“And you’ve sunk lower, I understand,” she replied, without turning to look at him. “The duke’s cut you off without a penny. Everyone knows it. I suppose Brentley is the only soul kind enough to take you in.”
Ouch.
She was right, of course. The duke had cut him off, and everyone did know it. But it wasn’t a surprise. Harry was only the heir because of some quirk of bloodlines and infertility generations in the past. They’d never been close.
It wasn’t the barb in her words that needled him, but the primness in her voice and posture. And that bonnet. That damned, enormous bonnet that kept gouging him in the neck.
So, he thought. They’d gotten her, too. Seeing as how she alone had escaped the Hedgerow of Doom, he’d thought perhaps Eliza Cade hadn’t succumbed to the plague of blandness that seemed to claim every Englishwoman by the age of twenty or so.
An unreasoned surge of anger swelled in his breast. Not anger at her, precisely. Just anger at a society that would suffer nothing truly wild to last. Beauty must be capped with ugly bonnets. Hedges must be shaped and trimmed. The world must be colonized. Motherless rogues must inherit dukedoms. Tigresses must be tamed.
And then…out of the corner of his eye…Harry watched Miss Eliza Cade do something very interesting. She caught one edge of her bonnet’s ribbon ties and pulled it. Slowly, secretly, until the ribbons hung loose.
Then she leaned close to Harry—her softness pressing against his arm—and murmured one word. “Faster.”
Good God.
Harry didn’t recall urging the team from a trot to a canter. More likely the beasts simply sensed the animal surge of excitement that powered through his blood at the sound of that husky, sensual whisper from her lips.
Faster.
His every muscle, every nerve drew tight. The horses sensed it, and faster they went.
Off the dratted bonnet flew—spiraling into the wind.
She made no attempt to catch it.
He turned, and was momentarily dazzled by the way the sunlight bounced off her honey-gold hair. “Shall I turn back for it?”
“Don’t you dare.” To his sly look, she replied, “My sister needs immediate attention.”
“Yes, of course. How good of you, to sacrifice propriety so selflessly. To urge me to hurry. All for the good of your sister.”
She turned away, but she couldn’t hide the hint of a smile. Not without that bonnet.
For his part, Harry openly grinned. Perhaps this corner of England retained a bit of wildness after all.
Lord Brentley,
I don’t know how I can thank you for your kind attention to my sister and sisters-in-law the other day, after their mishap while berry-picking. Let me start by inviting you and your friend to Farnsworth Hall for dinner tomorrow.
Yours,
Sir Roland Farnsworth
DINNER WASN’T TOO BAD, considering.
Considering that Caro had seated her next to the horrid, unspeakable Mr. Wright—the witness to one of her most keen humiliations in recent memory.
Considering that the man in question had stared at her through every course, a devilish smirk playing about his lips. No doubt he was recalling every growling, taunting, embarrassing moment of that encounter in the morning room last year.
But Eliza had survived the meal, gratefully, and now sat in the drawing room with the ladies whilst the gentleman enjoyed their port elsewhere. And as much awkwardness as she’d suffered with Mr. Wright, Philippa and Lord Brentley’s interactions were all ease and friendship.
Eliza had never seen her sister so enamored with a gentleman—Philippa was always more interested in the writings of dead men than conversation with living ones. But Lord Brentley was versed on poetry, art, the theater—all of Philippa’s favorite topics. And just as Caroline Farnsworth had intimated, he was a most handsome, solicitous man.
The two were perfect for one another, and they had the rest of the summer to confirm it. Eliza would endure all sorts of torment from Mr. Wright’s quarter if it allowed the couple more time together.
So when the men came to join the ladies, and by and by it was suggested that Lord Brentley help Philippa practice a new waltz, Eliza leapt to play the pianoforte for them.
“Do you waltz, Mr. Wright?” Caroline Farnsworth asked, clearly hopeful.
“I do waltz,” the man replied. “But I think I’d better not just yet, Miss Farnsworth. Too much of Sir Roland’s excellent port. I might spin you straight through the windowpane.” He sauntered toward the pianoforte. “I’ll turn pages for Miss Eliza instead.”
“I do love a man who turns pages.” Caroline waggled her brows. “If you know what I mean.”
At that sterling example of a Caro-ism, Mr. Wright gave Eliza a bemused look, full of inquiry.
Eliza shrugged, setting her fingers to the ivory keys and finding the rhythm of the dance.
“Don’t you want to waltz?” he asked, dropping his weight beside her on the pianoforte bench.
Eliza sighed and kept her gaze trained on the music. Of course she wanted to waltz. She longed to dance any sort of dance. She’d settle for a quadrille.
“I’m not allowed to dance in mixed company,” she said. “I’m not yet out.”
“Still not out? How old are you?”
She cut him an annoyed look. “What a thing to ask. How old are you?”
He declined to answer, suddenly absorbed in turning the page of her music.
“The reason isn’t my age,” she said a few measures later, “it’s that I’m the youngest. My father decided I must wait some years ago, after—”
“After you did something naughty,” he finished.
“What?” Eliza struck a wrong note and blushed. “Why would you assume that?”
How did he know? No one knew of it outside the family, and her sisters would never tell a soul.
He spoke in a low voice. “Well, it’s plain to see you’re a selfish creature. Last year, you were happy enough for your oldest sister to marry Sir Snail-Face, just so you could flaunt your bosoms at Peter Everhart. Now you’d gleefully pair Miss Philippa with a man who’s all wrong for her.”
“Are you speaking of Lord Brentley? He and my sister make a handsome, well-suited couple. Anyone can see it. And Sir Roland hasn’t the face of a snail.” Under her breath, she added, “Just the personality.”
He laughed, and the sound was a low, dark, seductive rumble. Like port wine, she imagined. Not that she’d ever tasted port wine.
If he kissed her right now, she would taste it.
Oh, Lord. Where had that thought come from? This was very bad. She was in true danger.
He knew it, too.
“Be careful, Miss Eliza. You’re starting to like me.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t like you. You’re ill-mannered, carelessly attired. Rotten as the devil and almost as ancient.”
“Ouch. I’m not that old.” His demeanor changed, became serious. “Listen, my dear. Don’t encourage your sister to fall in love with Brentley. I know you’re thinking it would suit your purposes if he’d marry her. You’d be one step closer to your own freedom. But Brentley won’t marry her.”
She couldn’t believe the man. “Who are you to say what Lord Brentley, a viscount and peer of the realm, may or mayn’t do with regards to love and matrimony?”
“I am his best friend. And I know him better than anyone. Just as you hold a unique position of influence with your sister. The two of them, together… It can’t end well. We must do what we can to discourage them.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“Very well, then.” As he reached to turn the page, he flicked his fingers and sent the sheet music scattering to the floor.
Eliza was forced to stop playing. Philippa and Brentley were forced to stop waltzing.
“I’m so sorry,” Eliza said, jumping from the bench to gather the music. “I’m so clumsy. Just wait right there a moment, and I’ll begin again from a few measures back.”
“Sometimes it’s best to begin from a few measures back.” Caroline Farnsworth fanned herself. “If you know what I mean.”
“I never know what she means,” Mr. Wright murmured as Eliza began to play again. “Do you know what she means?”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “Don’t attempt to puzzle it out. That way lies migraine.”
He laughed under his breath. “Be careful, Miss Eliza. Now I’m starting to like you.”
She went hot all over. The pianoforte keys felt slick beneath her fingertips. “If you think I’ll help you part my sister from Lord Brentley…you don’t know me at all.”
“Oh, I know all about you. For instance, I know that you were once a twirler.”
“A twirler? What does that even mean?”
“It means that you loved to twirl. In your girlhood, of course, when you were permitted to do such things. I’d guess that you loved nothing more than to find an open, sunny patch of grass and stand in the middle of it, arms flung to the sides”—he paused to calmly turn the page of her music—“and twirl. Spin round and round, until your heart and stomach floated, and your brain went to cotton wool.”
Eliza tried, very hard, to ignore his words and concentrate on the music before her.
“And now you’re too old to twirl,” he continued. “But you haven’t outgrown the desire for it. That’s why you need a man.”
“I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t let that pass unremarked.
“A man to waltz you around a ballroom. Spin you round and round, until you’re breathless and giddy. That’s the sort of girl you are, Miss Eliza. A twirler. And if I were the sort of man you think you want, I’d beg to be your first waltz.”
She risked a glance in his direction, and his green eyes snared hers.
“No matter how many years it takes,” he said, “I’d vow to be there at your debut just to claim that first dance. If I were that sort of man.”
“Well,” she managed. “I’m glad you’re not that sort of man.”
“Happy coincidence. I’m glad I’m not, too.”
He turned another page, and in the process, leaned indecently close. He whispered a single word against her ear. “Faster.”
Eliza’s fingers stumbled. The music came to an abrupt halt, and so did Philippa and Lord Brentley in the middle of the room.
“Don’t be vexed, Miss Eliza,” Mr. Wright said, loud enough for all to hear. “Really, this is one of those dances you can’t possibly master unless you’ve danced the thing yourself. Surely Sir Roland will permit an educational exercise.”
Before Sir Roland—or anyone else—could think to object, Mr. Wright rose from the bench and took Eliza by the hand, pulling her to her feet. He led her to the center of the room.
“It’s like this.”
He lifted her free hand and placed it on his upper arm. Intriguing muscles flexed beneath her touch, and Eliza swallowed hard. Then he fit his free hand between her shoulder blades, drawing her close.
She promptly forgot how to breathe.
“It’s like this,” he repeated in a low voice, just for her. “I’m not that sort of man. I don’t wait for the things I want.”
And without permission…without any music…Mr. Wright spun her into a waltz.
“Like so,” he said, leading her with firm, graceful movements. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Very good. You’re learning the rhythm now. It’s not so difficult, is it?”
She shook her head. It wasn’t difficult at all, with him in the lead. He must have been pretending to be drunk. No one drunk could dance so beautifully, so effortlessly.
Eliza ceased trying to choose her steps and simply surrendered to his lead, allowing him to sweep her about the drawing room in stately circles. How she wished the skirts swishing about her legs were watered pink silk, rather than printed summer muslin. But she couldn’t have dreamed a more handsome or thrilling partner. This wasn’t just a dance—it was a brush with danger.
After two turns of the room, a devilish gleam stole into his eye. “Let’s try it a bit faster, shall we?”
Then they were off, circling the room at a comic pace.
He twirled her faster and faster, until she was dizzy. When they broke apart a minute later, she was surprised to find that they were both laughing.
The scoundrel. She was years from any hope of her debut. He knew it, and he’d stolen her first dance.
And most unforgivably of all, he’d made it glorious.
I don’t wait for the things I want, he’d said.
Did that mean he wanted her? The idea made her shiver.
“I haven’t twirled like that in years,” he said, clutching his side and working for breath.
She smiled despite herself. “Neither have I.”
She shouldn’t have admitted it. It was letting him win, and he was already so smug with pride for his mischief. Stealing her dance, and preventing Philippa and Brentley from finishing theirs.
But it was true. She hadn’t twirled like that in years, reaching this point of pure, dizzy, breathless joy.
She curtseyed, because she felt like it. “I thank you for the dance, Mr. Wright.”
He bowed, just as a gentleman ought. “The pleasure was mine.”
Sir Roland—
My friend Mr. Wright is new in the neighborhood, and I have promised him an excursion to view the Roman ruins. The plan has been struck for Wednesday afternoon. Should the Misses Cade care to join our party, we would be most delighted to include them.
—Brentley
“WHAT AN INSPIRING AFTERNOON.” Philippa swept her hand across the fringe of tall grasses. “I can’t imagine a better day to view the ancient ruins.”
“It almost feels as though we’re walking back in time,” Lord Brentley said. “Or is that fanciful?”
“Not fanciful at all.” Philippa paused and closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her heart. “One senses the eternal quality of the human spirit.”
“I feel positively pagan,” Mr. Wright announced. “What about you, Miss Eliza?”
Eliza declined to comment.
Oh, that man. As they made their way toward the ruins, he carried with him the last remnants of their picnic—an overripe nectarine.
Eliza didn’t like the way he ate that nectarine. Gone was the gentleman who’d suavely waltzed her about the drawing room. There was something so uncivilized and so…shameless…about the way he devoured the fruit in large, wolfish bites, allowing the juice to trickle down his hand and fingers.
He caught her staring as he licked a drop of nectar from the side of his hand.
He smiled. “Care for a taste?”
“No, thank you.”
Farther up the path, Brentley and Philippa paired off. They walked alongside one another, smiling and speaking of only poets knew what. Just as they’d been doing all week.
If Brentley meant to exchange more than words with Philippa, today was his best chance.
The day was fine; the vista from atop the ridge was lovely. Birds sang; gentle breezes blew. There couldn’t be a more perfect time and place for a marriage proposal. Or at least a courtly kiss. Surely the man would seize this opportunity to declare his love.
Eliza just had to contrive some way for Philippa and Brentley to be alone—which meant she must distract Mr. Wright.
The only solution that came to her was clichéd and transparent and honestly beneath a young lady of her intelligence, but…
“Oh!” she cried, stumbling dramatically and catching herself on a nearby tree.
Her companions turned to face her.
“Are you well, Miss Eliza?” Brentley asked.
“What is it, dear?” asked Philippa.
“My ankle. I’ve turned it.” Eliza took a feeble hop toward a boulder. “I’ll have to rest here, I’m afraid. I’ll just have a seat on that stone.”
Mr. Wright moved in her direction, holding his free hand outstretched. “Allow me to be of service.”
Eliza hopped fa
ster, bouncing toward the stone on one foot. “Thank you, but I’m sure I don’t need your assistance.”
“I’m very sure you don’t,” he murmured dryly, reaching her side. He lifted her arm and draped it over his shoulders. His arm stole around her waist, cinching tight. “There now. Take it slowly, on account of your ‘injury.’”
Eliza had no choice but to hobble forward in his embrace.
“This would go much easier if you’d trust me,” he whispered.
“Trust you?”
As Mr. Wright seated her on the boulder, a roguish spark lit his eyes. He knelt before her and grasped the hem of her frock. “Now, then. Let’s have a look.”
Eliza jerked the muslin from his grasp. “Absolutely not.”
“But you’re injured.”
“I’m not dead,” she whispered. “Which is what I’d have to be, to permit you to lift my skirts.”
“Then I can assess with touch instead.”
His hand slid beneath the frail fabric, grazing her stockinged ankle. A caress as shocking in its familiarity as in its boldness. He touched her so easily, without excuse or apology. As though she were his for the touching.
Shameless.
An unwelcome thrill chased up her calf and curled in the hollow of her knee. Impertinent sensation, making itself right at home.
She jerked away from his touch, turning away. “I only need a few minutes’ rest, I’m sure. Lord Brentley, why don’t you show my sister the ruins while I catch my breath? She might not have another chance to see them.”
“I confess, I would be desolated to miss the sight,” Philippa said.
“Then it’s a plan.” Brentley gave her a warm smile. “That is, if Harry doesn’t mind staying behind to look after you, Miss Eliza.”
Mr. Wright took another bite of his nectarine. “Oh, I don’t mind at all.”
Eliza tried not to roll her eyes. She knew full well the unpleasantness she was in for. But enduring twenty minutes of Mr. Wright’s company would be well worth the sacrifice, if Philippa returned from those ruins engaged.
Once the two had disappeared around a bend in the path, a thick silence swelled and pulsed. Eliza dabbed a sheen of perspiration from her brow.
Three Weddings and a Murder Page 3
