One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

True laughter escaped his throat as Cynthia spun around and flounced down the trail. The wind lifted the hood off her hair and twisted her skirts around her legs. She snapped the hood back into place, but her dress lifted higher, exposing the tops of her calves.

Lancaster watched her legs carefully for another peek as he picked his way down the rocky slope.

Miss Cynthia Merrithorpe should not be thinking of him naked. And as a betrothed man, he shouldn’t be so damned happy about it. But he most certainly was.

Cynthia couldn’t find her footing. Oh, she was steady enough on the trail. She’d scrambled up and down this path for days.

But with Nick…She was tripping over her thoughts and feelings, dizzy with confusion.

She’d loved him once. She’d loved him so much that she’d hurt inside whenever he was near. But that ache had been a warm and happy pain.

Without any doubt at all, she’d known that someday she would blossom into a woman and he’d see her as more than a childhood friend. Someone would hold a ball—she wasn’t sure who, as country dances were the rule with her neighbors. And Cynthia would arrive in a beautiful dress of white and silver tulle—paid for by some anonymous benefactor, perhaps?

Aglow with beauty, she’d float down a curving staircase. Nick would look up from chatting with his friends, and he would see her. He’d see her as a woman. The world would spin to a halt around them. They’d fall in love and marry too young and move to London, and the whole ton would marvel at the strength of their passion.

A great screeching invaded the hazy scene she’d conjured, and Cynthia looked up to see an enraged gull swoop toward her head. Waving it off with the anger she couldn’t direct elsewhere, Cyn hurried past the nest, too aware of Nick’s footsteps behind her.

She still couldn’t quite fathom that he was back. Almost harder than believing he’d gone in the first place.

It had only been meant as a monthlong tour of the Lake District with some lordly man named Mr. Trevington. Trapped in the schoolroom with her sister, Cynthia had missed his send-off on that sunny morning. But she’d reassured herself that he’d return soon enough and this horrid sorrow and separation would end.

A few days later, his family had packed up suddenly and gone to join him. And then…nothing. Nothing. A month came and went. No one returned.

For weeks afterward, Mrs. Pell had avoided Cynthia’s question until the truth had become unavoidable. The Cantrys’ possessions had gradually been sealed into crates and shipped off to London. The servants let go one by one until only Mrs. Pell remained. And Cynthia, of course. Cynthia had been left behind too.

She’d written letters she’d never sent, confessing her love; woven excuses from the cobwebs that formed in the places they’d once played; shed tears for him every night.

Despite all that, she’d healed. And now he was back.

Cynthia kicked a shell out of her path and headed straight for the little four-foot cliff that put an abrupt end to the easy part of the trek.

The wind shaped her skirt into a bell when she jumped, hiding her view of the sand, but she landed steady and paused to watch the waves roll toward her.

“Cynthia!” His voice fell toward her just as Nick landed with a thump at her side. “Are you hurt?”

“What?”

He ducked down and reached for her skirts.

“What are you doing?” she cried as his hands delved beneath her thread-worn petticoat and stroked from her knees to her boot tops.

“Your ankles. You likely turned one with a fall like that.”

“I jumped!”

He tugged off his gloves and patted at her skin as if he might discover a shard of bone sticking out.

“Stop that.”

His warm hands continued roaming.

“Nick.” His hand touched the back of her knee and she jumped clear of him. “Nick!” Legs burning with the memory of his pressing fingers, Cynthia stepped a safer distance away. “I didn’t fall, my ankles are fine, and we’ve another half-mile in this sand,” she said before whirling around to walk quickly away.

Gentlemen did not touch ladies in that way. It wasn’t proper. Unless, of course, said gentlemen considered that lady a child.

Unfortunately, regardless of what Nick might think of her maturity, her body was very clear on the matter. She was a woman, and Nick was a fine, handsome man with strong, warm hands that she’d dreamed of for years.

James had been a mistake. But Nick…Nick could be something better. Nick had already set her limbs shaking with a few simple touches. It was more than James had done for her.