Three Weddings and a Murder

by Milan, Courtney

  Ah, if only.

  “We don’t even have a proper bed.” He dropped onto the chaise longue and bounced his weight on it a few times. “Your first time should be in a bed. A soft, downy one, with lots of pillows.”

  She came to sit beside him. “You’re right. There are many reasons why this would be a bad idea. But I can think of one reason why we ought to go through with it anyway.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We might never have another chance.” Her blue eyes met his. “I don’t want to spend my whole life wondering what might have been.”

  She inched closer, her hair hanging loose and heavy about her shoulders.

  He closed his eyes, but eyelids were feeble, ineffective shields against such beauty. He could feel her loveliness as a soft, tempting heat. He trailed his fingers down the slope of her arm, worrying the adorable knob of her elbow before skimming down to lace his fingers with hers. Weaving their hands into a tight, inseverable knot.

  “Eliza.” A lump formed in his throat. “We shouldn’t. I can’t make you any promises, and I won’t allow you to make me any, either. This isn’t what you want. Not your first time.”

  “My first time is bound to be awkward, no matter when it occurs. Didn’t you just say so?” She pulled back and met his gaze. “Either you’ll have an opportunity someday to make it right. Or you won’t. And in that event, it’s just as well if I remember it being unpleasant. I won’t mourn you so much.” She swept her fingers through his hair. “It’s all very logical, see.”

  He was sure it wasn’t logical at all, but damned if he could think when she touched him that way. She still smelled of honeysuckle.

  “Think of your sister,” he said, moving closer on the chaise.

  “I am thinking of Georgie. I’m thinking of what my sweet, patient, dutiful sister would do in a similar situation. If she’d been given one night with William before he left, I think… No, I’m certain she would have seduced him, too.”

  He smiled despite himself, finding it goddamn adorable how she reveled in the idea of seducing him. Eliza Cade, dragging him into sin.

  Little could she know it, but she was the nearest thing in his life to redemption. The tension of desiring her all these years, and struggling against it…for Harry, it had meant more than a few evenings’ amusement here and there. Whatever it was between them, it reminded him that he needn’t live down to expectations. That he didn’t need a quarterly allowance to purchase a few shreds of decency.

  She made him better. And he knew he made her better, too.

  If she could ever love him, it didn’t matter what anyone said. Harry would know he’d lived truly and well.

  “Eliza, I…” The nearness was too much. Her dressing gown gaped at the throat, exposing that pristine, virginal white shift with its miles of tiny buttons. He had to touch her. With a trembling hand, he reached inside her dressing gown and cupped her breast through the gauzy lawn.

  She sucked in her breath, startled.

  He cursed himself.

  Brilliant, Harry. No kiss. No preamble. Just reach straight for the tit.

  He’d bedded his share of women—not quite so many as gossip would indicate, but enough. But when it came to this business of actual love, he might as well be a fumbling virgin.

  He skimmed his hand around and beneath her breast, to plump and knead her feminine flesh. He found the tightening bud of her nipple and worked it round and round. Her eyes fluttered closed, and he thrilled to the sweet rasp of her ragged breath.

  She reached for the button at the top of her shift.

  “Let me,” he whispered.

  One by one, he loosed the tiny buttons. For every one he slipped from its grasping buttonhole, he pressed his lips to the skin revealed. He worked his way down her neck and breastbone, teasing them both, until he was at last able to part the edges of her chemise, spreading the panels like curtains to reveal an inspiring view of her breasts.

  His mouth dried as he stared at them, taking in every taut, plump, pink, creamy detail. So lovely.

  “Harry?” she whispered.

  “You’re perfect,” he said, skimming a hand over the tight bud of her nipple. “Absolutely perfect.”

  He dipped his head, lavishing kisses over her breasts and circling her nipples with his tongue. He worked faster, hungry for her. Her fingers twined in his hair, clutching tight. They both moaned.

  He laid her back against the chaise, unknotting the sash of her dressing gown. Leaving the robe as a dark velvet blanket beneath them, he pulled the unbuttoned chemise down her arms, then worked it over her hips.

  Once he had her bared, he took the candleholder in one hand and held it above her, bathing the lush curves of her reclined body in warm, flickering light.

  “It’s not enough time,” he said, hoarse with lust. “One night? A few hours? It’s not enough time to do everything.”

  She giggled. “Everything? I hope we needn’t feel pressed to do everything tonight.”

  “We must try,” he said solemnly. “We must try our utmost.”

  He replaced the candlestick on the side table and set about painting her with his touch, washing a pink blush over her skin with wide, evenhanded strokes. He touched her everywhere, leaving no angle or curve unexplored.

  “I want to have you in every conceivable way, Eliza. I want to touch every part of you I can possibly reach with any part of me. My tongue, my fingers, my cock.”

  He stroked her between the legs, cupping and parting the secret folds of her sex. She was warm and already growing wet for him, arching into his caress.

  “I will leave no inch of you unclaimed.” With his other hand, he swept a touch down her leg. “I’ll be damned if I’ll lie dying on some battlefield, staring up at the cruel stars and thinking to myself, ‘Devil take it, now some other cur will be the first to suckle Eliza Cade’s toes.’”

  “Suckle my toes?” She struggled up on one elbow, laughing. “Whyever would a man want to suckle a lady’s—Oh. Oh, Harry.”

  She fell back against the chaise, wriggling and gasping as he pulled her tiny, delicious middle toe into his mouth, working his tongue around it and teasing the sensitive webs between her toes.

  “That’s why.” He released her with a quick squeeze to the arch of her foot.

  “You’re so wicked.” She threw him a flirtatious look. “And I’m so glad of it.”

  Grinning, he shucked off his trousers and pulled his shirt over his head, casting it aside.

  He gently lowered his body to hers, letting her adjust to the weight and feel of him. Giving her time to understand how they fit together, belonged together. How softness encouraged hardness, and the reverse. He sighed, and her breasts cushioned the lift and fall of his chest.

  As they lay intertwined, he kissed her—the way he’d been wanting to kiss her for ages. Slowly, deeply. As though they had all the time in the world. Every girl deserved this from her first lover—an unhurried session of pure worship, in the form of gentle nibbles and exploratory licks. A long, lazy mingling of breath and lips and skin. She tasted good everywhere. Her hair smelled like paradise.

  In time, she began to kiss him back, tracing her lips along his jaw and down the tendon of his neck. She licked and kissed in imitation. He gave her shoulder a gentle bite, wanting her to know even this was acceptable. That he wouldn’t mind if she went a little wild, sinking her teeth into his shoulder at the moment when—

  When.

  He froze, lips pressed to her pulse, trying to recover his patience. Too late. It was gone. He had to have her, and he had to have her now.

  He shifted his weight, nudging her thighs apart with his hips. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded bravely.

  “Tell me so. I need to hear it, love. I need…” He dropped his head, pressing his brow to her shoulder. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

  “I won’t.” She stroked his shoulders. “You’ve always been right about me, Harry. I love to dance, to laugh.
I love the warmth of the sun on my face and the feel of my unbound hair gliding across a cool pillow. I love to touch your body.” Her hands slid down his back. “And I’m going to love the feel of you inside me.”

  He pushed forward, driving into her softness. Yes. She was so tight, so sweet.

  “Darling Eliza.” After a few deepening thrusts, he forced himself to pause. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”

  “Not a great deal. Not anymore. Actually, Harry…despite all your warnings, this”—she made a soft, gratifying gasp—“isn’t so bad.”

  “No?” He withdrew, gliding out of her almost to the tip, then reversing course to sink back into her heat.

  “I’m finding it all”—she sighed as he slid deep—“rather lovely.”

  “You’re lovely. So…very…exquisitely…lovely.” He punctuated each word with a slow, gentle thrust.

  She clutched him tight and whispered a single word in his ear.

  “Faster.”

  Harry laughed, even as a bolt of pure, erotic heat shot to his groin. God, he loved her. He couldn’t imagine anything better than a lifetime of this. Making love to her, laughing with her. Both at the same time, as often as it could be managed.

  But they didn’t have a lifetime—what they had was tonight.

  He obliged her plea, moving faster. And harder, when her arching hips demanded that. He dug deep with his hips, giving her friction where he knew she needed it.

  Her arms wrapped around him, and her fingernails bit into his shoulders and back—frantic, clawing, demanding. She was fierce and beautiful in her pursuit of pleasure.

  And then she gasped and arched her back. Her face tightened into that beautiful frown of ecstasy, and she gave a soft, pleading cry.

  “Yes,” he urged. “Come for me.”

  As the climax surged through her body, convulsing in tight waves around his cock, Harry felt a surge of triumph unlike anything he’d known before.

  She was pleased. She was his.

  She was tighter than ever.

  And slick. So slick and hot and lovely and his.

  He thrust wildly now, blind to her comfort or pleasure. When a sharp tingle in his spine told him he couldn’t last a moment longer, he withdrew from her tight sheath and spent himself against her thigh. Sheer bliss pulsed through him in wave after white-hot wave.

  At last, he collapsed beside her, drained and breathless.

  “Harry.” She turned to him, wide-eyed and flushed, glistening with perspiration. “Harry, that was so good.”

  “That’s”—he worked for breath—“so gratifying to hear.”

  “But it wasn’t supposed to be good. Did you underestimate your own prowess?”

  He chuckled. “I’m a man of many bad habits, but underestimating my prowess isn’t typically one of them. However, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been surprised by you.”

  He kissed her tenderly, then reached for his discarded shirt and wiped her body clean with one sleeve, saving the other to mop his perspiring brow. He stretched himself alongside her, keeping his legs twined with hers and drawing her close in his arms.

  “I don’t want you to go,” she said in a small voice, snuggling tight against his chest.

  He sighed with bittersweet gratitude. She didn’t want him to go. But neither would she try to hold him here. She was brave, and she understood his need to do something.

  He stroked her hair. “Will you think less of me if I admit to some fear? Not great shuddering sobs of it, you know. Just a modest, manly amount.”

  “I wouldn’t think less of you at all. I’d be glad of it. Staying afraid means staying alive.” She lifted her eyes to his and placed a hand to his cheek. “And you must stay alive, Harry. I don’t care if you come back changed or wounded, just so long as you come back. I’ll wait for you.”

  He shook his head sternly. “Don’t say that. Don’t wait for me, Eliza. You’re young and lively and beautiful, and once this house emerges from mourning, every unmarried buck in London will be vying for your attention. I want you to have your youth, even if you never have that debut. When I’m cold and shivering a thousand miles away, it would kill me to think of you waiting. I want to think of you dancing. Laughing. Driving wild and fast through the park.”

  “But—”

  “Hush.” He touched her face, glancing his fingertip over her brow, her nose, her chin. “It’s no good, darling. England’s been battling Napoleon since we were children. This war could take years. What’s more, I’m an enlisted man. Even if we finish Bonaparte off, I could be sent anywhere, from India to Canada. It could be years before I return to England, and even then I’ve no money until I inherit. Perhaps I’ve had my arguments with the duke, but I’m not villainous enough to wish death on the man. So you must understand…I’m in no position to marry. We can’t have a future.”

  She was quiet for a long time, her eyes luminous with disappointment. “I’m glad we have tonight.”

  His heart made a wrenching twist in his chest.

  She bent her head and pressed light kisses to his neck. “I think you’d better make love to me again. I know we covered the toes…but aren’t there other parts of me you meant to suckle?”

  “Yes.” Laughing softly, he drew her earlobe into his mouth. “Yes, my dear. There most certainly are.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Cade request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of their daughter.

  St. George Hanover Church

  April Thirtieth, 1814

  ELIZA WAITED IN the church vestibule, clutching a bouquet of orange blossoms in one hand and smoothing the front of her silk gown with the other. Just a few minutes before the wedding now. Everything was ready.

  Everything, that was, except the bride.

  She blew out a slow breath. Well, a lady was allowed a bit of tardiness on her wedding day, wasn’t she? After all, this had all come about so soon. From proposal to ceremony, just within the last few weeks.

  With sudden, shocking violence, a man crashed through the church doors, wild-eyed and dark. Eliza jumped and turned, lifting the bouquet of orange blossoms in defense. They wouldn’t be much defense at all, unless this intruder were the sort to sneeze helplessly around flowers. But it was what she had.

  When he saw Eliza, the man doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Don’t.”

  She bent her head and studied the crazed stranger. The recent news of Napoleon’s surrender in France had taught her to hope, despite all her best intentions not to. That dark hair and raspy voice made her heart flutter. It had been almost a year, but this man almost looked like…even sounded like…

  “Harry?”

  “Don’t.” He sucked in a breath and pleaded with the carpeting. “Marry. Don’t. Eliza.”

  Harry.

  “Oh my goodness.” She went to his side. “Harry, what is it? Do you need a doctor? Are you having some sort of attack?”

  He shook his head. He put a hand to the wall for support, and his breathing slowed a bit.

  “Ran,” he said. “Ran all the way from your house in Grosvenor Square.” He finally managed to stand tall. His gaze swept over her hair and gown. “What the devil are you doing?”

  Eliza shrugged and lifted the bouquet in her hands. “I’m—”

  He plucked the flowers from her grasp and heaved them against the wall. Petals exploded in silent bursts, like muted, fragrant fireworks.

  “That was unnecessary,” she said.

  “I disagree. I think it was imperative.” His eyes flashed with anger and hurt. “This is a wedding. What happened to, ‘I’ll wait for you, Harry’?”

  “What happened to, ‘Don’t wait for me, Eliza’?” She stared at him, wide-eyed with amazement. “You told me you’d never marry me. You said we had no future.”

  “Yes, but you weren’t supposed to believe me. In all the years of our acquaintance, when have I ever given you cause to believe a word I say?”

  Eliza raised a hand to her mouth and quietly
laughed behind it. She couldn’t help it. He was so adorably confounded, with his jaw defiantly set and his brow scrunched up in anger.

  And he was here—alive and whole, if a little leaner. The red uniform wore so well on him, delineating his strong shoulders and setting off his brilliant green eyes. His roguishly handsome face was brown from the sun, and a few new wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. He hadn’t shaved.

  Darling man. How I’ve missed you.

  “Harry, please. Let me explain.”

  “I’m a fool. That’s all the explanation I need.” He paced away, pushing a hand through his chronically disheveled hair. “I should have asked for your hand before I left. But I stupidly wanted you to enjoy yourself while I was away. To live life, as much as your circumstances allowed it. To go dancing and driving and be courted by a score of listless gentlemen, none of whom could compare to me. You were supposed to have your fun flirting and grow bored of it.”

  “I did grow bored of it. Almost as soon as it began.”

  “I suppose that’s why you’re here, then.” He stopped next to the sanctuary entrance. “Who is he, anyway?” With exaggerated caution, he turned his neck and peered around the doorjamb. “Oh, no. Not Merrivale. The man’s decrepit. Forty, if he’s a day. You thought me too old.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Perhaps I’ve grown to appreciate maturity in a gentleman.”

  “I hope you don’t want children, because I’ve heard the man’s equipment is—”

  She shook her head. “You can’t play that trick on me twice. After Peter Everhart, I’m wise to your games.”

  He glared down the aisle again. “He can’t possibly be the husband you deserve.”

  “Colonel Merrivale is a good man.”

  “Yes, that’s just it. You’re as vivacious and sparkling and intoxicating as champagne, and he’s…he’s barley water. He’s boring.”

  “I wish you’d stop speaking ill of him.”

  His green eyes met hers, direct and open. “Do you love him?”

  “No,” she answered honestly. “No, Harry. I don’t. I could never love any man but you.”