One Week As Lovers Page 21

  Cynthia turned back to the jug of cider she was securing for the trip, but Mrs. Pell’s familiar hand invaded her vision and covered Cynthia’s fingers. “You need to marry him, sweeting.”

  “Pardon?” Flash-flooded with guilt, Cynthia jerked her hand from beneath the housekeeper’s. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Aye, you do.”

  Cyn couldn’t stop the blood from rushing to her face, so she turned to slip the jug into her satchel. “No, I don’t.”

  “I came to wake you this morning.”

  The simple calm of those words shot through her like a bullet. Her body seized up and wouldn’t move as she recalled what had gone on in her bed that morning.

  “This house is old, but the walls aren’t that thick, sweeting. Lucky for all of us, I didn’t open the door.”

  “I…” The edges of her vision went a bit gray, but she wasn’t so weak that she would faint in the face of a choice she’d made. “I seduced him. He tried to say no.”

  “I’m sure he did. And I’m pleased you followed my advice.”

  “I didn’t.” Cynthia forced herself to turn and face Mrs. Pell, shocked to find that the older woman’s eyes held not a hint of disapproval or even embarrassment. “It wasn’t about marriage.”

  “Well, it will be now, I’d imagine.”

  “It won’t. He needs to marry money. Why can no one acknowledge that simple truth?”

  Mrs. Pell wrapped a hand around Cynthia’s elbow and tugged her to a chair. “Because life is not so simple. Sit down.”

  Cynthia sat, relieved to take the weight off her shaky legs.

  “I came to Cantry Manor in 1813. You’ll remember my son, Tom. He was a tiny baby at the time, and now a grown man living in India, of all places.”

  “Yes, I know. Your husband died at sea.”

  “That was a lie. I’ve never told anyone the truth. I wasn’t a widow, and there was never a husband.” She swept a few crumbs off the table as if she hadn’t just said something spectacularly shocking.

  “Pardon?”

  “Tom’s father was my sweetheart. I didn’t come from a wealthy family, but we were respectable all the same. We owned the local inn and my da’ rented horses as well. When I turned up pregnant, there was no doubt I’d marry. No shame in an early birth, you know, so long as you’ve signed your name at the church.”

  Stunned into silence, Cynthia nodded.

  “He was the local vicar, so—”

  Her throat abruptly unlocked. “He was what?”

  “So I would have led a comfortable, respectable life as his wife. But when I told him I was pregnant, he slapped me.” Mrs. Pell’s hands finally stilled, and she stared hard at them. “He slapped me and called me a grasping whore. Apparently he thought he’d at least work his way up to the local squire’s daughter, increase his social standing with a fine marriage. But he was caught and that was that. He would marry the innkeeper’s daughter instead.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Pell. That’s awful!”

  “It was awful, and I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t have to spend my whole life in service, Cynthia. I chose it, because I couldn’t bear the thought of that man spitting on me every day for the rest of my life. I’d thought he loved me, and I wouldn’t settle for less.”

  Cynthia clasped her hands around Mrs. Pell’s. “But you see, I don’t want to be that to Nick either. I won’t be the one to bring him low.”

  “He’s already been brought low, child, and it had nothing to do with you, did it?”

  “We don’t know that’s true.”

  “Then ask him. There are some things in life more important than money. I’d wager Lord Lancaster already knows that.”

  “Knows what?” his deep voice asked from behind her. She could tell by the slight echo of the words and the sound of his boot heels that he was still in the hall and likely hadn’t heard anything else. Thank God.

  Mrs. Pell, more cunning than Cynthia had suspected, smiled and pushed to her feet. “He knows that if he doesn’t keep my lovely girl safe I’ll box his ears.”

  “Ah, yes. He does know that. Are you ready, Cyn?”

  “I am.” And yet she just sat there, dreading the moment to come.

  Nick cleared his throat. “Well then. I’ll let you say your good-byes. Though I’m sure we’ll be back in a matter of days.”

  Cynthia forced herself to her feet, crying even before Mrs. Pell’s arms came around her.

  The housekeeper tutted and murmured wordless sounds as Cynthia choked out inelegant sobs. “Come now. None of that.”

  “Come with me to America,” Cynthia whispered hopelessly. They’d had this discussion too many times. Mrs. Pell didn’t even answer, she only shook her head.

  “But you’ll be all alone here.”

  “That’s how I like it. What in the world would I do in a place like New York? I can’t even fathom that number of people.”

  Cynthia sniffed into her shoulder.

  “Perhaps you won’t go at all. We’ll see. Now be careful and be kind. And send letters. Lots of letters.”

  Cynthia was still crying hard as Jackson closed up the carriage with a curious look at her messy face. But strangely enough, as they rolled past the distant vista of Oak Hall, her tears dried and she stared emotionlessly out at her old home.

  Chapter 18

  Nick’s face was blue in the twilight glow of the sky. Blue as if he were dying.

  They’d eaten their dinner long before, and though the sun was setting, they still faced another hour’s drive before descending, unannounced, upon a ducal household. Up to that moment, Cynthia had spent the hours staring rapt at the passing countryside. She’d never been so far from home and could hear her own excitement expressed in the rapid chatter that floated down from Adam’s seat above.

  But it was darker now, and they were all tired. And she couldn’t stop staring at Nick’s twilight face.

  Had he tried to kill himself? If he had, she couldn’t leave him as she planned, not if he really thought himself in love with her.

  His eyes closed, adding to the morbid vignette. When his head fell to rest against the seat, the darkness of the scar peeked above his collar.

  A burn. But how did one burn one’s whole neck?

  Her stomach clenched at the obvious answer.

  The scent of approaching rain filled the carriage, somehow adding to the pressure in her head. She couldn’t stop the words that swelled in her throat and couldn’t think of any way to soften them. “Did you hang yourself, Nick?”

  His eyes opened and looked at the ceiling of the coach before sliding slowly down to meet hers. “Pardon me?”

  Cynthia touched her own neck, troubled by the delicacy of the skin there. “Did you try to kill yourself?”

  The warm brown of his eyes cooled to the color of frozen dirt. “Why in the world would you ask me that?”

  “Because you have a scar that circles your neck. Because you never came home after your trip when you were meant to. Because servants talk and they say…they say that you hung yourself, Nick.”

  “It’s not true.” He leaned back again and closed his eyes, as if the conversation were over.

  “How did you get that scar?” she demanded.

  “I already told you. It was a burn.”

  “A burn from what? A cravat soaked in boiling oil?”

  His mouth actually twitched up in a smile, and Cynthia knew he wasn’t really Nick at that point. He was Lord Lancaster, who could smile through a discussion of his own brush with death.

  “Tell me the truth,” she pleaded, and the smile dropped away. “Something changed you, Nick. And we were friends, and I have a right to know what happened.”

  He met her gaze again, glaring. “You have no right to ask me. It was a decade ago. And I do not discuss it. Ever.”

  “You will discuss it with me, damn you.”

  When he sat forward the tendons on his neck tightened with anger. “I’ve told you I didn’t try to kill myself.
” His voice rose to a shout. “Is my word not good enough for you? Do you think I’m lying? Telling falsehoods to cover up perversion and weakness and cowardice?”

  “I…” She’d never been afraid of Nick. Never imagined that she could be. But for a brief moment she saw something flicker behind his eyes. Something dark and powerful with rage. “Of course not,” she whispered. “Why would I think that?”

  Shaking his head, he ran a rough hand over his face. “Why would you not?”

  “Nick…I only want to know what—”

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” He banged a fist on the roof, and the carriage, already driving much slower, eased to a stop.

  “Wait!” she cried as he launched himself out the door. “Where are you going?” By the time she’d stuck her head out, he was disappearing into the dim, heels crunching on the lane. She watched until she couldn’t hear his steps, then glanced up to the coachman’s box to find two faces staring down at her. Adam’s eyes were wide with trepidation.

  “Why’s his lordship so angry?”

  “He’s well,” Cyn replied, ducking back inside, still tasting the lie in her mouth. He wasn’t well. Not at all. What had happened to him?

  She had to believe him, didn’t she? But what could the explanation be? She swiped at a tear caught on her lashes and sat down to await Nick’s return and whatever that might bring.

  Rain dripped down his nose. Lightning flashed somewhere in the south. It was nearly full dark and he was stalking through the rain like an angry child.

  And he’d been as foolish as a child to think that Cynthia would never ask about his scars. Still, he hadn’t known there’d been rumors among the servants here in Yorkshire. London, yes, though his parents had taken care to hire only three servants that first month, and all of them recommended for their discretion.

  Did you try to kill yourself?

  No one had ever asked him that question. Not even his parents had asked, though he’d pled and pled with them to believe he hadn’t. But now, after so many years of living with it, he was no longer sure of anything.

  Had he meant to die? At some point, he had. At some point, it had seemed a great and blessed relief. Once his body had given up its struggle, dying had become peaceful. Rather like walking alone in a dark rain.

  When Lancaster looked up from the muddy road he realized his anger had faded. Now he was only exhausted. And wet. The faint pinpoints of the carriage lamps glowed ahead, and he picked up the pace and headed toward them.

  With only a dozen feet left to go, a vibration began to penetrate his legs. He stopped and cocked his head, quickly picking up the sound of approaching hoof beats. Adam jumped down from the seat.

  “Who’s that?”

  “I’m not sure,” Lancaster muttered. “But tell Miss Merrithorpe to stay hidden and close the curtains.”

  Adam did as he was told before jogging over to stand beside his master. Jackson stood up on his box and drew out a rifle, and Lancaster nodded his approval before turning to face the coming rider.

  The man slowed a good twenty yards from them and approached at a careful walk. He was alone, and Lancaster’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Not a band of highwaymen then. And he could tell by the straight line of the man’s back that it wasn’t Cyn’s stepfather either.

  The rider stayed silent, so Lancaster held his tongue as well.

  At first, the glow of the carriage lights only touched the horse, a big bay with a crooked white star that reached up to one eye. Then the rider’s boots were illuminated, then his legs, and when he dismounted, finally, his face.

  A demon’s face, despite that it was neither ugly nor sinisterly beautiful. Lancaster slid one foot back before he stopped himself and stood straight.

  This must be Bram, because the face…the face belonged to Richmond.

  Skin crawling, he made his body stay still. He did not back away. He did not lunge forward. He did not let his stomach complete its somersault and toss its remains upon the dirt. Lancaster only watched those innocuous, perfectly bland features come closer. The only difference was the eyes, and he suddenly understood what the villagers had meant. Richmond’s eyes had sparkled with joviality in one guise, and glittered with heat in another. But Bram’s eyes…they were dead as dried wood. Not cruel or angry or sad. Dead.

  When those eyes shifted to Adam and stayed there, Lancaster let himself move. He curled a hand over Adam’s shoulder and pulled him back from Bram. “Back to your post, Adam,” he murmured, his gut tight as a drum. He didn’t want this man’s gaze on the boy.

  Adam threw him a puzzled look but eventually turned and shuffled back to the front of the carriage. Bram watched him go.

  “I assume you did not stop to chat about the weather,” Lancaster said.

  “Are you Lancaster?” the man grumbled.

  “I am Lord Lancaster, yes.”

  The dead gaze flicked down Lancaster’s body, then shifted to the carriage. “Miss Merrithorpe in there?”

  “Do I know you, sir?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about you.”

  A wash of cold, separate from the drizzle, snuck beneath Lancaster’s coat to shiver over his skin. What did that mean?

  “Lord Richmond wants his bride back.”

  “Does he? I can’t imagine what that would mean to me.”

  “You’ve been seen with her.”

  He raised his brow in mock surprise. “The girl is dead, or so I’ve been told.”

  Bram took a step toward the carriage, but when Lancaster shot out a hand to catch his arm, the man backed up and pulled away. As if he liked being touched as little as Lancaster did.

  “As you haven’t seen fit to introduce yourself, I’ll be on my way.” With those words, he expected Bram to offer his name, perhaps volunteer that he worked for Richmond in whatever capacity that was, and then pepper Lancaster with further questions. But Bram did none of that, he simply watched Lancaster for ten seconds, then twenty. He watched him with his dead eyes, then turned and remounted his horse.

  He didn’t ride off, he only waited. It seemed they were about to be followed.

  So be it.

  There was a garden sculpted into the ceiling.

  Cynthia craned her neck, trying not to look like a complete rustic while still getting a view of the plaster ivy. And the roses. Each individual petal visible even from fifteen feet below.

  “Nick,” she whispered. “We shouldn’t be here.”

  Nick, pacing the length of the reception room, didn’t seem to hear her. He hadn’t noticed the ceiling at all as far as she could tell. Likely he lounged about in homes like this as a matter of habit.

  “He’s sure to toss us out on our ear, showing up unannounced in the middle of the night!”

  “It’s eight P.M.,” he muttered.

  “What about the duchess?”

  “What about her?”

  Cynthia clenched her hands hard together. “How am I to speak with a duchess?”

  Nick finally glanced toward her. One side of his mouth lifted. “She seems to have a good grasp of the English language.”

  “What? What does that mean? Is she French? Mercy, she must be so elegant.”

  “No, she’s not French. Cynthia, I’m teasing you.”

  “Well, stop it. Can’t you see I’m terrified? Maybe she isn’t here.”

  He stepped closer to pull her hands apart and stroke a thumb over her wrist. “As far as I can tell, Somerhart never leaves her side, so I’d imagine she’s here. But there’s nothing to be afraid of. Emma is…Well, she’s rather exceptional, but very kind.”

  “Emma?” she said. Exceptional? she thought.

  “Her Grace, of course.”

  “Her Grace,” Cynthia muttered, practicing. “Your Grace.” What if she forgot? What if she called her “my lady” or, horror of horrors, Emma? “Oh, why did you tell me her name?”

  “I apologize.” Nick chuckled. “I knew her before she was so lofty and imposing.”

  “She
is imposing?” She realized even before he began to laugh that Nick was teasing again. Incensed, she stalked across the room to the fireplace to stare at the plaster vines that climbed up to the mantel.

  At least there wasn’t silence between them anymore. At least he was laughing. After rocking the carriage with his abrupt entrance, he’d explained that Bram was following them to the Somerhart estate, but he could only go so far onto the duke’s land without permission, after all, and there was nothing to worry over.

  Then he’d smiled and apologized for his earlier rudeness in polite words that invited no question.

  But she’d forgotten that worry now. There was a larger one looming. A duke. The grandest of all grand gentlemen. And he had no previous connection to Cynthia, no inclination to set aside his gentlemanly honor and offer help. She belonged to her stepfather for nine more days, and the Duke of Somerhart would be obligated to send her back to him, or at least jot out a letter inquiring if he wanted his daughter back.

  “Nick, please,” she tried one more time. “I think we should continue on. Stay at an inn. Perhaps you could call on His Grace in the morning. Test his mood. I—”

  When the door opened, Cynthia regretted the pique that had sent her stomping across the room. Now she was separated from Nick, alone and adrift in terrifying waters as a footman bowed an elegant couple into the room. The woman was rather…normal looking. Not six feet tall. Not adorned in a white-powdered wig. On first glance, she was very young and almost plain. But she carried beauty with her in the confidence she wore like a gown.

  “Emma!” Nick called, striding forward to bend low over her hand. The woman smiled and pulled him into a hug. The man at her side scowled.

  Cynthia had thought the woman lovely enough, but the man—the duke, surely—was as beautiful as Lucifer himself. His black hair might have made her think of the devil, but when his pale blue gaze fell on her, Cynthia decided it was the eyes. So cool and measuring. She realized she’d taken a step back when her shoulder touched the mantel.

  In that moment, she’d have given anything to find herself somewhere else. Even facing Richmond, she’d at least known where she stood. He was her enemy. He was evil. But the Duke of Somerhart…this was shaky ground indeed. This man was, at best, a dangerous ally.