to flounce from the room, but Lancaster leaned quickly forward and snagged her hand.

“Don’t go. I’m sorry. It’s just so…shocking.”

“Well, it’s not exactly easy for me to speak of.”

“Of course. I mean…I’m honored, I suppose, that you chose me to tell. I’m sure it’s been a burden all these years.”

“A burden?” she snorted, looking down on him as if he were a simpleton. “You’re hardly a priest, Nick. I didn’t come to confess. I just wanted to make clear that I’m not a virgin, so there’s no good reason we shouldn’t be lovers. It’s as simple as that.”

“What?” He dropped her hand. As simple as that? Was she mad?

“Yes. I have neither a delicate flower nor a priceless jewel to offer the imaginary husband of my future. Your conscience is absolved.”

“But…so this
James
just caught your fancy and you offered yourself to him? A few years ago you were nothing but a child, Cynthia.”

Growling, she threw her hands up in the air. “Why are you so focused on that? Do you even understand what I’m saying?”

“How old is this James?” he demanded, wondering why his voice sounded so loud in his ears.

The skirt of her dress twirled out in a pretty circle when Cynthia spun around. He reached out for her hand again, but it was gone along with the rest of her. Her door slammed before he could even rise to his feet.

What was wrong with her? Wasn’t he the one who should be upset?

Outraged now, Nick lunged to his feet and stalked across the room. He jerked open her door and stepped into her chambers. And spied the heel end of Cynthia’s boot flying straight for his chest.

Nick squawked and swept an arm out to knock the boot aside. Luckily she had two. She belted the other in his direction, but it flew wide and struck the wall beside him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he shouted.

“Go away!” she yelled, but he just came closer.

“Not until you tell me why you’re throwing boots at me.”

She turned her back on him to look for other items to throw. A warming brick sat tucked beneath the foot of the bed, but that seemed excessive.

“Did you expect that I wouldn’t be upset by your…youthful escapades?”

“Are you a complete imbecile? I just told you we could be lovers, and all you can talk about is that other man!”

Nick stopped in the middle of the room. His arms, upraised to defend himself, fell to his sides. “Oh,” he said, eyebrows flying high. “I think I see.”

“I didn’t tell you just so you could yell at me.” She wasn’t going to cry. She might be mortified and hurt, but she wouldn’t cry.

Nick cleared his throat. “Was I yelling? I apologize.” As she watched, his face slowly turned red. “Cynthia,” he said, “we can’t be lovers.”

Her throat tightened. Her heart tripped. “I suppose not. I’m soiled goods now.”

His horror wasn’t feigned. She watched it fill his eyes before it took over the rest of his face. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

“Then what?”

“I…” His flush deepened, almost as if he were embarrassed. “You’re my friend, Cyn. I can’t do that with you. You’re my
friend.
”

She nodded. That was true. It
felt
true. But she wanted more. “I know. I just wanted to ask more for us. Just for a little while. Just until we both have to go.”

Pain flashed over his face like a quick flutter of dark wings. “I’d like more too,” he whispered. “But I can’t. Not with you.”

The pain was hers this time, a flutter of wings, only there seemed to be thousands of those tiny dark birds circling her chest, flying faster and faster. “Not me,” she murmured, nodding.

She was not one of those women. Those London women who knew how to dance and flirt and seduce handsome men. She was the kind of woman a man could befriend. She always had been, hadn’t she?

She’d fought him ’til now, because she’d been angry and frustrated and a little afraid. But this was something worse, and she couldn’t make herself pretend to fight him.

They’re not like you
, he’d said. She glanced down at her simple country dress and thought of lace and perfume and powder and delicate slippers that would prove useless weapons if thrown at a man’s head. Though it nearly killed her, Cynthia tried to smile. “I understand.”

Nick lifted his eyes from the floor and shook his head. “No, you couldn’t possibly understand, Cyn. And I wouldn’t want you to.”

As if he were bidding her farewell, Nick lifted his hand and left her alone.

She forced her feet to carry her to the hall door.

Mrs. Pell would need help with dinner and she was good for that, at least.

“I have it,” a deep voice barked, inserting itself into her dream. A nude Nicholas stood in the lapping waves of the sea and smiled at a beautiful woman clothed in silver tulle. The blond lady giggled and fluttered a lace fan against her bosom. When the sunlight caught the iridescent spark of pearl on the handle of the fan, the reflection jumped against Nick’s chest.

The lady reached out to trail a polished fingernail over his skin, tracing the dancing lights.

Didn’t she know her dress was being ruined in the salt water?

“Cynthia,” Nick said, turning back to her. He caught the lady’s hand and pulled it up to his mouth to kiss her fingers. “Wake up.”

He wanted Cyn to leave them alone, apparently. But she’d be damned if she’d let this woman have him.

“Get up, woman!” A hand grabbed her and yanked her off the beach.

Cynthia sat up and opened her eyes to find Nick jerking his chin out of the way of her forehead.

“I have it.” He waved the journal in front of her face.

“I know,” she grumbled. “I gave it to you.” She pushed his hand away and collapsed back into the bed. She’d tossed and turned for hours last night and wasn’t prepared to face the man who’d caused her turmoil.

“You’ve been searching in the wrong place, Cyn.”

She burrowed her head beneath the heavy weight of the pillow.

“Are you even listening?” Though she wrapped her hands around the edges of the pillow in anticipation, Nick still pulled it from her grasp and tossed it to the floor. “You’re searching in the wrong place.”

“What time is it?”

“Just before dawn. Now look at this.”

She heard the rustle of paper and smelled the ancient mildew scent of the journal. When she opened her eyes, she found a blur of faded ink and white paper only an inch from her nose.

“Fine,” she groaned. “Just let me sit up.” She pushed her arms against the mattress and twisted around. Nick helpfully propped the pillow behind her back and put the book on her lap so that his hands were free to light the lamp.

“See this?” He pointed to a line about halfway down the page.

“‘Down the bridle path,’” she read. “I know. I’ve read it a hundred times.”

“Right, but this journal was written in 1797, Cyn.”

“And?”

“He must mean the
old
bridle path, not the one we’re using now.”

Her heart finally stuttered to a waking state. “What old bridle path?”

“The one on the other side of the village. You can follow it all the way to the old breakwater, remember? I forgot you never rode as a child, but Timothy and I used to take it at least once a week.”

“The one past the town,” she murmured. A surge of anticipation swelled through her belly. “Nick…Nick! Oh, mercy, you might be right!”

“I know.” He beamed at her like a little boy proud of his ciphering skills.

Despite her exhaustion, despite the pain she felt at being near him, Cynthia grinned. He was as adorable as a puppy. And just as messy. Still wearing the clothes he’d worn to dinner, he looked either to have slept in them or planted himself in a chair to read all night. She had her suspicions. He smelled a bit strongly of wine.

“We’ll start today,” she said, clapping her hands in excitement.

Nick cringed. “I’d like to forbid you from coming.”

“But—”

“It’s not safe. That Bram fellow might be hanging about.”

“You don’t even know that it was him!”

He tilted his head toward her. “True. That’s why I’m going into the village this afternoon. But what I was going to say before you interrupted is if you insist on going to the cliffs with me, we’ll need to go now, before the sun rises. We’ll take the carriage to the head of the trail, and try to make the most of one or two hours’ work. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Reasonable?” Not quite able to hold back a squeal, Cynthia vaulted up and threw her arms around Nick’s neck. “Thank you.”

“My.” His hands folded around her for a brief moment. Too brief. “Get dressed now. I’ll send Mrs. Pell to help after I wake my coachman.”

“All right.” Well, he’d effectively taken her mind off her mortification, at any rate. All her heavy lethargy was gone, replaced by the excitement of the hunt. And it didn’t hurt that she could still feel the warm imprint of Nick’s hands on her back even as the door closed behind him.

The sun had disappeared behind rain clouds in the first hour of their search. They should have returned then, but Cynthia had insisted on continuing. Not that Lancaster could blame her. This old path offered a whole new landscape, one riddled with holes and caves.

Cynthia was giddy. She was giddy even now, soaking wet from an hour spent hunting for treasure in the rain. Now she formed her own puddle on the carriage seat as they slowly rolled back toward Cantry Manor.

Lancaster watched a shiver work its way up her body as she pulled the carriage robe closer around her and beamed at him.

“It’s got to be there, Nick.”

He smiled at the reckless hope in her voice. “Never count your chickens before they’ve hatched.”

“It’s there. All those caves…You’re so very, very clever.”

“Really? You’re the only one who’s ever recognized that.”

“I’m exceptionally perceptive then.”

“Obviously.”

Cynthia giggled, reminding him of how sweet and feminine she’d looked the night before. Then he remembered that stricken look when he’d rejected her, and Nicholas turned to watch the gray damp through the window.

“What will you do with your half?” she asked.

He threw her a questioning look.

“Your half of the gold.”

“We’d better see how much it is first.”

Cynthia shrugged her wet shoulders. “You are all doom and gloom today.”

“Yes, it’s strange to be the serious one. I’m not sure I like it.”

“I’m certain I’ll be in a foul mood again soon enough. Enjoy the novelty.”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and Lancaster wanted to draw closer. To be part of her joy. Thankfully the carriage lurched to a halt before he could do anything stupid.

“Your cloak,” he murmured, as he shoved open the door before Jackson could descend.

Cynthia pulled her sodden hood back over her head and tugged it low to cover her face.

“Take the blanket too.” He handed her down and watched her scurry toward the kitchen door, her identity safely concealed. His coachman was under the impression that he’d been carrying Mrs. Pell around, and he’d been helped along by a very generous gift of whisky from his employer.

The man dropped heavily to the ground and closed the carriage door.

“Thank you for waiting so patiently in the rain, Jackson. I’ll be heading to the village after lunch. You are free until then.”

“Thank ye, milord.” Jackson touched his hat and glanced toward the door. “Mrs. Pell, eh?”

“I’m sorry?”

The coachman listed slightly to the left before overcorrecting himself right into the side of the carriage. “A bit long in the tooth,” Jackson explained. “But a man likes a bit of soft flesh in his hands, don’t ’e? Nothing wrong with that.”

“Er…” Lancaster didn’t want to impugn Mrs. Pell’s reputation, but what other explanation could he offer for a few secluded hours on the beach with his housekeeper?

“Nothing wrong with that at all,” Jackson boomed, punctuating his statement with a firm pat on his master’s back. After providing the lubricant to loosen him up, Lancaster really couldn’t fault the man for his insubordination.

“See to the horses, Jackson. Better ask Adam to help. He needs the training.”

“Right-o, yer lordship.”

Lancaster rolled his eyes and headed for shelter. He needed to dry off and warm up—again—and get some food in his belly before heading to the village. Unless the residents had changed greatly in the past decade, Lancaster was certain they’d be happy to speak of a new visitor and his traveling habits, though they might expect a friendly pint of ale in return.

“Mrs. Pell,” he called as he stepped into the warm kitchen. “May I get—”

“She’s gone out.”

He looked up to find Cynthia filling a teapot with steaming water. She’d formed a new puddle on the floor next to the hearth.

“Gone where?”

Cynthia tilted her head toward the long kitchen table. A tiny scrap of paper lay bright against the golden wood. “Off to buy beef. Though I doubt she’ll walk back in this rain. If I had to guess, I’d say she and Mrs. Painter are holed up in the Painter cottage, gossiping about their friends and sharing a dose of medicinal sherry.”

“Oh.”

“But I’ve made tea. Thankfully, she left a pot boiling.”

“Wonderful.” Strange, but somehow this felt very odd, knowing they were here alone together. What a completely illogical thought. They’d been alone together all day on the beach. They’d been alone on her
bed
this morning.

Still, the intimacy of this new situation pressed on him with the weight of an approaching storm.

Cynthia didn’t seem affected. She moved cheerfully through the motions of making tea. The dress clung heavily to her hips.

“I should change,” he announced and broke for the hall. She didn’t stop him, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the top of the stairs.

His intentions were good. Honorable, even. No matter how much he wanted to make love to Cynthia Merrithorpe, he couldn’t do it.

But Cynthia was wreaking havoc with his resolve.

I want more for us,
she’d offered so simply. The honesty of that would have touched him even if his heart hadn’t already been shaking with need. He wanted more too. More for himself and more for Cynthia, and more for them
together.
He could see it now, the promise of what might have been. A friendship suddenly sparked with lust. A happy kind of love that would take them quickly and last forever.

He pulled loose the cloth that had grown too tight around his neck, then shrugged out of his coat.

Maybe she was right about Imogene. Maybe he didn’t have to marry her. But there was no way in the word he could marry Cynthia. If he did, he would change his family’s course in history.

They’d become members of the gently impoverished. His brother and sister would be forced into the very choice Lancaster was trying to avoid. Marry for fortune or live a life of shabbiness. He couldn’t shirk that duty only to see it placed on his siblings’ backs. Besides, he was the only one who could marry up and pull them all along behind.

Marrying Cynthia wasn’t an option.

But if given the chance, would he? Would he subject her to a lifetime of nights in his bed?

He jerked his wet shirt over his head and glanced at the mattress on the other side of his chambers.

She wasn’t a virgin. Perhaps a lifetime was too much to ask, but what about one night? He could picture her there, arching herself into his touch, just as she’d done the day before. She’d liked that, and she would like it again. And when he—

A staccato knock dropped into his fantasy and freed a surge of anger for his own thoughts. “Cracked bastard,” he muttered. The knock came again.

“I’ve brought your tea!” Cynthia called.

Lancaster slipped into his dressing robe and moved warily to open the door. He felt exposed, both by his state of undress and the tenor of his thoughts. But Cynthia’s smile was wide and cheerful, and he had no excuse to keep her out.

She hurried past him to set the tray on the table. He could do nothing but accept the cup she offered and murmur his thanks. Cynthia stood in front of the fire and sipped her tea, and his fear began to retreat like the receding tide. It was probably helped along by the strong bite of brandy that stung his nose.

“How many cups of
tea
have you had?” he asked.

Cynthia winked. “Only one. This gown is freezing.”

He froze, the cup only two inches from his mouth. He looked at her wet dress, wondering why it seemed a suddenly ominous prop in this strange drama.

“I’ll need help getting out of it,” she said.

Ah. There it was. The tide hadn’t retreated at all, it had only drawn up its strength in anticipation of crashing over his head. Again, Cynthia didn’t seem to notice his turmoil. She smiled at him, and he felt his mouth smile back. He appeared perfectly normal, it seemed, as his mind spun ’round and ’round the prospect of helping Cynthia undress.

His willpower was a brittle plank, riddled with cracks and holes, and creaking beneath the weight of his desire. Now Cyn had decided to leap onto it, full speed.

“Are you quite sure Mrs. Pell isn’t back yet? It’ll be time to fix luncheon soon.”

Cynthia scoffed at his question. “She likely thinks we can handle slicing bread and sausage on our own.”

“Mm. Quite.”

She held up the teapot and Lancaster looked into his cup and found it empty. She refilled it with a steady hand, and Lancaster politely drank every drop she’d poured.

Heat seeped into his muscles.

“May I change in front of the fire? I don’t think I can bear to walk away from it.”

“Of course.” Of course, she should have the chance to feel the flames glow against her bare skin. To watch the fire lick warm color into her cool flesh. He couldn’t deny her that.

“All right, I think I’m warm enough to dare it.” She set down her cup, gave him one last smile, and turned her back.

Lancaster stared at her dress, at the long seam that hid the hooks of her gown. He curled his fingers tighter around the cup. Cynthia dipped her head impatiently to the side.

“Right then,” he murmured. As he placed the cup carefully on the table, it was as if he watched someone else. Some other man reached forward and eased his fingers beneath the back of her gown. Some dispassionate gentleman unfastened the first hook and felt his knuckles rub her skin.

Cynthia tilted her head forward to give him more access. Soft tendrils of her hair dragged over the back of his hand. He undid the second hook and the third. The material began to part.

When the top of her corset was exposed, Lancaster became part of his body again in a terrifying rush of sensation. His cock was already swelling. The scent of her hair filled his throat. Her skin slid against his fingers, and her spine pressed into his hand every time she drew a breath.