One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“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.