Three Weddings and a Murder Read online

  As she deserved to be.

  He sat up and drummed his fingers on the blotter. He shouldn’t be churlish. As long as she’d waited, she’d earned her measure of freedom—and if she chose to squander it on frivolity, that was hers to decide. She wouldn’t be happy until she’d had this—a season of exuberant, exhilarating youth. Twirling through life, fast and free.

  But he was a little too old for that sort of thing, himself. And he had too much pride to be just another face in the admiring throng.

  Plus, he didn’t have a damned thing to wear.

  That was it, then. He’d decline.

  He took out a sheet of paper, resolved to pen a brief, solicitous note of regret. Surely he could come up with some excuse.

  But before he could even sharpen his quill, he’d abandoned the letter—deciding to read the newspaper instead. After all, invitations could wait for days or weeks, but news was of the moment. It had to be read, and now.

  Right?

  He took a draught of red wine and laughed at his own absurdity. As many times as he’d resolved to not attend Eliza Cade’s debut, he couldn’t bring himself to put the decision on paper.

  He was taken with her. Smitten. He was a man in his thirties, in the throes of the most adolescent, puppyish attraction possible. All the more reason to stay away from her. He all but slavered in her presence, and she was mature enough now to see it.

  She might even gloat.

  When he opened the broadsheet, Harry soon found something to divert his attention from Eliza Cade’s imminent extravaganza of silk and suitors.

  His chest hollowed out, and his heart dropped straight to his gut. He scanned the list with a mounting sense of dread. It couldn’t be.

  But there it was. Printed in black on white.

  “No, no, no. Bollocks. Blast. Bloody hell.”

  He shot to his feet, casting the newspaper aside and reaching for his coat.

  He must go to her at once.

  ELIZA SAT NUMBLY on the garden bench. Her bombazine gown was a smudge of charcoal gray in the midst of nature’s brilliant spring palette. It was a rare joy, to see Cade Manor’s gardens at this time of year. Usually, they spent these months in Town. The daylilies were just coming into bloom, a hundred cheerful yellow smiles.

  Sadly, their beauty wasn’t as restorative as she’d hoped it would be. She felt disloyal sitting out here amongst the blossoms and songbirds and all these lush, vibrant signs of life while her sister sat weeping inside. But Eliza couldn’t help it. She needed a respite from gloom and grief. Even if it only lasted a few minutes.

  She watched a finch flitting about the wall, gathering a bit of moss to line its nest. As the bird took wing and flew away, she turned her head to track it.

  Her breath caught. There was a man standing in the garden gate.

  Not just any man.

  Harry.

  Her heart leapt. He was disheveled from travel, as always, dressed in buckskin riding breeches and a blue cutaway coat. His boots showed a thick layer of dust from the road. She hadn’t the faintest idea what had brought him here, all the way from Town. But the sight of his green eyes did more to lift her spirits than a thousand lilies could.

  “Mr. Wright,” she managed. “What a surprise.”

  He bowed. “Miss Eliza.”

  When he approached, she offered her hand and he bent over it. His lips brushed her knuckles in a warm, tender kiss.

  “May I sit with you?” he asked.

  That seemed an imprudent idea. If he sat beside her today, she wasn’t sure how she’d keep from falling straight into his arms.

  “I believe I’d rather walk,” she said, standing. “If you don’t mind.”

  He offered his arm, and Eliza accepted it. When she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, he flexed his arm and drew her close. In years past, she would have thought it just another example of his impropriety. But today, the warmth and strength of his body were a welcome comfort. He seemed to know she needed support. She leaned into him, grateful.

  His scent was a balm to her discomfited soul—that subtle, manly blend of bergamot and leather. She inhaled deeply, breathing him in.

  Together, they left the walled garden and set out on a path across the park.

  “It’s remarkable to see you here.”

  “I must admit,” he said, “this isn’t how I’d pictured our next meeting. I had visions of you drifting through a ballroom, wearing pink or yellow silk. Bright as a summer blossom, with all the young gentlemen buzzing about you like bees.”

  She smiled. “Only the young gentlemen?”

  Eliza instantly regretted her words. Their house was in mourning, and it wasn’t the time to tease, or joke, or laugh, or smile.

  But he didn’t chide her. He chuckled, in that dry way he had. “Perhaps a few of the ancient ones, too.”

  They shared a brief, meaningful glance. There was so much power in that unspoken connection, she couldn’t bear it for long. She looked away, a coward in the face of her own emotions.

  “It’s a beastly thing,” he said. “This tragedy with Lessing.”

  “It’s unbearable. To think, he’d survived all those battles, only for the ship to sink on his way home…? So cruel.”

  He swore violently, the way men were permitted to do. “When I saw his name listed in the papers, I went straightaway to your family’s house in London. But you’d already left Town.”

  She nodded. “William’s family is here. There’s no body, of course, but they’re placing a monument in their family churchyard. Poor Georgie is beside herself with grief. They’d only been betrothed a few months, but they’d been in love for years. I don’t know how she’ll survive this.”

  “With your help,” he answered. “You’ll be strong for her.”

  Who will be strong for me? she wondered. And then she berated herself for harboring such a childish thought.

  They reached a dense copse of sycamore trees. A little closet of shade in the midst of green parkland, grown up around an unused well. Eliza slowed, wanting to tarry there in the cool, intimate stillness.

  “It’s good of you to come pay your respects,” she said.

  He tipped her chin with a single finger, demanding her close attention. “Now, listen. I know Lessing was a decent fellow, and I’m sorry as hell that your sister must experience this sorrow. But understand this. I didn’t travel all this way from London to pay my respects. I came for you. Only you. Because you’ve suffered a loss, as well.”

  “What loss?”

  “Eliza, you don’t have to pretend with me. You’re missing your long-awaited season. That glittering debut.”

  She bristled and pulled away. “Mr. Wright, I know you’ve held a low opinion of me. But I thought we understood each other now. If you think for one moment that I could be so selfish as to mourn a few new gowns and dances while my sister is grieving for the love of her life—”

  She broke off in tears. How could he think such a thing of her?

  He knew her so well. Too well. And if he believed this of her, she was afraid he might be right. She was devastated for Georgie. But beneath it all, she couldn’t stop feeling occasional pangs of stupid, selfish pity for herself.

  Here she was—out in the garden, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the sunshine. Meanwhile, somewhere inside, her sister cried herself dry. What was wrong with her?

  “It’s all right, darling.” He took her by the arms.

  She fought him feebly, but he pulled her close anyway, drawing her into a tight, protective embrace.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, stroking her hair as she wept. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

  “I’m a horrid person,” she murmured into his lapel.

  “No, love. No. If it were merely gowns and dances you were sobbing over, perhaps you might be a horrid person. But it’s not that. You could go back to London and have your grand debut next year, but it wouldn’t be the same. Not now that you’ve been so close to
Georgie’s sorrow. You’ve seen that all the joy and beauty of the world is fragile. Just bright daubs of paint on the surface of an eggshell. Now you’ll reach for it more cautiously. No more wild grasps at glory. It’s that innocence you’re mourning.”

  He pulled back and looked down at her. “It’s a loss. A grave one.” He smoothed the hair from her face. “I’m here to grieve with you. I’ve been waiting years to watch Miss Eliza Cade take London by storm. Now I’ll never have the pleasure.”

  “Were you going to come to my ball?”

  He exhaled a shaky breath. “I don’t think I could have stayed away.”

  “Would you have asked me to dance?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes searched her face as he held her tight. The corner of his mouth quirked. “I don’t know that I could have abided queuing up for you. I probably would have gotten pissing drunk and acted out in some appalling manner ill-befitting a man of my age.”

  She peered up at him. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  The simple exchange of this fact changed the atmosphere between them. He tensed palpably, and Eliza had the sense that she’d revealed too much in the asking. She’d let on that she was thinking about him in ways she never had before. Thinking quite seriously.

  But perhaps he wasn’t thinking the same.

  He released her from his embrace and offered his arm. “Shall I see you back to the house?”

  As they walked, she stole glances at him, admiring his handsome profile. Those green eyes and the faint lines at their corners—little creases from where he’d been squinting in the sun. While out driving that hellish phaeton, perhaps. Or boating, or riding, or simply admiring the splendor of a sunny late-spring day. Those lines spoke of a life lived with passion.

  If nothing else, at least Eliza could say she’d been part of it.

  “I’m glad you were my first dance,” she whispered.

  “There’ll be others,” he said. “Other men, other dances.”

  “You’ll still always be my first. My first dance, my first kiss. My first…”

  My first love.

  She loved him.

  Oh, Lord. She loved him. She knew it then, in her heart, and she accepted the truth with all the enthusiasm of a boatman accepting an anvil. This love would sink her, more than likely.

  Harry, Harry.

  “How long will you be staying in the neighborhood?” she asked.

  “I’ll be at the Wardlow Arms tonight, but I must leave at first light tomorrow.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. “So soon? At least stay here at the house. Take dinner with us.”

  “I don’t want to disturb your family.”

  “The distraction would be welcome. We can’t have little Alice’s favorite uncle staying at the Wardlow Arms. Their beds have fleas.”

  He laughed softly.

  They passed into shadow.

  “What is it you’re not telling me?” She gripped his arm tight. “You’re never this quiet. There must be something you’re trying, very hard, to not say.”

  “You’re right. There is.” They slowed to a stop, and he turned to her. “I’m not sure how you’ll receive the news, but I’ve been to see the duke. I asked him to loan me money so I might purchase an officer’s commission.”

  Eliza’s heart twisted in her chest. He wanted to join the army?

  “I hope the duke refused,” she said, unpatriotic as it might sound.

  “He did refuse. So I enlisted.”

  No.

  “You’re looking at Private J. Harrison Wright of the South Hampshire regiment. I’m to report to Ramsgate in just a few days’ time. So I can’t dally in the neighborhood.”

  “B-but why? Why now, after all this time?”

  He looked into the distance and shrugged. “Even a scoundrel has to make good sometime.” He gave her a sly wink. “Or else he becomes predictable. And we can’t have that.”

  She shook her head with vehemence. “Don’t. Don’t dare make light of this.”

  “For once, I’m serious. I decided right after I heard about Lessing. I can’t tell you it was anything less than impulsive, and I hope I’ll live to regret it. But it felt like the only thing to do. This war’s taken enough of England’s best and brightest. It’s time the rest of us pitched in our lots. Better late than never, don’t they say?”

  “Better alive than dead is my opinion. I…” Her voice broke. “I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you.”

  He exhaled and regarded her thoughtfully. “I want to ask why that is. Why you should care so much. Is it because it would ruin some pretty story you’ve written for us in your imagination? Are you afraid that I’ll die with an untidy cravat? Or is it simply that you’ve had enough of grieving and dressing in gray?”

  “You horrid man.” She buffeted his arm with her fist. “How could you—”

  He pulled her close. His voice sank to a rough whisper. “Or could it be that you’ve come to care for me, carry me in your heart—unexpectedly, irrevocably. The way I’ve come to care for you.” His hands ran up and down her arms. “I want to ask you this, Eliza. I want to ask if you could love me. But I’m not sure I’ll like your answer, so I think I’ll kiss you instead.”

  His lips fell on hers, and he took her mouth in a kiss that was strong and fierce and all-consuming.

  And welcome. So very welcome.

  At last.

  She embraced him, running her hands through his hair and gripping his shoulders tight—to show him that she wanted this. Wanted him. She’d wanted him for so long.

  “Harry,” she whispered as he pressed brief, bruising kisses to her lips, jaw, neck. “Harry, I…I’ve been—”

  He swept his tongue into her mouth, delving deep and pushing her jaw wide. After a moment of surprise, Eliza warmed to the sensual invasion. He knew what he was doing, after all. She tried to mimic his motions, tilting her head to the side. His tongue stroked deep, and deeper still.

  A wanton sigh eased from the back of her throat.

  She relaxed and made herself open, inviting. He might kiss her as deeply as he wished. It was what she wanted, too—a kiss so deep and dark she could fall into it like a well. Swim in it, submerse herself in it. Never climb out.

  When he broke the kiss, she clung to him.

  Stay with me, she willed. Be with me.

  “Eliza.” Breathing hard, he pressed his brow to hers. “Fleas or no fleas, I don’t think it’s wise for me to stay in your house tonight.”

  Her heart pounded as his implication drove home.

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not wise at all. But I insist on it anyway.”

  You know where I’ll be.

  HARRY STOOD IN THE CORRIDOR for a long time. Thinking. Considering. Waiting for his vision to adjust to the night. Eventually the inky blackness became a thick gray, and the beveled edges of the door’s panels stood out in his vision.

  If only he could see other things so clearly.

  He’d been trying, lately, to find the better parts of himself. They were in there, even if they’d been scattered. He’d told himself he’d piece them together into a decent man. A good man—one with honor, prospects, something to offer the world. A man who commanded a modicum of respect. A man who would one day be the fifth Duke of Shiffield.

  But at his core, he couldn’t help it. He still enjoyed being Harry Wright, a scandalous, dissolute, no-good scoundrel. Well, not just any scoundrel.

  He enjoyed being hers.

  With a mute, futile prayer for his soul, he entered the room.

  “You came,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she sounded surprised or vindicated.

  “Handy thing about morning rooms,” he tried to joke. “They’re vacant in the evenings. Usually.”

  “I’ve been waiting so long. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten.”

  Forgotten? Perhaps it had been a different morning room in a different house, and so long ago they’d almost been di
fferent people. But he certainly hadn’t forgotten their first meeting.

  And so long as he lived, he wouldn’t forget this. He’d been waiting a long time, too.

  A candle burned on a side table. For a single taper, it flared with implausible brightness. As if the wick weren’t feeding off the wax of the candle, but the sensual energy in the room.

  By the light of that single, bright flame, he could see that her hair was unbound and shimmering like spun honey. He could make out her womanly figure, wrapped in a deep-blue dressing gown and beneath it, presumably, a simple white shift. Her feet were bare—white and small against the plush carpet as she walked toward him.

  Harry stood very still, legs braced slightly wider than his shoulders—lest he find himself tossed about by her beauty like a leaf in a gale.

  She moved past him, heading straight for the door to draw it closed. Then she turned the key in the lock, removed it, and tucked it in the pocket of her dressing gown.

  He swallowed hard. “Eliza, there are many reasons why this is a very bad idea.”

  “I agree,” she said.

  He paused, caught off-guard by her eager concurrence. “I mean, think about this. I’m leaving tomorrow. I may never come back.” He paced toward the center of the room and turned to face her. “Then there’s you. You’re unmarried, not yet out. If anyone ever learned of this…”

  “I know.” She nodded. “And it’s more than that. Consider the guilt. How will I look at Georgie tomorrow, knowing she spent another night crying over William while I spent the night in your arms?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “And your first time, Eliza—it likely wouldn’t be much good.”

  “It wouldn’t be good?” She playfully arched a brow. “Not even with a famed rake for a lover?”

  “It pains my pride to admit it, but the chances of a virgin taking much pleasure the first time are slim. No matter how experienced her lover. And there are practical concerns. Even with my best efforts at prevention, there’d always be a risk of you getting—”

  He broke off, because “risk” felt like the wrong word there. With other women, he took the “risk” of getting them with child. With Eliza, it would feel more like a “chance.” A happy chance. Though he could not expressly wish for that outcome, he could not pretend he’d be displeased.