One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

Despite the puzzled look she gave him, Cynthia headed for the door. He followed.

She drew her hood over her head as they descended the stairs and led the way to the door. Mrs. Pell had sent her last set of helping hands out to work in the stables for the morning. The boy, Adam, had been thrilled with the opportunity to spend some time with Lancaster’s honest-to-goodness London driver. Still, Lancaster’s stomach tightened as Cynthia slipped out the wide front door and hurried down the steps. But whatever his nervousness was, Cyn clearly didn’t share it. She didn’t even look over her shoulder as she turned east toward the shore.

The wind gusted beneath his coat as he hurried to catch up. “Aren’t you nervous you’ll be seen?”

>

She shrugged. “If you look furtive, people notice.”

Ah, yes. He understood that. The key to blending in was looking as if you belonged. But…“How can you know that? Did you escape from Newgate earlier this year?”

The naughty look she sent him called to mind all the mischief she’d caused as a young girl. “I wasn’t actually supposed to spend every day of my childhood at Cantry Manor, you know. The more time I spent here, the more restrictions my stepfather set down. I learned that if I tried to sneak out, one of the maids would notice and inform my mother. But if I simply walked out as if it were expected…” She winked, startling Lancaster into a smile.

By God…Cynthia was pretty. How could he have thought her not pretty?

Her head tilted, and she watched him through her lashes as she stepped onto a well-worn path that sloped gently down. Was she flirting with him? His skin tingled when she licked her lips.

“Lancaster…” she started.

“Yes?”

“Where did you get that scar?”

The wind gusted, surely twisting her words. “Pardon me?”

“That scar.” She stopped abruptly and turned toward him with an exasperated smile. “Around your neck,” she huffed. “I saw it last night.”

When he started to shake his head, she reached up to trail a finger down the skin beneath his chin. Before her finger could reach the linen of his cravat, Lancaster snatched her hand away.

Cynthia gasped, and he tried very hard not to squeeze her hand too tightly in spite of the way his fingers spasmed. His skin tingled still, but not with pleasure. This tingling was a bright, hard wash of cold.

“Nick,” she gasped, and he let her go, murmuring, “Sorry. Sorry.”

“Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Well, I apologize. I had no idea it was something I was not to bring up.”

Here. Here was an excuse. He forced his mouth into a smile—not a hard task as he’d practiced this ruse so often. “I am self-conscious. A burn, you understand. A disfigurement. I hate for it to be noticed.”

“Oh.” Her shock twisted into impatience. “I see.”

“There is nothing wrong with a little vanity.”

Cynthia snorted and his panic began to fade.

“I thank you for reminding me of it, as a matter of fact. I mean to purchase a nightshirt with grand frills about the neck before my wedding.”

“Grand frills…?” she started, and then her words collapsed into laughter.

Relief shook his breath from his lungs. He was usually prepared for the question. He was usually on guard against an unexpected, intimate touch. After all, there were very specific circumstances when a woman might drag her finger down a gentleman’s neck. He hadn’t previously counted treasure hunting among them. He wanted to rub her touch away but smiled instead.

“Really, Lancaster.” She laughed. “Your vanity is misguided. If you care for this woman at all, you should skip the nightshirt and sleep in your usual attire.”

“Oh?” He shook off the last of his worry. Despite her strange approach, she really was flirting with him. “I’m not sure I should accept your advice. You do have a peculiar affinity for nudity, Cynthia. Some ladies might not share your appreciation for the male physique.”

“I…” Her cheeks flashed to red. “I don’t…Oh, shove off!”