One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“As far as the garden goes,” she murmured, “my jewel was already plucked.”

Yes, the flush spread down her neck, all the way to her chest. “Pardon?” He cleared his throat. “A garden? I believe you’re mixing metaphors.”

“I thought you preferred them thoroughly stirred,” she snapped, her voice crackling with annoyance.

Lancaster rolled his shoulders and tried to take his mind off her pinkening skin. “I’m sorry. What are you saying?”

“Nick, my flower has already been plucked. So it’s not something you need concern yourself over.”

“Your flower…?” The metaphors were trying hard to explain themselves, but Cynthia couldn’t mean what he thought she meant.

She took a long, deep breath. “I’m not a maiden anymore, Nick.”

“You…” Her words were vague for a few precious seconds before the meaning hit him squarely between the eyes. Cynthia wasn’t a virgin. Her skin wasn’t the only thing that looked red to him now. The whole room had gone scarlet.

He jerked to his feet. “I’ll kill him.”

“Who?” She watched him with round eyes.

“Richmond. I’ll shoot him through the gut as I should’ve done years ago.”

“It wasn’t Richmond.”

“That bastard doesn’t deserve a bullet through the head.”

“Nick, it wasn’t him!”

He paused in the act of pulling his fist back to give the wall a good beating, then swung back to look at Cynthia. “Of course it was him.”

“No, I’m quite sure it wasn’t.”

“Bram then. Is that it, Cyn?” He dropped to his knees to meet her eyes. “Did Bram…did he hurt you?”

“I told you he never touched me.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It was someone you don’t know. That’s not the point.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Whoever it was, I’ll kill him. No man who’d take a woman against her will deserves to live. Just—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Nick. I didn’t say I was forced. I was quite willing, if you must know the truth.”

“But…” Perhaps the event had shocked her so much that she couldn’t recall the details anymore. Because her words didn’t make any sense. Cynthia Merrithorpe was a good girl who lived out in the fresh, clean air of the country. She didn’t go to balls and flirt with London rogues who might tempt her into ruin. She wasn’t the type to accept one man’s hand while clasping another to her bosom.

The clock ticked louder in his ears. His knees began to hurt. “I’m sorry but…what do you mean?”

Cynthia sighed. “To use your turn of phrase, I placed a priceless jewel in the hand of a passing friend. Now the important thing is—”

“Who?” he shouted.

Cynthia pulled her chin in and shut her mouth.

“I apologize,” he said. “But would you please tell me who it was?”

“Why?”

Why? Because it was only the most important question he’d ever asked her. Cynthia Merrithorpe had made love with some man. With some other man. Could she not see how horrifying that was? “Please?” he pleaded.

“He’s no one you know,” she sighed, slumping in the chair.

“How? I know all the gentlemen in this county. Oh, God, it was Harry Baylor, wasn’t it?”