One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

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?”