One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

Their hike home had coincided with the rising tide, and a sudden wave had slapped right into her skirts. It had receded before she’d even had time to shriek at the cold, but the damage had been done.

When she shivered at the memory, Nick poured another serving and pushed the glass toward her, his movement drawing her eyes to his bare forearms. The formality of a coat was hardly called for in the midst of what could only be described as a bathing party.

“I insist you go first,” Nick said, tilting his glass in her direction.

“Nonsense. You need to soothe your back.”

“My back is good as ever, thank you very much. And I shan’t soak at all if you don’t go first. I am nothing if not chivalrous. You’re cold. And your hair needs washing.”

Her hand flew to her hair only to find the braid stiff with dried salt spray. Her face flared to a blush. “Chivalry, my arse.”

“Cynthia Merrithorpe!” Mrs. Pell appeared like a genie from the hall, her arms filled with linens. “Could you please cease shouting out every improper word that jumps into your head?”

Nick nodded solemnly. “Quite shocking.”

She kicked his shin and was disappointed when he only smiled angelically at his housekeeper. “Mrs. Pell, won’t you take a turn as well? No point wasting all this hot water.”

She glanced scornfully at the steaming tub. “I prefer a brace of cold water myself. Toughens the hide.”

“Mm, well. We London gentlemen prefer skin with the sheen and texture of a baby’s bottom.”

Cyn raised an eyebrow. “I would’ve guessed a horse’s arse.”

Playing to the singular audience of Mrs. Pell, Nick clapped a hand over his heart and pretended to succumb to an agonizing death.

“You’re both impossible,” Mrs. Pell complained as she leaned over the fire to check the temperature of the pot of water. When she reached for the hook, Nick jumped up and took it from her, snagging the rag that hung from her apron as well.

“I think that should be enough,” he murmured as he poured the water out in a great cloud of steam. His neckcloth gave up any pretense of stiffness in the dampness. Nick tugged impatiently at the knot, then used the cloth to wipe his brow. Sweat and steam dampened his shirt, pressing it to his skin and turning the scene into an exposition of male beauty.

My, oh my.

Cyn glanced toward Mrs. Pell and found that she was staring too, though her eyes looked shocked instead of satisfied. Had she forgotten he’d grown into a man? Cynthia certainly hadn’t.

He worked the pump to refill the giant black pot, and the shirt revealed his back to be just as lovely as his front. From the dip of his spine, the muscles of his back curved out to strong shoulders. His arms tightened under the weight of the water.

“Well then.” He hung the pot back over the fire and dusted his hands. “I suppose Mrs. Pell won’t allow me to stay even if I promise to do no more than peek.”

“Cheeky.” Cynthia laughed. And he had a right to be. She’d have been happy to let him wash her back.

“But Mrs. Pell,” he continued, “I beg you. Keep an eye on her for me. I seem to recall a panel hidden in that wall, and Miss Merrithorpe is not above a peek herself.”

Cynthia snorted. “I prefer a strapping country lad myself.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow. “Yes, I know that about you.”

Though she looked about for a stale roll to toss at his back, there were none at hand, and Nick escaped the room unscathed.

“The nerve.” Cynthia stood and shook out her sodden skirts, then started to turn her back to Mrs. Pell, but the woman still stood near the hearth, forehead crumpled in thought.

“Mrs. Pell?”

She startled and shook her head, muttering, “Yes, of course,” before starting on the hooks of Cynthia’s dress.

Cyn lost herself in thoughts of how lovely whisky was until Mrs. Pell cleared her throat.

“I think you should be a bit gentler with him,” Mrs. Pell said softly as she pulled the dress down and started on the corset.

“Who?”