One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“Wonderful idea. Perhaps my coachman might even teach you a few basics of caring for horses while you’re here.” Nick glanced out the door. “He is still here, is he not?”

“Oh, sure he is,” Adam said. “Though he’s spent a few afternoons at the alehouse.”

“Excellent. Best to keep him occupied as well, then. A splendid solution all around.”

“I’ll run home and tell my mam!”

Nick’s grip stopped his lunge for the door. “Not a word, Adam. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” And then the boy was gone, sprinting out the door and down the path before Cynthia could so much as blink.

“She won’t like it,” Mrs. Pell murmured. “Adam’s her youngest. She’s a mite protective.”

Nick glanced toward the fire that roared in the hearth, his shoulders slumping. “Right then. I’d better speak to her myself. I don’t think that boy could keep his mouth shut for more than one full day.”

“Nick, you don’t have to—” Cyn started, but he just waved a farewell and set off for the village. His boots squished faintly as he walked.

Cynthia watched him go and wondered if this grand plan of hers was about to come to a spectacular end.

Chapter 11

The brush eased gently through Cynthia’s hair as Mrs. Pell searched for tangles. Once she’d worked through all the knots the wind had tied in the strands, she brushed more firmly.

“Ah, that feels like heaven,” Cynthia sighed.

“I’ve finished the dress. Would you like to wear it for dinner?”

Her heart jumped with excitement. “Are you kidding? Do you know how sick and tired I am of that old gown?” She clapped her hands at the thought of the new dress. Not that it was new. It was simply a secondhand frock Mrs. Pell had bought to alter for Cynthia. It had been far too large as Mrs. Pell had been forced to purchase something that might have been altered to fit her, but Cynthia didn’t care about a perfect fit. She simply wanted something else to wear.

“Can I see it now?”

“Just a moment.” Her quick fingers pulled Cynthia’s hair into a braid high on her head, then coiled and pinned it neatly on her crown. Strangely, she then paused to work a few tendrils loose at Cyn’s temples.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you look pretty,” she murmured, stepping back a foot to look over the work she’d done.

“Why?”

“Well, you’ve a new dress, haven’t you?”

Cynthia couldn’t argue with that logic, so she only touched a careful hand to her hair and wondered if she really did look pretty.

When Mrs. Pell strolled to the wardrobe and pulled out the dress, Cynthia ceased to care about her hair.

The dress was beautiful. Oh, it was no tulle ball gown. In fact, it wasn’t anything she would have considered beautiful a year ago. No frills or lace or decorative lines. But the pine color glowed with depth. And the curve of the neckline promised to show off her collarbone at least, if not any hint of cleavage.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

“Oh, hush. ’Tis naught more than any simple woman would wear to church.”

“It’s so…green.”

“And you’ve been wearing gray for too long, it seems. Out of that rag, now. Though there’s no hope but that you’ll have to wear it again tomorrow. The new one won’t do for crawling through sand. Now turn ’round.”

Cynthia stared at the fine wool draped over the bedstead as Mrs. Pell worked at the hooks of the old dress.

“What happened between you and Lord Lancaster this morning?”