One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“Of course.”

“Cynthia will likely wake soon and I’m sure she’ll be famished.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll…” The whites of her eyes showed all around as his words finally sunk in. “Pardon me?”

He was unkind enough to thoroughly enjoy the stunned disbelief etched across her features. “That vicious ghost who attacked me in my chambers last night? I managed to catch her. She’s quite lively for a spirit.”

“You…You caught the…ghost?”

“I did.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Lancaster relented and smiled. “Thank you for helping her, Mrs. Pell. She looks quite healthy for a young woman who’s been living in the attic for weeks.”

The housekeeper’s face didn’t move.

“But we shall have to find her a proper chamber now.”

Her eyes turned liquid. “Milord?” she whispered, just before the tears overflowed her eyes.

Oh, no. He couldn’t bear to see a woman cry. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I shouldn’t have teased you like that. Cynthia is well. Everything is fine.”

“Sir!” Her face crumpled.

“Ah, Christ.” Unable to take it a moment longer, Lancaster jumped forward and pulled her into his arms, hoping she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d cry harder when embraced.

She took a deep breath. Lancaster held his. Her shoulders ceased their trembling. “I’m so sorry, milord. I should never have kept it from you.”

His deep sigh of relief ruffled the few strands of gray hair that weren’t pulled tightly into her braid. “Nonsense. You had no reason to trust me.” The truth of his own words stung.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Pell pulled away. “You’ve always been a kind soul, sir. Always.”

Not true. Not anymore. Lancaster glanced away and cleared his throat. “If you’d be so kind as to bring a tray up, we can all share breakfast while we formulate a plan. And celebrate.”

“Celebrate,” she repeated, finally daring a smile. “Yes, I do think this calls for a celebration. I have one last jar of cherry compote I’ve set aside. And a half loaf of pound cake left from last night.”

Cherry compote. His mouth watered at the memory of his favorite treat. Another vivid piece of his past that he hadn’t even dusted off in ten years. How much of his life had he left buried here in a vain attempt to forget that one single week?

“Give me half an hour,” Mrs. Pell said, already busying herself with the stove. “A celebration calls for more food than that.”

He wandered the ground floor rooms as he waited, opening shutters and curtains to let in light. Though he’d been here for days, the place had been inanimate—silent and unmoved by his presence. But now it came alive. Quiet and slumbering in the dawn, yes, but alive.

There was his father’s favorite chair, so wide that Nick had been able to squeeze in next to him for the first few years they’d lived here. There was the hearth his mother had always hovered near, chilled by the sea air that swept between stones.

They’d moved to Cantry Manor when Lancaster was eight. He’d believed it a magical place, overlooking the sea and riddled with hidden hallways. And named Cantry Manor just for his family, he’d assumed.

It had been lonely sometimes, especially for a boy like Nicholas who’d grown up the pet of all his mother’s friends in Hull. But he’d made friends with the boys in the village. And then there’d been Cynthia. By all accounts, she should have been friends with his younger brother. But Timothy had been disdainful of friendship with girls, and Jane had been far too young to care for anything but rag dolls.

So it had been he and Cynthia who would crowd together in front of the kitchen fire on rainy days to play cards or read books. Or lie on their bellies in the grass to play with his tin soldiers. Or creep through the servant passages to hide and surprise each other.

All these years, she’d remained that girl in his mind, never changing.

“Sir?” Mrs. Pell’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Shall we wake her?”

Yes, he thought, like Sleeping Beauty saved from her rest. But, he amended hastily, without the kiss. Strangely, the thought set loose a cloud of butterflies in his gut.

“Cynthia…” The gentle voice crept through her dreams, but the mattress was a soft, sticky bundle pulling her down. She snuggled more thoroughly into the feathers and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. The bedcovers oozed warmth.

“Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell called. “It’s time to get up, sweeting. We’ve got a big day.”