One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

Were they to make mincemeat pies then?

She snuggled into the pillow, telling herself the linen smelled of Nicholas.

Wait a moment…Her heart stopped. The linens did smell of Nick.

Cynthia opened one eye and tried to focus on the face angled close to hers. Messy blond hair, sparkling brown eyes, wide grin.

“Good morning, princess,” Nicholas cooed.

Cynthia’s heart shot straight out of her chest. “Good God!” she screeched, jumping up so fast that her flailing hand connected with his nose.

“Bloody hell, woman! Do you never tire of beating me about the face?”

“Language, milord,” Mrs. Pell scolded as if he were still a child in her kitchen. He apologized in the same nostalgic manner as he rubbed his nose.

They’d both gone mad. She looked from Nicholas to Mrs. Pell and blurted out, “I told you he would not sack you.”

Nicholas snorted. “You were not so sure of it last night. You seemed only moments from throwing yourself at my feet to beg for mercy.”

“I certainly did not!”

“Mm. I’d hoped a good night’s sleep would improve your mood.”

Mrs. Pell tsked. “She’s been a sourpuss for weeks, milord.”

Mad. Stark, raving mad. “I was forced to stage my own death! It tends to damage one’s mood.”

Mr

s. Pell reached over to pat Cynthia’s hand where it clutched the coverlet. “Your situation has greatly improved, sweeting.”

“Hardly. I wasn’t actually dead even before Lancaster stumbled upon me.”

“Stumbled,” he muttered.

“But Cynthia,” Mrs. Pell scolded. “Lord Lancaster means to help you. You needn’t worry now.”

“I needn’t worry? Surely you jest.” She glanced toward Lancaster, feeling a momentary twinge of guilt, but there was no way around it. “I need money. And he’s got even less than I do.”

His eyebrows rose.

“Are you fleeing creditors? Is that why you’re here?”

“Cynthia,” the housekeeper gasped, but Lancaster seemed entirely uninsulted.

“Still the same unruly child, I see. Perhaps a sweet will cheer you up.” He plopped down on the bed beside her, shaking the whole mattress, and gestured toward the tray.

Stung by his evaluation of her maturity, Cynthia looked away from him to stare at the tray. A few heartbeats passed in quiet. Guilt swelled from a kernel to a full bloom in her chest.

She was frightened and frustrated, so she was being rude. It was one of her faults, lashing out when under pressure. But surely Nick remembered that about her. If he remembered anything at all.

Mrs. Pell, clearing her throat, handed her a piece of compote-covered pound cake. She handed a second plate to Nick. “Regardless,” the housekeeper said, “he can help with your plan.”

Cynthia’s eyes flew to his in time to see them widen. “What plan?” he asked, the words muffled by a mouthful of cake.

She waited for him to swallow, then took a bite of her own cake, letting the tart sweetness melt over her tongue as she tried to think what to say. Her shoulders had bunched painfully at Mrs. Pell’s words. But of course, there would be no hiding the plan. Even she wasn’t childish enough to think so. She’d have to tell him, but her arms wanted to curl around her waist to hold the secret close.

“What plan?” he asked again.