One Week As Lovers. Victoria Dahl

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СКАЧАТЬ thought of returning to London for his marriage, seemed easier to bear knowing that Cynthia Merrithorpe hadn’t thrown herself from a cliff and broken her body on the rocks below. His life might be a tattered mess, but he hadn’t contributed to the destruction of this young woman.

      Nearly shaking with energy, Lancaster stalked to the ancient shutters that covered the window. He had a vague idea that he might throw them open with a dramatic flair, but the damned things were swollen shut. It took him a good minute of prying and tugging to get them open, but when he did he was rewarded with the sight of a long line of deep pink rising above the horizon. Dawn, or near enough. Mrs. Pell was likely up by now.

      He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt long before, so he only had to tiptoe into his bedroom to retrieve his boots before slipping out the door. Cynthia slept on.

      Before reaching the kitchen he heard female voices, one of them raised in anger.

      “If you leave now, you’ll never have a job in his lordship’s home again.” Mrs. Pell’s voice quivered with outrage.

      “But I don’t plan to work here again,” a girl replied, nervousness clear in the shaky words. Lancaster snuck his head around the corner.

      The two new maids cowered near the door. “It’s haunted! We heard ghosts running through the walls!” Mary cried, and Lancaster jerked back with a smile. Perfect.

      “Come now,” Mrs. Pell scoffed. “’Twas only a mouse.”

      He dragged a reckless hand through his hair to muss it, then took a deep breath and lurched around the corner. “Damn big mouse if you ask me.” All three women gasped and stepped back before dropping hasty curtsies. “I heard it too,” he continued. “Banging and rustling. Even a scream, I daresay.”

      “Yes!” Lizzie cried. “Screams and horrible moaning.”

      Moaning? Oh, my. Well, perhaps he’d moaned a bit after she’d bashed him in the head. He raised a hand to touch a careful finger to the lump at the edge of his eyebrow.

      “Now, milord, I’m sure you’re just not used to the sounds of this old place settling at night—”

      “I was attacked.” He touched the aching spot with a bit more flair. “Pounced upon in my bed while I slept.”

      The two maids let out little screams and scrambled for the door, but Mrs. Pell’s face paled to a sickly white that even the frightened maids couldn’t match.

      “Attacked?” she croaked.

      The door banged against the wall and the maids were gone, vanished into the dim morning.

      “You won’t be paid!” she called after them, though the words fell weakly from her mouth.

      Lancaster pushed a chair toward her and Mrs. Pell sat down hard.

      “I do believe those girls have a fear of restless spirits,” he said, his mood inching up to even greater heights. If there were no maids about, Cynthia would be free to live openly in his home. “I say, Mrs. Pell, is there tea this morning? I’m parched.”

      “Yes, sir.” She stared at the open door for a long moment before she blinked back to her wits. “Oh, pardon me, milord!” She jumped to her feet so quickly that her skirts flared around her. Her eyes darted to the wound on his head. “I’m so sorry. The water’s ready. I’ll have breakfast for you in a moment, if you’d like to relax in the library. You’re an early riser today, sir.”

      “I couldn’t sleep.”

      “Aye…Well.”

      “And I’ll take breakfast in my chambers, if you please—”

      “Of course.”

      “Cynthia will likely wake soon and I’m sure she’ll be famished.”

      “Yes, sir. I’ll…” The whites of her eyes showed all around as his words finally sunk in. “Pardon me?”

      He was unkind enough to thoroughly enjoy the stunned disbelief etched across her features. “That vicious ghost who attacked me in my chambers last night? I managed to catch her. She’s quite lively for a spirit.”

      “You…You caught the…ghost?”

      “I did.”

      They stared at each other for a long moment before Lancaster relented and smiled. “Thank you for helping her, Mrs. Pell. She looks quite healthy for a young woman who’s been living in the attic for weeks.”

      The housekeeper’s face didn’t move.

      “But we shall have to find her a proper chamber now.”

      Her eyes turned liquid. “Milord?” she whispered, just before the tears overflowed her eyes.

      Oh, no. He couldn’t bear to see a woman cry. “I’m sorry,” he said in a rush. “I shouldn’t have teased you like that. Cynthia is well. Everything is fine.”

      “Sir!” Her face crumpled.

      “Ah, Christ.” Unable to take it a moment longer, Lancaster jumped forward and pulled her into his arms, hoping she wasn’t the kind of woman who’d cry harder when embraced.

      She took a deep breath. Lancaster held his. Her shoulders ceased their trembling. “I’m so sorry, milord. I should never have kept it from you.”

      His deep sigh of relief ruffled the few strands of gray hair that weren’t pulled tightly into her braid. “Nonsense. You had no reason to trust me.” The truth of his own words stung.

      Shaking her head, Mrs. Pell pulled away. “You’ve always been a kind soul, sir. Always.”

      Not true. Not anymore. Lancaster glanced away and cleared his throat. “If you’d be so kind as to bring a tray up, we can all share breakfast while we formulate a plan. And celebrate.”

      “Celebrate,” she repeated, finally daring a smile. “Yes, I do think this calls for a celebration. I have one last jar of cherry compote I’ve set aside. And a half loaf of pound cake left from last night.”

      Cherry compote. His mouth watered at the memory of his favorite treat. Another vivid piece of his past that he hadn’t even dusted off in ten years. How much of his life had he left buried here in a vain attempt to forget that one single week?

      “Give me half an hour,” Mrs. Pell said, already busying herself with the stove. “A celebration calls for more food than that.”

      He wandered the ground floor rooms as he waited, opening shutters and curtains to let in light. Though he’d been here for days, the place had been inanimate—silent and unmoved by his presence. But now it came alive. Quiet and slumbering in the dawn, yes, but alive.

      There was his father’s favorite chair, so wide that Nick had been able to squeeze in next to him for the first few years they’d lived here. There was the hearth his mother had always hovered near, chilled by the sea air that swept between stones.

      They’d moved to Cantry Manor when Lancaster was eight. He’d believed it a magical СКАЧАТЬ