One Week As Lovers (Somerhart 3)

“But I’ve made tea. Thankfully, she left a pot boiling.”

“Wonderful.” Strange, but somehow this felt very odd, knowing they were here alone together. What a completely illogical thought. They’d been alone together all day on the beach. They’d been alone on her bed this morning.

Still, the intimacy of this new situation pressed on him with the weight of an approaching storm.

Cynthia didn’t seem affected. She moved cheerfully through the motions of making tea. The dress clung heavily to her hips.

“I should change,” he announced and broke for the hall. She didn’t stop him, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the top of the stairs.

His intentions were good. Honorable, even. No matter how much he wanted to make love to Cynthia Merrithorpe, he couldn’t do it.

But Cynthia was wreaking havoc with his resolve.

I want more for us, she’d offered so simply. The honesty of that would have touched him even if his heart hadn’t already been shaking with need. He wanted more too. More for himself and more for Cynthia, and more for them together. He could see it now, the promise of what might have been. A friendship suddenly sparked with lust. A happy kind of love that would take them quickly and last forever.

He pulled loose the cloth that had grown too tight around his neck, then shrugged out of his coat.

Maybe she was right about Imogene. Maybe he didn’t have to marry her. But there was no way in the word he could marry Cynthia. If he did, he would change his family’s course in history.

They’d become members of the gently impoverished. His brother and sister would be forced into the very choice Lancaster was trying to avoid. Marry for fortune or live a life of shabbiness. He couldn’t shirk that duty only to see it placed on his siblings’ backs. Besides, he was the only one who could marry up and pull them all along behind.

Marrying Cynthia wasn’t an option.

But if given the chance, would he? Would he subject her to a lifetime of nights in his bed?

He jerked his wet shirt over his head and glanced at the mattress on the other side of his chambers.

She wasn’t a virgin. Perhaps a lifetime was too much to ask, but what about one night? He could picture her there, arching herself into his touch, just as she’d done the day before. She’d liked that, and she would like it again. And when he—

A staccato knock dropped into his fantasy and freed a surge of anger for his own thoughts. “Cracked bastard,” he muttered. The knock came again.

“I’ve brought your tea!” Cynthia called.

Lancaster slipped into his dressing robe and moved warily to open the door. He felt exposed, both by his state of undress and the tenor of his thoughts. But Cynthia’s smile was wide and cheerful, and he had no excuse to keep her out.

She hurried past him to set the tray on the table. He could do nothing but accept the cup she offered and murmur his thanks. Cynthia stood in front of the fire and sipped her tea, and his fear began to retreat like the receding tide. It was probably helped along by the strong bite of brandy that stung his nose.

“How many cups of tea have you had?” he asked.

Cynthia winked. “Only one. This gown is freezing.”

He froze, the cup only two inches from his mouth. He looked at her wet dress, wondering why it seemed a suddenly ominous prop in this strange drama.

“I’ll need help getting out of it,” she said.

Ah. There it was. The tide hadn’t retreated at all, it had only drawn up its strength in anticipation of crashing over his head. Again, Cynthia didn’t seem to notice his turmoil. She smiled at him, and he felt his mouth smile back. He appeared perfectly normal, it seemed, as his mind spun ’round and ’round the prospect of helping Cynthia undress.

His willpower was a brittle plank, riddled with cracks and holes, and creaking beneath the weight of his desire. Now Cyn had decided to leap onto it, full speed.

“Are you quite sure Mrs. Pell isn’t back yet? It’ll be time to fix luncheon soon.”

Cynthia scoffed at his question. “She likely thinks we can handle slicing bread and sausage on our own.”

“Mm. Quite.”

She held up the teapot and Lancaster looked into his cup and found it empty. She refilled it with a steady hand, and Lancaster politely drank every drop she’d poured.

Heat seeped into his muscles.