Her hand flew to her hair only to find the braid stiff with dried salt spray. Her face flared to a blush. “Chivalry, my arse.”
“Cynthia Merrithorpe!” Mrs. Pell appeared like a genie from the hall, her arms filled with linens. “Could you please cease shouting out every improper word that jumps into your head?”
Nick nodded solemnly. “Quite shocking.”
She kicked his shin and was disappointed when he only smiled angelically at his housekeeper. “Mrs. Pell, won’t you take a turn as well? No point wasting all this hot water.”
She glanced scornfully at the steaming tub. “I prefer a brace of cold water myself. Toughens the hide.”
“Mm, well. We London gentlemen prefer skin with the sheen and texture of a baby’s bottom.”
Cyn raised an eyebrow. “I would’ve guessed a horse’s arse.”
Playing to the singular audience of Mrs. Pell, Nick clapped a hand over his heart and pretended to succumb to an agonizing death.
“You’re both impossible,” Mrs. Pell complained as she leaned over the fire to check the temperature of the pot of water. When she reached for the hook, Nick jumped up and took it from her, snagging the rag that hung from her apron as well.
“I think that should be enough,” he murmured as he poured the water out in a great cloud of steam. His neckcloth gave up any pretense of stiffness in the dampness. Nick tugged impatiently at the knot, then used the cloth to wipe his brow. Sweat and steam dampened his shirt, pressing it to his skin and turning the scene into an exposition of male beauty.
My, oh my.
Cyn glanced toward Mrs. Pell and found that she was staring too, though her eyes looked shocked instead of satisfied. Had she forgotten he’d grown into a man? Cynthia certainly hadn’t.
He worked the pump to refill the giant black pot, and the shirt revealed his back to be just as lovely as his front. From the dip of his spine, the muscles of his back curved out to strong shoulders. His arms tightened under the weight of the water.
“Well then.” He hung the pot back over the fire and dusted his hands. “I suppose Mrs. Pell won’t allow me to stay even if I promise to do no more than peek.”
“Cheeky.” Cynthia laughed. And he had a right to be. She’d have been happy to let him wash her back.
“But Mrs. Pell,” he continued, “I beg you. Keep an eye on her for me. I seem to recall a panel hidden in that wall, and Miss Merrithorpe is not above a peek herself.”
Cynthia snorted. “I prefer a strapping country lad myself.”
He raised a knowing eyebrow. “Yes, I know that about you.”
Though she looked about for a stale roll to toss at his back, there were none at hand, and Nick escaped the room unscathed.
“The nerve.” Cynthia stood and shook out her sodden skirts, then started to turn her back to Mrs. Pell, but the woman still stood near the hearth, forehead crumpled in thought.
“Mrs. Pell?”
She startled and shook her head, muttering, “Yes, of course,” before starting on the hooks of Cynthia’s dress.
Cyn lost herself in thoughts of how lovely whisky was until Mrs. Pell cleared her throat.
“I think you should be a bit gentler with him,” Mrs. Pell said softly as she pulled the dress down and started on the corset.
“Who?”
“Lord Lancaster. He’s not the boy he once was.”
“Clearly. He’s a London gentleman now. I’d say he needs a bit of shaking up.”
Stripped of her corset, Cynthia shrugged off her chemise and rushed to the tub. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had a proper bath?” She slipped one foot into the water and groaned. “Sweet mercy.”
The water rose up in heavenly inches as she lowered her body. The heat seemed to soak right through her skin and deep into her bones, releasing so much of the anxiety she’d carried for weeks and months. But when she looked up to Mrs. Pell, her smile froze in place.
She leaned forward so fast that a little wave sloshed over the end of the tub. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Cyn shook her head. “Don’t tell me nothing. You look as if you may cry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What is wrong?”
The housekeeper dipped a cloth into the water and worked the ball of soap into it. “London must have been hard on him. That’s all.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“The viscount. London isn’t a place for a man like him.”
“Apparently it is just the place. He went happily enough.”
She began to wash Cyn’s back with too much force.
Cynthia frowned. “He was hardly homesick. He never once even scrawled a note to me.”
“It wasn’t what you thought.” The quiet words swelled with such warning that Cynthia put her hands on the edge of the tub to brace herself. The scrubbing stopped. A pitcher appeared in front of her as Mrs. Pell scooped up water. She had only a moment to catch her breath before heat cascaded over her hair. But it was still in its braid.
“Oh, mercy me,” Mrs. Pell sighed. “I didn’t even take down your hair.” She reached for the braid, but Cyn stopped her hand.
“Mrs. Pell.” She wrapped her fingers around the woman’s small wrist. “You’re not saying something. What is it?” The only answer she got was a shake of Mrs. Pell’s head. “Please tell me.”
A great sigh shuddered through her as her blue eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t think it was true.”
“What?”
After a quick glance at the closed door, she looked at the floor. “What they said about Master Nicholas.”
The water had only held her tension as a passing courtesy, it seemed. All the anxiety was leaching back into her flesh now. “What did they say, Mrs. Pell?”
“After he left here…” She looked into Cynthia’s eyes. “Something happened. Some scandal. I don’t know what. And Nicholas meant to kill himself.”
The words evoked no response from her gut, they were so ridiculous. “That’s absurd.”
Mrs. Pell nodded, but not in agreement. “They said he hung himself. And the rope…” Her right hand touched her neck, and Cynthia suddenly understood.
A burn, he’d said. A burn that had scarred his whole neck.
“That’s absurd,” she repeated, because it must be.
“I thought so too.” The tears finally spilled over her eyes and Mrs. Pell brushed a wrist across her cheek. “The old coachman…he told me that a family friend found Master Nicholas hanging and cut him down. They thought he was dead already.”
“No.”
“His parents took him to London to recover where no one knew him. That’s why he left. But I didn’t believe it. I told that coachman if I ever heard him repeat those lies again, I’d have him turned out.” Mrs. Pell finally collapsed into a chair and let the tears flow. “I didn’t believe it.”
Cynthia stared at the fire and told herself it couldn’t be true. Life had always meant joy to Nick. He had left here happy.
Her stomach sunk in on itself and cramped in pain. It didn’t make sense. What could possibly have befallen him to change him so completely?
What had he said to her? Something about how being easy could be dangerous. But that meant nothing. Nothing when compared to the laughing, joyful young man he’d been.
It couldn’t be true.
She didn’t know how long she stared at the fire, but by the time Mrs. Pell touched her shoulder and drew her out of her own mind, the new pot of water was steaming away.
“Best to finish here,” the woman murmured, her fingers working through the braid. Shivers began to course through Cynthia. The bath had cooled. When Mrs. Pell poured lukewarm water over Cyn’s loosened hair, she shivered harder.
“It might not be true,” Mrs. Pell said softly.
“It isn’t true,” she insisted. “It isn’t true and I will never believe that. He burned himself. That’s all.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Pell answered, her voice holding all the worry that was breaking Cynthia’s heart in two.
Chapter 9
Did she know?
Lancaster watched Cynthia brush a few breakfast crumbs off the kitchen table, avoiding his eyes as she had all morning. She touched the end of her braid as if to be sure it was still secure, then filled a pail of water and set it near the hearth.
Did she know that he’d pleasured himself again last night? Did she know that he’d thought of her?
After his bath, he’d found her before the fire in his room, bundled up in nightdress and robe and brushing out her hair. He hadn’t seen her hair down before, and the sight had been startlingly intimate. As if she were getting ready to lie down. With him.
But then she’d noticed him and hurried out, babbling that there was no hearth in her room and she’d needed the heat and she wouldn’t bother him again and good night. By the time he’d raised a hand to stop her, she’d been gone, the door to her room closing firmly against him. But the thought of her straight brown hair gleaming in the dim light had remained.
Lancaster had wrapped an imaginary fist around it. He’d pulled her close and kissed her hard and told her exactly what she would do to please him. Then he’d tied her hands above her head and secured her to a bedpost. She hadn’t tried to resist at all. Her body had writhed in pleasure, not fear. And he’d climaxed to the thought of pounding into her until she screamed for mercy.
She couldn’t know that. And yet she behaved as if she did.
Self-disgust roiled through him. He swallowed the last of his tea, amazed that his throat could be so dry even when filled with liquid.
“Ready?” he rasped, and she nodded without looking up. Perhaps she could sense the perversion in him, like prey scenting a predator.
Lancaster shoved his arms into his coat and led the way toward the front door as Cynthia pulled her hood over her head.
A gorgeous day greeted his scowling face when he threw open the door. Birds calling, sun shining, the breeze tinted with warmth instead of damp. He narrowed his eyes against the beauty and focused on the figure approaching through the tall grass just past the road. A man, neither tall nor short. He approached from the west, but his hat kept his face in shadows.
It wasn’t until Cyn started to slip past him that Lancaster realized he should be very alarmed.
He shot out an arm and shoved her back through the door.
“Say! What—”
“Someone’s coming.”
“Who?”
He pushed her farther in and slammed the door. “Does it matter? I’m the only one who knows you’re alive. Now hide, damn it!”
Her mouth formed an “O” that would have been comical if Lancaster’s heart hadn’t been doing its best imitation of a diving hawk.
“Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll just…”
She darted away while he wondered if the man had seen them. If the visitor’s face had been in shadow, his head had probably been lowered, picking a safe path through the rocky meadow. Lancaster had been so absorbed in his own dark thoughts that the image wasn’t clear.
Damn.
A quick glance around didn’t reveal any obvious signs of Cynthia’s presence. Lancaster was wiping his damp palms against the wool of his coat when the knock came.
After a deep breath that helped to open the tight knot in his throat, Lancaster pasted a smile on his face and threw open the door. “Good day!” he boomed before realizing there was no one there. But then a man popped into view and Lancaster nearly swallowed his tongue.
Cynthia’s stepfather. He rose from a crouch and held something out to Lancaster. “Here.”
Lancaster blinked down at his gloves. “Ah. So sorry. Did I leave them in your study?”
“What?” Cambertson’s bulbous nose crinkled. “No, I found them here on your step. Right strange, if you ask me.”
“Yes, of course. On the step. I just had them. Thank you.” He was babbling now. “So sorry,” he added in case there was any doubt that his mouth was working independently of his mind.
Cambertson eyed him cautiously, his chin tucking in. “Right then. Might I come in?”
“Um…” No good excuse presented itself, so Lancaster offered a weak, “Yes.”
As soon as Cambertson stepped in and closed the door behind him, Lancaster realized he should have just muttered something about the stables and taken the man for a walk. By God, he’d always lied quite well in London. The fresh country air must be interfering, infusing his character with wholesomeness. Though it hadn’t reached too deeply, it seemed.
The thought of unwholesomeness made him think of Cynthia and what was at stake, and Lancaster managed to draw up his spine. He’d lived a charade his whole life. Fooling Cambertson shouldn’t be hard.
“So! What can I do for you, Mr. Cambertson?”
“I wondered…” the man started, then stopped to look around as if he might be invited to have a seat. When no invitation presented itself, Cambertson shrugged. “I heard a story.” His eyes flickered from Lancaster to the hallway and back.
“A story?”
“I heard…” He took off his hat, revealing matted hair and a pale forehead. “I heard you had a ghost.”
Lancaster’s throat clicked shut in shock and he made a strange sound that might have been “Gahn?”
Cambertson nodded. “It hardly bears asking about, but…” He met Lancaster’s eyes for a heartbeat of time before looking back to the floor. “Is it true?”
Lancaster watched the top of the man’s head for a long moment. The pale skin of his scalp gleamed beneath curls of thin hair. This man had given Cynthia over to a madman. He’d declared her selfish and ungrateful. Lancaster felt calm return to his heart. “Are you asking if my home is haunted, Mr. Cambertson?”
His scalp turned pink. “I know it sounds foolish, but the villagers are talking. They say there’s a woman here, roaming your hallways.”
“A woman?”
He looked up, but his gaze didn’t hold the suspicion Lancaster had expected. Instead his bloodshot eyes were brimming with resignation. “Some say they’ve seen her pacing the cliffs. Where she died.”
Lancaster didn’t quite know what to say. If Cynthia had been seen, the legend of her ghost could only be a good thing. “The new maids did indeed get spooked. They ran off. And I admit to hearing a few strange noises here myself.”
“So it’s true? It’s Cynthia?”
“Uh…I suppose it must be.”
“Aye. She took her own life. She’s damned for eternity.” Cambertson crumpled his hat in his hand and began to pace. “She blames me, I’m sure.”
Lancaster glanced uneasily around. He wouldn’t put it past Cynthia to pat some flour onto her skin, pull the hood low over her face, and make a ghostly appearance just to torment her stepfather.
“Mrs. Cambertson won’t come home,” Cambertson muttered. “She blames me too, I don’t doubt. But I didn’t know. I’d heard the rumors, of course, but…that’s neither here nor there. And now Richmond’s man is hanging about again—”
“His man?” Lancaster blinked to attention. “Who do you mean?”
Cambertson waved an impatient hand. “Bram. Richmond calls him a secretary, but he don’t seem like any secretary I’ve ever seen. Always just looming about, quiet as you please, watching. He looks just like Richmond, only twenty years younger, if you take my meaning.”
No, he didn’t take the meaning at all. “This man has been here? Recently?”
“He came by Oak Hall last evening. Said Richmond wanted to know when my lovely young daughter would return home.”
Fear shocked his heart like lightning. “But she’s dead.”
“Not that daughter.” Cambertson shook his head. “My little Mary. That heartless wretch hasn’t even let us grieve a month!”
Oh, of course. Little Mary. “Did this Bram ever meet Cynthia?”
Cambertson shot him an exasperated look. “Course he did
.”
Well, damnation. If he got a look at Cynthia, things would come quickly to a head.
“I heard she fell upon you while you slept.”
“Um…pardon?”
“The ghost. I heard she assaulted you bodily. Was it the witching hour?”
“Well…I’m sure it was. It must have been.”
Cambertson grunted in thought, then darted his gaze around, touching on each corner of the room before he began to back toward the door. “Perhaps you could let her know that I’ve forgiven her. I wouldn’t like her to stop by Oak Hall.”
“You’ve forgiven her, hm? Well, I’ll pass the message along the next time she visits my bed.”
“Aye. Well.” Cambertson slapped his hat against his palm a few times before shoving it onto his head. “You’re a braver man than I. Good day then.”
When the front door closed, a panel in the hall jumped open as if pulled by the vacuum. Cynthia emerged, face flushed with anger. “He’s forgiven me?”
Lancaster rubbed his chin. “Who is this Bram fellow?”
Cynthia stopped her angry pacing and hugged her arms to her chest. “You heard my stepfather. He’s Richmond’s man.”
“What does he do for Richmond?” Lancaster couldn’t say he’d exactly kept a close eye on Lord Richmond over the years, but he’d never heard any whispers of an accomplice.
“I don’t know.”
“Your stepfather implied that he might have been Richmond’s son.”
“He could be. They certainly look related.”
Cynthia’s frown distracted him from his puzzlement. He didn’t like the way she rubbed her hands over her arms. “Why does it make you nervous to speak of him?”
“I don’t like to speak of either of them!”
Well, he could certainly understand that. Especially when Cynthia’s hand went to her mouth. He’d noticed the scar before. Still pale pink, the jagged line bisected her perfect bottom lip like a reminder of fresh pain.
Lancaster crossed the room and touched his fingers to hers. The distance vanished from her eyes as she snapped her hand away from her mouth and backed away. He followed.
One Week As Lovers Page 10
