One Week as Lovers by Victoria Dahl Page A

cravat, Lancaster snatched her hand away.
    Cynthia gasped, and he tried very hard not to squeeze her hand too tightly in spite of the way his fingers spasmed. His skin tingled still, but not with pleasure. This tingling was a bright, hard wash of cold.
    “Nick,” she gasped, and he let her go, murmuring, “Sorry. Sorry.”
    “Whatever is the matter?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Well, I apologize. I had no idea it was something I was not to bring up.”
    Here. Here was an excuse. He forced his mouth into a smile—not a hard task as he’d practiced this ruse so often. “I am self-conscious. A burn, you understand. A disfigurement. I hate for it to be noticed.”
    “Oh.” Her shock twisted into impatience. “I see.”
    “There is nothing wrong with a little vanity.”
    Cynthia snorted and his panic began to fade.
    “I thank you for reminding me of it, as a matter of fact. I mean to purchase a nightshirt with grand frills about the neck before my wedding.”
    “Grand frills…?” she started, and then her words collapsed into laughter.
    Relief shook his breath from his lungs. He was usually prepared for the question. He was usually on guard against an unexpected, intimate touch. After all, there were very specific circumstances when a woman might drag her finger down a gentleman’s neck. He hadn’t previously counted treasure hunting among them. He wanted to rub her touch away but smiled instead.
    “Really, Lancaster.” She laughed. “Your vanity is misguided. If you care for this woman at all, you should skip the nightshirt and sleep in your usual attire.”
    “Oh?” He shook off the last of his worry. Despite her strange approach, she really was flirting with him. “I’m not sure I should accept your advice. You do have a peculiar affinity for nudity, Cynthia. Some ladies might not share your appreciation for the male physique.”
    “I…” Her cheeks flashed to red. “I don’t…Oh, shove off!”
    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.