One Week As Lovers

by Victoria Dahl

“Well, I promise not to be in it with you. This house belongs to me, Cynthia, and I’ll not have you living in the attic.”

  “Another room then—”

  “There are two new maids in residence, plus young Adam. If we are to keep your presence a secret, we must not raise suspicion.”

  Cynthia rubbed a hand over her eyes. Was he saying that he’d keep her hidden from her family?

  Lancaster touched her cheek, and she jumped as if a spark had drifted from the fireplace and landed on her skin. “We will work out a plan in the morning. But for now, you’ll stay here. I’ll be back in a few moments.”

  She jumped to her feet when he turned away. “Where are you going?”

  “I must inform Mrs. Pell of the situation.”

  “No! Not like this, not in the middle of the night. She’s old. Her heart…”

  “If I don’t tell her this instant, she will likely suffer an apoplexy while she is beating me with a broom in the morning.”

  “But…I don’t want her to know! She might…tell…” Oh, she couldn’t even finish her ridiculous claim.

  Lancaster, just a foot from the door, turned back to her, frowning. He crossed his arms and Cynthia cringed. If he found out the truth he might very well turn Mrs. Pell out. Not for hiding Cynthia, but for lying to his face. No gentleman would support such insubordination.

  If Mrs. Pell lost her position, Cynthia would never, ever forgive herself. “I…” she stammered.

  Strangely, Lancaster smiled as if he’d just heard an outrageous joke. His brown eyes twinkled as Cyn shook in her stockings. “Really, Cynthia.” He chuckled. “You are nearly as poor a liar as Mrs. Pell. It’s a wonder you two have managed to pull this off without me.”

  “Ah…Pardon?”

  He laughed harder. “You look just like you did that time I caught you spying on the village boys swimming in the buff!”

  She immediately forgot her nervousness and snapped straight. “I never did!” she gasped before remembering that she, in fact, had. Worse than that, she’d followed them to the beach in anticipation of catching just such a show.

  “Ha! I see it’s all coming back to you now. There were five or six very naked young men, if I recall.”

  The blood beneath her face was coming to a boil. “Nick,” she scolded, forgetting she’d meant never to call him that again.

  That one word broke the tension in the room. Lancaster shook his head, his smile gentling.

  She took a deep breath. “Please do not be angry with Mrs. Pell. She wanted to tell you and I begged her not to. Don’t put her out.”

  “Put her out? Are you mad? How could I possibly be angry with her when she may very well have saved your life?”

  That pulled her out of her worrying. Her own mother had clucked and dismissed Cynthia’s assertions that she would not survive being married to Richmond. But Lancaster seemed to accept it as a point of fact.

  “Come now,” he said. “We will discuss all this in the morning. Into bed with you. Are you hungry, thirsty?”

  “No.”

  He shooed her toward the bed with his hands.

  “But where will you sleep?”

  “I’ll sneak into the chamber next door.”

  As Cynthia watched in weary shock, Lancaster locked the door to the hallway and gestured toward the door to the adjoining room.

  “I’ll be right there. The lock should keep the maids from stumbling upon you.”

  “This is all unnecessary,” she protested, but Lancaster was shaking his head.

  “Nonsense. Good night.”

  “Oh, well then. Good night.” And he was gone. Just like that. An echo of his old place in her life. An all-consuming force one moment and then vanished in the blink of an eye.

  She could only stand there, staring at the fading green paint of the door, her cheek still tingling faintly from his brief, meaningless touch.

  When the door opened again, she blinked.

  “Pardon me, but…” He peeked in. “You will be here in the morning, won’t you, Cyn?”

  She thought about it for a moment. Should she run? Really, there was no point in fleeing now that he knew she was alive. “Yes, I’ll be here,” she said carefully.

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  The relief in his gaze warmed something deep in her belly. “Good.” The latch clicked shut.

  A few minutes passed before she lowered herself to the bed. Somehow it seemed disarmingly intimate to be in his bed, and even more so knowing he might reappear through the door at any moment and find her snuggled in. But the clock ticked the minutes away from somewhere on the floor, and the room was cold. When her tension began to melt away, Cynthia wilted.

  Her nights had been nearly sleepless since he’d returned to Cantry Manor, and the soft mattress proved irresistible. There was nothing to be done. Her masquerade was over. She could accomplish nothing tonight. Tomorrow she would argue her case, and shape her plans to Nick’s response.

  She curled into the bed. The pillow surrounded her with his scent when she lay her head on it, and Cynthia fell asleep just as she had so many times as a young girl…dreaming of Nicholas Cantry.

  How in the world could she sleep?

  Leaning against the doorway, Lancaster shook his head, never taking his eyes off the slight rise in the covers where Cynthia Merrithorpe slept.

  She was alive. Didn’t she realize how amazing that was? Though perhaps she’d had time to get used to the idea.

  He laughed at the thought, half hoping she might wake up and keep him company. But Cynthia slept on, clearly exhausted. When she woke, perhaps the dark circles under her eyes would have faded.

  He pushed off the wall and turned back to his cold, dark chamber. Though he’d found a moth-eaten blanket in a chest, he didn’t bother lying down. All his attempts at sleep so far had failed, and dawn was less than an hour off.

  Each time he’d closed his eyes the fear that Cynthia would disappear again would rise like a starving beast in his mind. Either she would sneak off while he slept, or her presence would reveal itself to be a bittersweet dream when he woke in the morning. He’d found himself rising every ten minutes to ease open the door and stare at her shadowed form. He’d long since given up and left the door propped open as he paced the hours away.

  She wasn’t dead, he hadn’t caused her death, and he would not have to kill Richmond to avenge her.

  “Then again,” he muttered to the floor. There was no reason to be rash. Richmond still deserved death.

  But thoughts of murder could not keep hold of his mind. He was too filled with joy. Somehow everything, even the thought of returning to London for his marriage, seemed easier to bear knowing that Cynthia Merrithorpe hadn’t thrown herself from a cliff and broken her body on the rocks below. His life might be a tattered mess, but he hadn’t contributed to the destruction of this young woman.

  Nearly shaking with energy, Lancaster stalked to the ancient shutters that covered the window. He had a vague idea that he might throw them open with a dramatic flair, but the damned things were swollen shut. It took him a good minute of prying and tugging to get them open, but when he did he was rewarded with the sight of a long line of deep pink rising above the horizon. Dawn, or near enough. Mrs. Pell was likely up by now.

  He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt long before, so he only had to tiptoe into his bedroom to retrieve his boots before slipping out the door. Cynthia slept on.

  Before reaching the kitchen he heard female voices, one of them raised in anger.

  “If you leave now, you’ll never have a job in his lordship’s home again.” Mrs. Pell’s voice quivered with outrage.

  “But I don’t plan to work here again,” a girl replied, nervousness clear in the shaky words. Lancaster snuck his head around the corner.

  The two new maids cowered near the door. “It’s haunted! We heard ghosts running through the walls!” Mary cried, and Lancaster jerked back with
a smile. Perfect.

  “Come now,” Mrs. Pell scoffed. “’Twas only a mouse.”

  He dragged a reckless hand through his hair to muss it, then took a deep breath and lurched around the corner. “Damn big mouse if you ask me.” All three women gasped and stepped back before dropping hasty curtsies. “I heard it too,” he continued. “Banging and rustling. Even a scream, I daresay.”

  “Yes!” Lizzie cried. “Screams and horrible moaning.”

  Moaning? Oh, my. Well, perhaps he’d moaned a bit after she’d bashed him in the head. He raised a hand to touch a careful finger to the lump at the edge of his eyebrow.

  “Now, milord, I’m sure you’re just not used to the sounds of this old place settling at night—”

  “I was attacked.” He touched the aching spot with a bit more flair. “Pounced upon in my bed while I slept.”

  The two maids let out little screams and scrambled for the door, but Mrs. Pell’s face paled to a sickly white that even the frightened maids couldn’t match.

  “Attacked?” she croaked.

  The door banged against the wall and the maids were gone, vanished into the dim morning.

  “You won’t be paid!” she called after them, though the words fell weakly from her mouth.

  Lancaster pushed a chair toward her and Mrs. Pell sat down hard.

  “I do believe those girls have a fear of restless spirits,” he said, his mood inching up to even greater heights. If there were no maids about, Cynthia would be free to live openly in his home. “I say, Mrs. Pell, is there tea this morning? I’m parched.”

  “Yes, sir.” She stared at the open door for a long moment before she blinked back to her wits. “Oh, pardon me, milord!” She jumped to her feet so quickly that her skirts flared around her. Her eyes darted to the wound on his head. “I’m so sorry. The water’s ready. I’ll have breakfast for you in a moment, if you’d like to relax in the library. You’re an early riser today, sir.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Aye…Well.”

  “And I’ll take breakfast in my chambers, if you please—”

  “Of course.”

  “Cynthia will likely wake soon and I’m sure she’ll be famished.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll…” The whites of her eyes showed all around as his words finally sunk in. “Pardon me?”

  He was unkind enough to thoroughly enjoy the stunned disbelief etched across her features. “That vicious ghost who attacked me in my chambers last night? I managed to catch her. She’s quite lively for a spirit.”

  “You…You caught the…ghost?”

  “I did.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment before Lancaster relented and smiled. “Thank you for helping her, Mrs. Pell. She looks quite healthy for a young woman who’s been living in the attic for weeks.”

  The housekeeper’s face didn’t move.

  “But we shall have to find her a proper chamber now.”

  Her eyes turned liquid. “Milord?” she whispered, just before the tears overflowed her eyes.

  Oh, no. He couldn’t bear to see a woman cry. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I shouldn’t have teased you like that. Cynthia is well. Everything is fine.”

  “Sir!” Her face crumpled.

  “Ah, Christ.” Unable to take it a moment longer, Lancaster jumped forward and pulled her into his arms, hoping she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d cry harder when embraced.

  She took a deep breath. Lancaster held his. Her shoulders ceased their trembling. “I’m so sorry, milord. I should never have kept it from you.”

  His deep sigh of relief ruffled the few strands of gray hair that weren’t pulled tightly into her braid. “Nonsense. You had no reason to trust me.” The truth of his own words stung.

  Shaking her head, Mrs. Pell pulled away. “You’ve always been a kind soul, sir. Always.”

  Not true. Not anymore. Lancaster glanced away and cleared his throat. “If you’d be so kind as to bring a tray up, we can all share breakfast while we formulate a plan. And celebrate.”

  “Celebrate,” she repeated, finally daring a smile. “Yes, I do think this calls for a celebration. I have one last jar of cherry compote I’ve set aside. And a half loaf of pound cake left from last night.”

  Cherry compote. His mouth watered at the memory of his favorite treat. Another vivid piece of his past that he hadn’t even dusted off in ten years. How much of his life had he left buried here in a vain attempt to forget that one single week?

  “Give me half an hour,” Mrs. Pell said, already busying herself with the stove. “A celebration calls for more food than that.”

  He wandered the ground floor rooms as he waited, opening shutters and curtains to let in light. Though he’d been here for days, the place had been inanimate—silent and unmoved by his presence. But now it came alive. Quiet and slumbering in the dawn, yes, but alive.

  There was his father’s favorite chair, so wide that Nick had been able to squeeze in next to him for the first few years they’d lived here. There was the hearth his mother had always hovered near, chilled by the sea air that swept between stones.

  They’d moved to Cantry Manor when Lancaster was eight. He’d believed it a magical place, overlooking the sea and riddled with hidden hallways. And named Cantry Manor just for his family, he’d assumed.

  It had been lonely sometimes, especially for a boy like Nicholas who’d grown up the pet of all his mother’s friends in Hull. But he’d made friends with the boys in the village. And then there’d been Cynthia. By all accounts, she should have been friends with his younger brother. But Timothy had been disdainful of friendship with girls, and Jane had been far too young to care for anything but rag dolls.

  So it had been he and Cynthia who would crowd together in front of the kitchen fire on rainy days to play cards or read books. Or lie on their bellies in the grass to play with his tin soldiers. Or creep through the servant passages to hide and surprise each other.

  All these years, she’d remained that girl in his mind, never changing.

  “Sir?” Mrs. Pell’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Shall we wake her?”

  Yes, he thought, like Sleeping Beauty saved from her rest. But, he amended hastily, without the kiss. Strangely, the thought set loose a cloud of butterflies in his gut.

  “Cynthia…” The gentle voice crept through her dreams, but the mattress was a soft, sticky bundle pulling her down. She snuggled more thoroughly into the feathers and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The bedcovers oozed warmth.

  “Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell called. “It’s time to get up, sweeting. We’ve got a big day.”

  Were they to make mincemeat pies then?

  She snuggled into the pillow, telling herself the linen smelled of Nicholas.

  Wait a moment…Her heart stopped. The linens did smell of Nick.

  Cynthia opened one eye and tried to focus on the face angled close to hers. Messy blond hair, sparkling brown eyes, wide grin.

  “Good morning, princess,” Nicholas cooed.

  Cynthia’s heart shot straight out of her chest. “Good God!” she screeched, jumping up so fast that her flailing hand connected with his nose.

  “Bloody hell, woman! Do you never tire of beating me about the face?”

  “Language, milord,” Mrs. Pell scolded as if he were still a child in her kitchen. He apologized in the same nostalgic manner as he rubbed his nose.

  They’d both gone mad. She looked from Nicholas to Mrs. Pell and blurted out, “I told you he would not sack you.”

  Nicholas snorted. “You were not so sure of it last night. You seemed only moments from throwing yourself at my feet to beg for mercy.”

  “I certainly did not!”

  “Mm. I’d hoped a good night’s sleep would improve your mood.”

  Mrs. Pell tsked. “She’s been a sourpuss for weeks, milord.”

  Mad. Stark, raving mad. “I was forced to stage my own death! It tends to damage one’s mood.”

  Mr
s. Pell reached over to pat Cynthia’s hand where it clutched the coverlet. “Your situation has greatly improved, sweeting.”

  “Hardly. I wasn’t actually dead even before Lancaster stumbled upon me.”

  “Stumbled,” he muttered.

  “But Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell scolded. “Lord Lancaster means to help you. You needn’t worry now.”

  “I needn’t worry? Surely you jest.” She glanced toward Lancaster, feeling a momentary twinge of guilt, but there was no way around it. “I need money. And he’s got even less than I do.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “Are you fleeing creditors? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Cynthia,” the housekeeper gasped, but Lancaster seemed entirely uninsulted.

  “Still the same unruly child, I see. Perhaps a sweet will cheer you up.” He plopped down on the bed beside her, shaking the whole mattress, and gestured toward the tray.

  Stung by his evaluation of her maturity, Cynthia looked away from him to stare at the tray. A few heartbeats passed in quiet. Guilt swelled from a kernel to a full bloom in her chest.

  She was frightened and frustrated, so she was being rude. It was one of her faults, lashing out when under pressure. But surely Nick remembered that about her. If he remembered anything at all.

  Mrs. Pell, clearing her throat, handed her a piece of compote-covered pound cake. She handed a second plate to Nick. “Regardless,” the housekeeper said, “he can help with your plan.”

  Cynthia’s eyes flew to his in time to see them widen. “What plan?” he asked, the words muffled by a mouthful of cake.

  She waited for him to swallow, then took a bite of her own cake, letting the tart sweetness melt over her tongue as she tried to think what to say. Her shoulders had bunched painfully at Mrs. Pell’s words. But of course, there would be no hiding the plan. Even she wasn’t childish enough to think so. She’d have to tell him, but her arms wanted to curl around her waist to hold the secret close.

  “What plan?” he asked again.

  She tried to swallow the cake, but it wouldn’t budge. Unfortunately, her dry mouth only bought her a few more seconds, because Mrs. Pell, whose eyes saw everything, handed her a cup of tea.