One Week As Lovers

by Victoria Dahl

Genres: Historical Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Some Pleasures, Once Tasted. . . Even after finding his betrothed in the arms of another man, Nicholas, the Viscount Lancaster, knows he must wed. Propriety--and the dire state of his finances--decrees it. At least a visit to his country estate provides relief from playing the role of loving fiancé, as well as a surprising encounter with Cynthia Merrithorpe. Once his childhood companion, Cynthia has grown into a lovely, alluring woman--one who's undertaken a daring ruse to avoid being sold into a miserable marriage. Are Too Delicious To Forget. . . When Nicholas left for London to assume his new title, Cynthia was forced to put aside her girlish infatuation. Now he's returned, more wickedly attractive than ever. And this time, Cynthia is determined to experience the pleasure she's dreamed of for so long. But with a man like Nicholas, seduction is only the beginning of a sensual journey that will tempt them both to defy convention, and uncover the very heart of desire. . . Praise for Victoria's Dahl's A Rake's Guide to Pleasure. . . "So hot the pages smoke. Don't miss this book!" --Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: July 18, 2009

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

London, Spring 1846

Nicholas Cantry, Viscount Lancaster—known to friends, family, and every single person in the ton for his unerring charm and constant good humor—was furious. His vision blurred faintly at the edges, and his teeth ached from the pressure of being clenched together, but as he made his way through the crowd of the waning dinner party, people still offered him smiles. If they thought anything at all, perhaps they wondered if he had a touch of dyspepsia. Certainly, they didn’t suspect him of anger.

He was, after all, an ornament. A pleasant way to pass the time. A fairly harmless fortune hunter. And that was the way he liked it. No one ever looked past his humor and goodwill. No one looked deeper. He could hardly regret a reputation he’d taken pains to cultivate.

But finding his fiancée spreading her legs for another man had ruffled even Lancaster’s carefully groomed façade. The hateful things she’d screamed at him hadn’t helped his temper. Neither had the knowledge that he could not simply turn and walk away.

“My good Viscount Lancaster!” a voice trilled from his left. Lancaster stopped in his tracks, spun toward the petite matron, and bowed in one fluid motion.

“Lady Avalon,” he murmured over her offered hand. “A light in my dismal evening.”

“Oh, pah.” She giggled, and smacked him in the shoulder with her oversized fan.

“Lady Avalon, I had no idea you’d returned from the country so early. Fleeing an ill-thought affair, are you?”

“Lancaster, you are scandalous.”

“Only occasionally. You are acquainted with Mr. Brandiss?” He gestured toward their host and resisted an urge to massage the tight pain from the back of his neck.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Brandiss may be a merchant, but he’s as much a gentleman as any peer of the realm.” She leaned a little closer. “I’ve also met Miss Brandiss. What a beautiful bride you’ve chosen, Lancaster.”

Beautiful, yes. And treacherous. And surprisingly loud when backed into a corner.

But he only inclined his head in modest agreement.

“Lovely,” Lady Avalon continued, “and a very smart alliance. I told everyone you would do quite well, and you have.”

“Yes, Miss Brandiss was willing to overlook my fearsome face and thread-worn title for a chance to get her delicate hands on my apple orchards. They’re quite profitable.”

“Ha! If you’d had a fortune, young man, you’d have reigned as the bachelor king for a decade. It takes a barrel of charm to be seen as a decent catch even in your straits. Very impressive, Viscount. Mr. Brandiss is a stickler when it comes to his little Imogene.”

“Quite,” Lancaster managed to grind out past a smile. “Now if you’d be kind enough to excuse me…”

“Oh, yes! I’m sure you’d like to get back to that darling fiancée of yours.”

He turned, but not quickly enough to avoid another whack of her fan. The whalebone cracked against his arm, and Lancaster imagined his nerves as taut wires, popping with just that sound as they snapped apart.

Darling fiancée indeed. He’d thought her darling enough until a few moments ago. He’d thought her demure and shy and as pretty as she was intelligent.

“Demure,” he growled as he moved out of the crowded hall and closer to the front door. He’d made it past the densest of the crowd, but he wasn’t free yet. Mr. Brandiss himself stood near the door, bidding farewell to the first of his guests to leave.

He’d not be as easy to fool as the rest of these people, and he was the last man Lancaster wished to speak with right now. Martin Brandiss was shrewd, smart, and almost preternaturally astute. Though perhaps not where his daughter was involved.

He edged past the cluster of Brandiss and his guests without notice, but there was no way to escape completely. He had to request his greatcoat and hat, had to wait for his coachman to be summoned. Lancaster hardly even winced when he felt a hand slap his shoulder.

“Off so early, sir?”

Lancaster made himself chuckle as he turned to shake his future father-in-law’s hand. “I’ve an appointment at my club, I’m afraid, but it was a truly delightful evening. Your wife is an estimable hostess.”

“Never worry. She insisted that Imogene participate in all the planning. She’ll make a fine viscountess.”

“I’ve no doubt.” She’d managed to pretend affection for a suitor she hated; Imogene would play the part of Lady Lancaster with aplomb.

A sudden idea sparked. If she backed out, he would have no choice. The decision would be beyond his control. The wedding could not go forward. “Mr. Brandiss, are you certain she is eager for this match?”

Brandiss’s bushy white brows slowly lowered until Lancaster could hardly see his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” His neck burned with strain, but he managed to look merely concerned. “Your daughter has been quiet these past weeks. Since the betrothal dinner.”

“Imogene is an obedient girl,” Brandiss answered, his voice hardening to steel. “She is happy with this betrothal, milord. She knows her duty.”

Her duty. Yes, she had screamed something about duty while her lover tried to shut her up.

Duty. Despite the circumstances he’d still hoped for something more.

Instead of shouting at the man that his daughter was nothing close to happy, Lancaster inclined his head. “Of course. Please convey my farewells to your wife and daughter. As always, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Milord,” Brandiss replied with a cursory bow. Yes, as Lady Avalon had said, Brandiss was every inch the gentleman despite that he was a glorified trader. Lancaster had been disappointed at that, actually. He’d hoped he was marrying into a warmer, more relaxed family. But they couldn’t afford to relax. They were a family on the rise; eccentricities, scandals, and even pleasure in life could not enter into the equation. Lancaster was merely a factor in the mathematics of society and wealth. His feelings did not come into play at all. He’d been foolish to imagine they should.

 

The springs of his carriage were in serious need of repair. Lancaster wondered how much longer they’d last as he stepped onto the street and heard the low groan of protest echoing from the underside of the box. The ride was uncomfortable but at least it was no longer embarrassing. His groom had solved the problem of the peeling crest by scraping it off entirely and repainting the door. Obvious sign of poverty gone in a few strokes of a brush. If only the rest of the problem could be solved so easily.

“Milord,” his butler murmured as he bowed Lancaster inside. The young man’s face was unlined, his brown hair unmarred by even a hint of gray. In other words, he was far too young to be a viscount’s butler, but his services came cheap and he was eager and intelligent. Of course, at twenty-five, Lancaster himself was a bit young to be a debt-ridden viscount. He and Beeks had youth in common at least.

“Beeks,” Lancaster offered as he swept out of the dark and into the hall. “Having a pleasant evening, I hope.”

“Yes, sir. Very pleasant. Lord Gainsborough has arrived, sir. I’ve placed him in the White Room.”

Gainsborough. Damnation. He wasn’t in any position to cheer the old man up tonight.

“Sir? Shall I tell him you’ve arrived home?”

“No,” Lancaster snapped, then immediately softened his voice. “No, I…” Hell. However unhappy he might be, he couldn’t bring himself to send the lonely widower away. “Just give me a moment, Beeks. Trials of pleasant society and all that. Quite exhausting.” He tossed his hat and coat to Beeks and strode down the hall toward the study. The brandy snifter awaited him on a small table next to his desk. Lancaster poured a glassful before he even took a seat.

The small stack of correspondence tipped from its pile when he collapsed into the chair. Lancaster picked idly through it as he made quick work of the glass of brandy. A brief, friendly letter from a woman who’d been his lover for a short time. A scrawled note from the Duke of Somerhart, curtly confirming that he and his bride would attend the upcoming nuptials, though he implied that only the duchess was actually pleased to attend. Lancaster managed a ghost of a smile at the thought.

Two creditors’ notes, of course, though they’d gotten friendlier since his betrothal to the daughter of London’s richest silk importer. Still, he dropped them immediately in the waste bin, then thought better of it and retrieved them to sit on the corner of his great-grandfather’s desk as a reminder. He was not free, and he could not afford to forget.

His father had inherited an estate teetering on the edge of ruin and had quickly tipped it straight over the chasm. Not that he’d bothered to inform his heir of the matter. Perhaps he’d thought his son too young to worry over such things. But in the end, Lancaster had inherited at twenty-three.

He poured himself another glass of brandy and picked up the last letter.

It came from the housekeeper of Cantry Manor, the smallest of his estates and the only self-sustaining one. God, he hoped it wasn’t bad news about the sheep. Cantry Manor was the one estate he didn’t worry over; he’d never even visited in the past decade. Lancaster downed another gulp of brandy and slit open the letter.

Throat burning with liquor, he read the words, his brain not quite understanding the meaning of them. They didn’t make sense. But he read the letter again, and his heart sank as reality reared its ugly head.

I regret to inform you…I know you were once close to her…

Miss Cynthia Merrithorpe was dead.

Sad news. Very sad. She could not have been more than one-and-twenty. What had killed her? An accident, a fever?

A sigh broke free of his throat. She’d been only eleven the last time he’d seen her, just before he’d left Cantry Manor behind. He hadn’t seen his young neighbor since, so why did his gut feel suddenly knotted up with grief?

His fingers dug into the mess of his dark blond hair and pressed into his scalp. Perhaps it wasn’t memories of Cynthia twisting his gut. Perhaps it was more that the letter was a sign that his world was on the descent and likely to continue in that direction.

You thought it could get no worse, foolish mortal, some wicked god was chuckling from above. Or actually…perhaps, Your troubles cannot be compared to poor Cynthia Merrithorpe’s, selfish man. Lancaster felt chastened at the thought.

She’d never married. Never left Yorkshire. A short and lonely life.

He’d thought she would have grown into an attractive young woman. Thought her wise gaze and stubborn chin would fit a woman’s face better than a child’s. He must have been wrong. She’d died a spinster. But she’d been so lively in her youth. Honest and open, country-free and peaceful. Nothing, for instance, like Imogene Brandiss.

He grimaced at the thought and tossed back the last inch of liquid in the glass.

No, Miss Imogene Brandiss knew nothing of honesty, though the terrible things she’d shrieked tonight had seemed honest enough. A real man doesn’t look to a woman for money! A real man works for it! Have you ever done one real thing in your sorry life?

Some weight inside him, some weight that had been slowly adding to itself over the past months, finally made its presence known. It pulled at his bones and tendons, threatening to collapse his body in upon him. Threatening to collapse his whole world.

Too much had gone into this, the plans were too far forward. His family’s creditors had retreated to await the bounty brought by his marriage to an heiress. If he called off now…

He pictured crows picking at his eyes and knew he had no choice.

Something dark and overwhelming breached the surface calm he always displayed to the world. Something black and trembling with strength. Lancaster recognized it. He’d been well acquainted with it all those years ago. Rage. Fury. And fear. All of it coiled so tightly together that it seemed to have formed some heretofore unknown emotion. There was only one way to deal with it.

Rubbing a hand over his numb face, Lancaster took a deep breath. He ignored the harsh buzzing in his ears and tried to summon his customary smile. It didn’t take hold the first time, nor the second, but eventually it felt in place on his lips, and he tugged the bell pull next to the desk.

A few minutes passed, though the buzzing stayed.

“Milord?”

“Please have a light supper sent to the White Room for Lord Gainsborough and inform him I shall be in for our chess match momentarily.”

“Of course,” the young man answered with a bow.

He would project good cheer, offer a happy evening for a man still grieving his dead wife, and pretend not to notice the darkness writhing inside his own soul. His smile slipped as Beeks turned away. The buzzing was only growing louder. “Wait.”

“Milord?”

“I believe…” Lancaster started, the idea forming as he spoke. “I’ve received word…” The buzzing began to recede, so he rushed on. “A neighbor has died. I’ll need to travel to Yorkshire to pay respects. It’s only right.”

Beeks nodded.

“You’ll need to pack, of course, and make my excuses to Miss Brandiss’s family.” Eager as he was, Beeks was not predictably knowledgeable.

“How long do you expect to be gone, milord?”

The sound rushed back into his ears, louder than before. He shook his head, looked at the letter. The weight pulled him down, pressing him into his seat. The beast writhed against the pressure. How long? He’d say his wedding vows to an unwanted wife in only two months.

“Six weeks, I’d think.”

“As you say, sir. And you’ll leave…?”

Now, he wanted to bark, but he didn’t, of course. He only squinted thoughtfully and tried to tamp down the need to flee. “Tomorrow morning, I suppose.”

“Yes, milord.” Once Beeks had departed to start the frantic packing, Lancaster gave the letter one last glance, allowing himself the luxury of a few more deep breaths. He only needed a little time. Marriage would not be the worst thing he’d ever done for his family, after all. Not by far.

Once the surface of his soul was calm, Lancaster walked from the study and stepped into the White Room with a grin. The broad-faced man standing in front of the fireplace raised his head and his sad mouth broke into a smile. “Lancaster! It’s bloody good to see you.”

“And you as well, of course. Have you prepared for our match?”

“Prepared?” the older man snorted. “By dulling my wits with whisky? ’Tis the only preparation I need for a chess match with you.”

Lancaster inclined his head. “Then I have you exactly where I want you, Gainsborough. I shall strike when you least expect it, pounce upon you like a doxy on a drunkard. Or a debutante on a duke, I suppose.”

“Oh!” the old widower chortled, holding his gut against the laughter. “Oh, by God. You do cheer me up, young man. Every single time.”

Lancaster chuckled and glanced toward the mantel clock. Twelve hours more and he would make his brief escape.

Spring may have begun its arrival in London, but it hadn’t yet touched the coast of Yorkshire. Freezing rain drummed against the carriage roof and tinged the air with ice, despite the brazier hidden beneath the seat. Lancaster watched his breath form mist before him, and marveled that he’d planned to stay here for six weeks.

They’d just passed the village of Neely, where he’d spent so many hours of his youth, so they were nearing Cantry Manor.

His family had abandoned their smallest estate when they’d moved to London ten years before. He’d never returned, had never even thought much about it, despite all the years spent here during his adolescence. It was cared for by Mrs. Pell, the housekeeper, and the rents were just enough to support the nominal upkeep. No thought required.

But of course, it was deeper than that. He did not like to think about his time here because that led to other memories, other histories…. It was a testimony to just how desperate he’d been to escape London that he’d given no thought to the demons that might be exhumed here.

I am a man now, he told himself as he shifted in the hard seat. Not a boy to run from nightmares.

Just as anger began to rise like bile in Lancaster’s throat, the coachman shouted something and the carriage began to slow. They’d arrived. Old Mrs. Pell would be out to greet him in a matter of moments.

For the first time since he’d departed, it occurred to him that Mrs. Pell would be grieving. Cynthia Merrithorpe had spent hours in her kitchen every day. Sometimes it had seemed as if she’d spent more time in his family’s home than her own. If she hadn’t been following Lancaster around the estate, then she’d been in the servants’ quarters, trailing after Mrs. Pell like a shadow. Poor woman probably felt as if she’d lost a daughter.

The carriage slowed to a stop, sliding a little before the coachman controlled it. Within seconds, the door opened to a blast of rain; clearly Jackson didn’t want to remain in the sleet any longer than necessary.

“Looks dark, milord. No one about.”

“Lovely. Well, I’ll let myself in, Jackson. You get the horses settled, then come ’round the kitchen for something hot.”

“Yes, sir. My thanks, sir.”

Lancaster steeled himself against the shock of the frozen rain before he stepped to the ground and dashed toward the wide front doors. He made it to the faint shelter of the doorway, but Jackson was pulling away before Lancaster realized the doors were bolted tight against him.

“Christ.” A niggling suspicion that had begun to bounce around his head suddenly became solid and real. Beeks had neglected to inform Mrs. Pell that the viscount would soon be in residence. He could only hope that the housekeeper hadn’t decided to take this week to visit her younger sister in Leeds.

“Well, there’s no help for it,” he muttered, and stepped back out into the deluge. By the time he made it around the square bulk of the manor, he was soaked through and half numb with cold. But the knob of the kitchen door turned easily in his hand, and then he was rushing into warmth and glowing light.

“Adam,” a familiar voice called from the darkness of a short hallway, “if you’re dripping rain all over my floor, you’d best be planning to clean it up. I’ll not—”

When Mrs. Pell stepped into the kitchen, she looked up and gasped in surprise. Her shock did not turn to horror until Lancaster spoke.

“Good evening, Mrs. Pell. It seems my man in London has neglected to inform you of my imminent arrival. But here I am, all the same.”

“Nick?” she whispered, causing a little shock to course through his veins. No one had called him Nick in years.

“Yes, it’s me. Nick. Returned from the—” He caught himself just in time, and cleared his throat. “I apologize for catching you unawares, Mrs. Pell. I know the past two weeks must have been difficult for you, and now I have come to add to it.”

She’d yet to recover; her lips were still parted in shock, her skin pale, and he’d begun to fear she’d simply fall over, though she looked as sturdy as ever. The laugh lines around her eyes had deepened certainly, her hair had gone grayer, but she wasn’t as old as he’d remembered. Youth had a way of inflating age, it seemed. “Mrs. Pell?”

She blinked, and that finally seemed to release her from her trance. “Milord,” she gasped, and fell into a slow curtsy. “Milord, I apologize. Please forgive me. I—Let me put the water on for tea, and then I’ll open the library for you, if that will do for a few moments. I’ll need to make up your bed and…”

“I’m sure the library sofa would be just lovely for the night, if—”

“Never say so!” she gasped. “A bare hour, sir. That’s all I need.” She snapped into motion, and the teapot was on the stove and warming before he could form another sentence. A blur of calico and white cambric flashed by, but Lancaster managed to snag one trailing end of an apron tie and tugged hard enough to distract her.

“Mrs. Pell.”

She stopped, but she didn’t turn toward him. She stood frozen, hands clasped tight in front of her, wisps of gray hair drifting from her coiled braid. Her shoulders rose and fell in deep, rapid breaths.

“Mrs. Pell, I want to offer my condolences. I know how close you were to Cynthia. Her death must have been a terrible shock.”

Her breathing hitched, and he was sure that she would cry. He was reaching out to wrap a comforting arm around her when she nodded and stepped away. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” A brief glance over her shoulder showed eyes bright with tears, but she blinked them away. “You are as kind now as you always were, milord.” She brushed her hands over the apron as if she were dusting off flour. “Come now. Let’s get you settled in the library so I can brew the tea.”

“Hm. You wouldn’t happen to have any of my father’s special whisky about, would you?”

Her face creased into a familiar smile. “Only for medicinal purposes, sir. But you’re clearly on the verge of catching your death. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“You’re an angel sent from heaven, Mrs. Pell. The best housekeeper a man could hope for.”

The smile that had taken over her face fell away, and she dropped her clutched skirt and turned. Lancaster had no choice but to follow. Any questions he had would wait until the morning.

 

A half-filled cup of tea. An empty glass tumbler. The crumbs of a vanished bit of bread and cheese. These things lay scattered over the long table.

She drifted closer.

A man was stretched out along the dark green fabric of the sofa, his feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded over his flat stomach. A strange visitor. A stranded traveler. Or…

No.

The cool air of the room pressed her white gown to her legs when she stopped in shock before him. It could not be. Not now, not when he could no longer help her.

But the golden waves of his hair were undeniably familiar in the flickering light of the fire, as were the fine straight line of his nose and the gentle curve of his mouth. She did not need to see the color of his eyes to know it was him.

“Nick,” she whispered, the word falling from her unwilling mouth and stirring his eyelids.

She backed away, but not before his eyes opened, just for a moment, then lowered again in sleep.

Cynthia Merrithorpe turned and ran, disappearing into a dark shadow in the wall. If the man woke behind her, she did not know and did not care.

Nicholas had returned, the answer to her girlhood prayers…and she could not allow him to stay.

 

“What have you done?” Cynthia whispered as soon as Mrs. Pell stepped foot into the attic.

The housekeeper jumped, already shaking her head. “Nothing!”

Cyn clutched her arm. “You wrote to him, asked his help!”

“I did no such thing, missy. And how did you know of the viscount’s arrival?”

“Viscount,” she muttered, irritated as ever by his new status in life. He’d been no more than a tall, humble boy when she’d known him. A tall, humble, handsome boy with impossibly sweet brown eyes. “I saw him,” she finally admitted.

Mrs. Pell looked doubtfully toward the tiny round attic window.

“No, I was worried when you did not bring tea. I feared you’d fallen ill. I had no idea I’d stumble over a grand lord asleep in the library.”

“Tell me you didn’t!”

“What?” Cynthia chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail.

“Stumble over him!”

“No, of course not. He didn’t see me.” Hopefully.

“Well, for the love of God, no more sneaking about. Stay in the attic. Surely he’ll leave soon. If he finds you here, he’ll toss me out on my rump without a reference.”

“He would not.”

“And stop biting your nails. It’s not ladylike.”

Cynthia snorted at the woman’s priorities. “You just told me to stay in the attic. I’m hidden away like a leprous mistress. Hardly ladylike.”

Mrs.. . .