One Week As Lovers Read online

  “That’s not true,” she whispered, her voice twisted by tears.

  “In his defense, I suppose he did not want to believe his son had been tortured and raped and nearly killed by a man he trusted. A hard thing for a father to bear. Easier to believe Richmond, who said I had made an unnatural offer and then tried to kill myself over the shame of it when he pushed me from his bed.”

  Her nails bit into his skin now, and it was such a relief to focus on that physical discomfort.

  “But you know, my father could never look at me again. Either I was a degenerate coward or he had betrayed me. Neither possibility could be borne, I suppose. So when I say I will not do my duty by my family,” he heard his voice rise and could not stop it. “I mean that I owe them nothing more than I’ve already given.”

  That dark, wet beast inside him roared its pleasure.

  Cynthia eased her arms slowly around his waist, and he held his breath and let her. When her head pressed into his chest, he wrapped her tightly to him. “Don’t cry. I’m not trying to abuse your pity to have my way.”

  “Hush,” she ordered, the stern word too watery to be effective.

  “I only tell you so you know I mean this. I will not marry for money. You were right. I deserve happiness as much as the next man. And I know how to have it.”

  “How?”

  “It may take a while, Cyn. A year. Maybe more. I was using you as an excuse to flee my duties, but you are not the start of this. You will be the end. Will you wait for me?”

  He leaned back to meet her gaze, but she didn’t answer.

  “Will you trust me?”

  “I…” she stammered. “How? Anything could happen in a year, Nick!”

  “All right then. Don’t trust me. But I will come for you, so you’d best not make promises to some American gent.” He touched a finger to the one tear that still clung to her cheek. “You’d best leave room for me.”

  “I don’t understand!”

  “Let me prove myself to you.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t need to prove yourself to me, Nick.”

  “You’ve said I only think I love you because you are a reprieve from my duties. But you are not a reprieve, Cyn. You are strong. And you are brave and passionate. You’re my best friend. You know the boy I used to be, and you see the man I am now, and still you love me.”

  “Nick…” She swiped at her eyes and clenched her trembling jaw. “You are so easy to love. There are women with ten thousand a year who will love you. Do not settle for less than you deserve.”

  “I deserve to be happy, Cyn. I will find a way. And I will come for you. And then I will court you properly, not…as I have done.”

  Her snort was rather damp, so he handed over his handkerchief. When she’d finished blowing her nose, she gave him a shaky smile.

  “If that was not done properly, I’m not sure I understand the workings of it.”

  He growled at her joke, but in truth he was light with relief. “There’s another reason you’d do well to wait for me. What other man could love a woman with such an indelicate sense of humor? And then there are the awful drawings of unclothed men to consider.”

  She shook her head.

  “If I find you entertaining an American beau when I arrive, I shall have to accidentally mention your portfolio.”

  Cynthia didn’t laugh, but her tears had stopped, so Lancaster pulled her to her feet to continue their tour of the garden.

  He would do this the right way, even if it tore his heart from his chest with yearning. And she would wait. She’d said she’d always loved him, after all. So she would wait. He was almost sure of it.

  Lancaster stared into the amber glow of the whisky and wondered at what he was about to do. The changes he would make…they would change him too. But he felt different already. Hopeful. And some of his rage had dripped out onto the grass along with Richmond’s blood.

  When the study door opened behind him, Lancaster stood and turned to Somerhart. “I was hoping you’d stumble upon me. Do you have a moment?”

  Somerhart poured himself a whisky and dropped into the opposite seat. He nodded.

  “You were right about the magistrate. He’s sent ’round a note to tell me I’m free to leave. Seems he was easily satisfied with your version of events.”

  “I’m a duke, Lancaster. My truth is the truth.”

  “Even when it’s not.”

  Somerhart shrugged. “Richmond did fire first.”

  “You forgot to mention that it was a duel.”

  “So I did.” The duke laid his head back.

  “The crown may not be so easily dissuaded.”

  “We’ll see. But I’m fairly sure the crown will be glad the title has been passed. And who will protest? The new earl? Everyone is well rid of that animal.”

  Lancaster looked back to his drink. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “You’re welcome. I gather I’m free of my debt now?”

  “Of course. I am forever obligated to you for—”

  “Ah, Christ, I should hope not. Let’s end this here, shall we? Cheers.” He drained his glass and set it down hard on the table.

  Lancaster swallowed down his own whisky, but he couldn’t leave the subject so easily. “My apologies also. For bringing him here. And for what you overheard.”

  Somerhart lifted his head and met his gaze. He stared for a long time. “I will likely never say this again, so listen closely. You are a more complicated man than I took you for, Lancaster. If you weren’t so disgustingly charming, I might actually like you.” As Somerhart’s head fell back to rest on the chair again, Lancaster looked at him, shocked speechless. He wasn’t even sure what Somerhart had meant by all that.

  “So,” Somerhart murmured, “are you planning to leave this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I hope you’ll watch over Miss Merrithorpe for me. She’s not accustomed to travel or…”

  “I’ll arrange passage on one of my own ships and escort her to her cabin myself. If you don’t change your mind and come riding back before sunset, that is.”

  Lancaster’s stomach clenched at the thought. He didn’t want her to go, but Cynthia had dreams too, and he’d see her live them if he could…and continually pray that her dreams of the future involved him.

  “I won’t stop her,” he murmured. “But speaking of ships…” Lancaster steepled his fingers and leaned forward as Somerhart cracked an eye open to look at him. “I have a proposition for you, Your Grace. Something a bit…unorthodox.”

  Hours later, he left for London with an excitement about his life he hadn’t felt in years.

  Chapter 24

  “Oh, look,” her cousin Lenore cooed. “There is that nice Mr. Morgan. Do you think he’s brought his son?”

  Cynthia leaned forward to see the stage past her cousin’s feathered hat. “Perhaps. But Lenore, do be quiet, I am trying to hear the music.”

  Lenore sighed. “You are so very clever.”

  She patted the young girl’s arm. “I am not clever at all.”

  “You’re so interested in everything.”

  “Lenore, I know almost nothing about music or art or theater. That is why I’m so interested. You are already used to such things.”

  “I suppose. Oh, there is Mr. Echols! His eyes are such a lovely shade of blue.”

  Cynthia tried turning back toward the stage.

  “Do you think it would be an exaggeration to call them periwinkle?”

  Cynthia closed her eyes and gave in to exasperated laughter. “No. He does have exceptionally pretty eyes.”

  Lenore continued her chatter, overwhelmed, as always, with the excitement of her first Season. Of course it was Cynthia’s first Season too, but she was neither seventeen nor eager to meet the gentlemen passing by.

  She’d met plenty of them already during her three months in New York. American men were interesting. Bold and brave. Bright and shiny. But none of them had kind brown eyes that sparkled with secret laughter. And
none of them knew her at all.

  These American men heard her accent and thought she was refined. They heard a silly rumor that she was the cousin of a duke and invited her to the finest homes. On occasion she’d had to fight the urge to raise a glass at dinner and inform everyone she’d been sleeping in an attic just weeks before.

  Now she slept on a deep feather mattress under pure white sheets in a bedroom larger than any she’d ever had. Somehow she hadn’t imagined her American relatives would be wealthy.

  In truth she hadn’t realized America would be quite so obviously prosperous. It was more than she’d thought it would be.

  The music and parties and the frighteningly crowded streets made her heart skip with joy. It was even hotter in the sun than she’d imagined, and there were far more people in this city than seemed physically possible. She loved it all.

  And she missed Nick horribly.

  Sighing, she nodded at something Lenore had said. Her cousin reminded her of a colt, all enthusiasm and long limbs and energy. Like the bustling city itself. And Lenore was just like her mother, who’d taken Cynthia in with the intensity of a whirlwind.

  When Cyn had purchased three new gowns, more than ten boxes had been delivered, the order somehow multiplied in the waiting. When she’d ordered a pair of sensible black slippers, boxes of shoes had arrived in sets of rainbow colors. Pink and blue and green and violet.

  She’d objected at first but eventually had given in under the sheer force of her aunt’s good will.

  It made Cyn wonder what her father must have been like.

  And it made her wonder what Nick would think of the dresses.

  The bright yellow silk of her gown slid like water through her fingers. What would it feel like to Nick’s hand? The neckline scooped across her chest, offering just a hint of the curves beneath. Would his eyes follow the line of silk and remember how he’d opened his mouth over that very path?

  “Cynthia, would you care for a lemonade?” Her uncle’s voice made her start in shame. A glance around showed they’d reached intermission, and Cynthia rose to her feet, flustered.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle. I must have been daydreaming.”

  “A favorite pastime of yours lately.” His smile added kindness to the words, a stark contrast to the tone her stepfather would have used. Not that her uncle was perfect. He drank too much in the evenings and could be dreadfully rude to the servants.

  He was as imperfect as the rest of his family, in fact, but perfection would have been a bit much to bear. Her aunt was a spendthrift who showed no interest in conversation that didn’t involve clothing or gossip. Lenore was following very closely in her mother’s footsteps, and her older brother seemed intent on gambling away his yearly allowance before September.

  But they were kind and openhearted and seemed to want nothing from her but company. Yet Cynthia had become increasingly poor company over the past weeks.

  Nick had written only twice, and he’d said nothing at all in either letter. Platitudes and observations on the weather. What could that mean? Had he changed his mind? But he’d signed each letter with a carefully worded flourish. All my love, and everything I am, Nick.

  She’d picked over those two letters, and when they’d offered nothing at all, she’d recreated their last few days together at Somerhart. Upon reflection, she realized he hadn’t promised to write her faithfully. He hadn’t promised to write at all. He’d declared his love and asked for her trust and promised to come for her. And that was it.

  Her first month in New York she’d been impatient. The second month she’d been angry. But now she was afraid.

  Every moment she was afraid. At dinner, at plays, and now, as the crowd swept her along toward the lobby of the theater, she was afraid.

  She hadn’t encouraged him at all. Not one little bit. Even after he’d laid his heart bare and showed her all the broken pieces, she’d drawn away at the mention of trust. But how much trust must it have taken for Nick to tell her such awful truths? How much trust to set aside the only future he’d ever imagined and leap blindly toward something better?

  Surely she could have dared a small step in his direction.

  Shame filled her at her cowardice. She was afraid. Doubts filled up the space in her heart she’d thought would be filled with happiness in America. So many doubts. What place did she have here, aside from the place she’d filled in England? She was a marriageable lady, nothing more.

  She was not a pawn here, at least, but still a vaguely inanimate thing that would one day be picked up from her current life and set down in another.

  And it was enough now to have comfort and contentment with her aunt’s family, but what of next year or the year after?

  With Nick she felt real. A person with a past and thoughts and a tendency for naughty wit. A daughter of society who’d once slept in an attic and knew how to pickle onions. A woman who’d been tied up for a gentleman’s pleasure.

  Cynthia blushed as she stepped into the theater’s opulent lobby. With Nick she felt real, but what if he was gone again, swept from her life like dust? What if Imogene Brandiss had realized her stupid mistake? What if she had thrown herself at Nick and begged his forgiveness? He’d never been able to tolerate a woman’s tears.

  Lost in her miserable imaginings, Cynthia walked right into her uncle’s back. Startled, she glanced around. Glittering ladies hovered in groups while black-coated gentlemen swarmed around them. Cynthia followed her uncle as he headed toward the bright blond hair of Lenore.

  “Cynthia!” Lenore cried. “Where have you been?”

  “In the box where you left me.”

  “I thought you were right behind me, silly. Come over and meet Miss Lee. You already know her brother, Mr. Ethan Lee. They have the loveliest little cottage on Cape May. Please say you’ll invite us again. It was ever so precious. And Cynthia’s never been to Cape May!”

  The young man at Lenore’s arm bowed over the chatter swelling from the young girls. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Merrithorpe. I hoped I might encounter you this evening.”

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Lee. Are you enjoying the show?”

  “It’s lovely, but it must be quaint compared with the culture you’re accustomed to.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I hoped to…I hoped it would not be a burden to you if I called on your family tomorrow. The last time we met, you said you were reading that Maria Brooks poem, and I took it upon myself to purchase a copy of my own. I’d love to know your thoughts on the language.”

  “Oh, I…” What was she to say? She didn’t wish to encourage him, but he was a nice man. There could be no harm in talking with him. “Of course,” she stammered out, just as she remembered the rather intense passion of the last pages.

  “I’m honored,” he breathed, raising her hand for a polite kiss that went on longer than she’d expected.

  Her brain squeaked, Oh, no, just as Lenore cried out, “Cynthia!” She jumped and felt a flash of shame climb up her neck. Mr. Lee let go of her hand, but when he saw her blush, his eyes sharpened with pleasure.

  Cynthia had the impulse to turn and flee. Tell him about the nude drawings and he will run away, Nick’s voice suggested from inside her head. But she wasn’t entirely sure he was correct.

  A year, she thought with sudden sadness. She might not see him for a whole year.

  “Cousin, do you know who’s here?” Lenore gushed, giving Cynthia’s arm a little shake.

  “Mr. Morgan’s son?”

  “No! An English gentleman!”

  Another one? She’d been foisted upon every English “gentleman” who’d passed within ten miles of Manhattan over the past few months. Two of them had been Scottish. Americans didn’t seem to know the difference.

  Lenore seemed shocked each time she found that Cynthia had never met the gentleman in question. But England is so small, she’d say.

  “I hear he’s an actual lord, Cynthia! You must know him.”


  “I’ve told you I know virtually no one, Lenore. Honestly.” Another wave of sadness washed over her, dampening her earlier pleasure in the evening as Lenore and Miss Lee put their heads together for a bout of excited whispering. “I seem to be beset by a headache. Do you think your mother would let me take the barouche home and send it back for you?”

  Mr. Lee held out his elbow. “Let me help you find her, Miss Merrithorpe.”

  “Thank you.” She put her hand gingerly on his arm, careful not to brush her side against him.

  “Oh, Cynthia! You mustn’t! Miss Lee says that she saw him when he walked into the theater and he is ever so handsome, and…” She drew in a long, shuddering breath. “Miss Whitman told her he is a viscount! Can you even imagine such a thing?”

  Mr. Lee chose that unfortunate moment to swing her around toward the crowd. Her stomach turned too, moving in the opposite direction. The feather in her hair tickled her jaw. A viscount? “Wait,” she murmured, as the room took its time settling around her. “A viscount?”

  “Miss Merrithorpe, do you need to sit down?”

  And then she saw a reckless swirl of familiar gold hair, and that head turned toward her so slowly she wanted to scream.

  Brown eyes locked on her, and Nick’s mouth bloomed into a wide smile of pure joy. Her heart fluttered into complete silence.

  “Miss Merrithorpe?” Mr. Lee whispered. “Are you faint?”

  Nick’s eyes slid down to the place where her hand touched her companion’s arm. She fought the urge to jerk away.

  “Would you get me a lemonade?”

  “Of course!” Mr. Lee answered. “Only let’s find you a chair first.”

  “No, I’m fine. Only a bit warm.”

  When she looked back toward Nick, he was gone. Her heart slammed back to life inside her chest, rushing to drive too much blood into her head. Where was he? Had she only imagined him there, like a desert mirage? What an unbearable thought.

  Panicked, she scanned the room, but the crowd was packed too tightly around her. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”