Three Weddings and a Murder

by Milan, Courtney

  He approached and placed his hands on her shoulders. As he caressed her bare skin, his thumb trembled.

  That same tremor affected his husky voice. “Eliza.”

  “I love you, Harry.” Her heart shivered with joy. It felt so good to say aloud. “I’ve loved you for the longest time.”

  His hands slid to her face. “I loved you first.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did. I adored you that very first night in the morning room.”

  A broad smile stretched her cheeks, and his thumbs found her dimples. “Oh, really. Was it my tigress growl or my late-blooming bosoms?”

  “It was the snails.”

  “The snails?”

  “You said something about Sir Roland mating slower than a snail. And that you’d watched. I thought to myself, any girl who makes the effort to observe snails mating is a girl I want to know.” He seized her hand. “You know why I couldn’t allow Brentley to marry Philippa. But do you never wonder why I encouraged Everhart to pursue her instead?”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I assumed you did it simply to vex me.”

  “Well, that was an ancillary benefit. I don’t deny it. But chiefly, I had other motives in mind.”

  “What were they?”

  “I wanted Philippa out of your way. And Peter Everhart out of mine. I didn’t expect you truly loved him, but I wasn’t taking any chances.” He winced a little. “Can you imagine, Eliza—I even scraped together what coin I had and made a pledge to the Ceylonese Mission Society. Just to ensure whey-faced Timothy didn’t return all tanned and brawny and ready to grope you properly.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Harry.”

  “But I knew you’d never rest until you had that debut. And I wanted you to have it. After we met at Alice’s christening, I decided to give you six weeks—perhaps four—to grow tired of balls and beaux and flirting, and then I’d cut in. But after that damned business with Lessing, I knew it was useless. Your sister needed you. It would be months before I could court you, if not years. I didn’t know how to bear it, except to launch myself into some bloody, violent endeavor that would occupy me body, mind, and soul. And I thought…perhaps I’d come out of it a better man. The sort of man you deserve.”

  She touched his ruffled hair. “But I fell in love with the scoundrel.”

  “Eliza.” He pulled her into a close, dangerous embrace. Silk bunched between their bodies.

  “My gown…”

  “Damn the gown.” He yanked her closer, fisting his hands in the crumpling fabric. “Curse this ceremony. Merrivale can go to the devil. You’re coming away with me. Right now.”

  “But I couldn’t,” she protested. “Everything’s arranged. They’re all waiting on me.”

  “My phaeton’s still at the mews. We’ll head north immediately and be wed in Scotland. I’ll even let you drive, from time to time. It will be the first of our many adventures.”

  “I like the thought of adventure.” She put her hands on his shoulders and pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. “But I don’t want to elope. Ever since I was a girl, I always dreamed of a grand church wedding. I’ve already missed my debut. I can’t give up that, too.”

  His expression was wounded. “I can’t believe it. You’d choose the wedding of your dreams over the man you love?”

  She smiled. “No, no. I want the wedding of my dreams to the man I love. I keep trying to explain to you, this isn’t what you think. Harry, I’m not—”

  “Eliza?” A light voice floated from the adjoining room. “Is something wrong? I thought you were bringing my flowers.”

  “I was, dear,” Eliza called in a loud, clear voice, holding Harry’s gaze all the while. “I was bringing you your flowers, for your wedding to Colonel Merrivale.” She gave Harry a sly wink. “But Mr. Wright must explain what happened to them.”

  She probably shouldn’t have taken so much satisfaction in watching Harry’s face go from determined to absolutely blank. But he’d gotten the better of her so many times. Turning the tables this once was immensely satisfying.

  “This isn’t your wedding?” he asked slowly, looking about the church with new eyes, as though he’d just awoken in a strange location and had no idea how he’d landed there.

  “No. This isn’t my wedding.”

  “When I stopped by your town house and asked for you, they told me everyone had gone to the church for Miss Cade’s—”

  “Miss Cade’s wedding. And so we did, yes. Georgie is the eldest unmarried sister. She’s still Miss Cade, and I’m still Miss Eliza. For the next quarter hour, that is.”

  “Georgina?” He glanced toward the anteroom. “That’s her in there? I thought she was brokenhearted after her beau died. Resolved to never love again.”

  “She was, the poor thing. But time did its part in helping heal her wounds. Colonel Merrivale’s kind attention was a balm, as well. He’s a good man, Harry. Very steady and kind, and that’s what she needs now. I’m so happy for her. And I’m…” Happy was too weak a word. “…overjoyed to see you here. Home safe. Won’t you kiss me, please?”

  “Gladly.”

  He pulled her into a kiss that started out tender, but quickly became urgent. Their lips and tongues reveled in the joy of reacquaintance. Desire swelled between their bodies; she felt it settling to a tense, familiar ache in her breasts and between her thighs. Images of their night together flashed vivid in her memory. She recalled every taste, every touch, every heated glance and word.

  His hoarse groan told her he remembered, too.

  “Marry me today,” he said. “We can secure a license in a trice and have a double wedding. Surely your sister won’t object to a small delay while we—”

  Eliza shook her head. “I would object. This is Georgie’s wedding, Georgie’s day. I want her to have that. And enough of my selfish younger self remains that I want to have that, too—a wedding day just for us, even if it’s not so lavish.”

  “Why couldn’t our wedding be lavish?”

  “Because you’re penniless, of course.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she shushed him with a quick, tender kiss. “I don’t mind, Harry. Truly, I don’t. I’ve come a long way from a young girl who wanted new gowns for every day of the week and a carriage drawn by four white ponies.”

  “I don’t know about the ponies, but I believe I can manage a new gown or two. I’m certainly not penniless.”

  “Did you reconcile with the duke?” She scanned his expression, trying not to show her irrational hopes on her face. She knew it would mean so much to him if his public reputation could be restored.

  “Not reconciled, precisely. He purchased me a commission. It’s a ceremonial office, mostly—diplomacy, not combat. Apparently it galled the old duke to think of his heir serving as a lowly enlisted soldier.”

  “Or perhaps he cares about you, Harry. You know—in a disapproving, distant, duke-ish way.” Eliza threw her arms about his neck and hugged him tight. “I’m so relieved for you.”

  “Don’t get too excited. The income will be enough to support us, but it won’t be an extravagant lifestyle.”

  “I don’t need extravagance.”

  “Good. A modest house in Town is likely all we can manage. No grand tour of the Continent or palatial country estate just yet. But I can promise you a new frock twice a year, and we’ll be able to give the children meat on Sundays.”

  She gave his shoulder a light punch. “Stop joking.”

  “I’m not joking. I’m very serious about the children part. And we’d best start soon. I’m not getting any younger.”

  She blinked back a tear. “I’d reconciled myself to a lifetime as the maiden aunt. If you didn’t want me when you returned, or…” Her voice failed. She swallowed a painful lump and tried again. “Or if you didn’t return at all.”

  She dropped her gaze to his mussed neckcloth, unable to look him in the eye for a moment. Soon she would walk down the aisle with Georgie. This wasn’t the time to dissolve i
nto tears.

  Tying his cravat made the ideal diversion. She took her time smoothing every fold and sharpening every crease. When she’d finished, she sniffed and tried to smile. “There now. All better.”

  “Eliza.” Devotion simmered in his gaze. “I’ll never leave you again.”

  He tightened his arms, plucked her off her feet, and twirled her in a circle. She landed dizzied by her short flight and absolutely muddled with love for him.

  He teased her lips with gentle kisses. “I’ll wait to marry you. But I won’t wait long. I’ve been waiting years already.”

  Eliza understood, with all her heart. She’d been waiting years, too.

  “I told you I wanted a wedding day of my own.” She caressed his cheek. “But that doesn’t have to mean a long wait. I believe it’s a different day tomorrow.”

  His lips quirked in that devilish way. “So it is, my dear. So it is.”

  Tessa Dare is a part-time librarian, full-time mommy, and swing-shift author of historical romance. She makes her home in Southern California, where she shares a cozy, cluttered bungalow with her husband, their two children and a big brown dog.

  Follow Tessa Dare on twitter at @TessaDare, like her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/TessaDareAuthor, or visit her website at http://www.TessaDare.com.

  More about Tessa’s other books, and an excerpt from her upcoming release, A Lady by Midnight, can be found at the back of this book. Click here for a shortcut.

  To Anne. Tiako ianao.

  And to all the readers who asked for Cat’s story. Your reviews, comments and emails have meant the world to me. Enjoy!

  Many thanks to Ashlyn Macnamara, Emily Greenwood and Tracy Brogan for their wonderful critiques on this novella. The Dashing Duchesses are a treasure! Rhonda Helms and Martha Trachtenberg, thank you for editing. And my heartfelt gratitude to Carey, Tessa and Courtney—your friendship is a balm to my soul.

  Nottinghamshire, 1821

  HE WAS SIMPLY a boot at first. A scuffed boot propped on her newly upholstered ottoman. Catherine Meredith Carthwick Raybourne, the Marchioness of Forster, paused on her way down the hall. Quiet settled as quiet does on a tame Wednesday afternoon. The butler had not announced any guests, and her brother was not to return to Nottinghamshire for five days yet. The boot gave way to a long leg. Cat leaned forward and peered around the corner of the library door.

  And nearly fell over.

  She’d never expected to find her missing husband in the library.

  Forster sat in a puddle of sunlight beneath the near windows, all dark hair and tanned skin. He’d removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and propped his dusty boot on her Chinese silk.

  Her husband was home.

  Cat had awaited his return for five years. Five long years of moldering in the country with nary a letter from him. Nary an inquiry or a simple message directed through an impartial third party.

  Only once, in all that time, had she queried her errant spouse’s whereabouts. The family solicitor was “not at liberty to share such information.” But he did confirm, “The marquess is of sound health and mind.”

  Catherine had received the news with a proud spine and undiminished composure. Inside, she’d been gravely disappointed.

  Forster, it seemed, was not stranded on an exotic island with a strange disease. Or trapped by the ice in the cold north. Or eaten by a bear in the Americas. More’s the pity.

  Beneath her disappointment, where dark emotions lurked like wriggly things in a deep well, she’d seethed with fury.

  He could very well be cohabitating with another woman, starting another family while she awaited him till death did they part.

  Now, she did not know what to think. She shook her head, but the apparition did not disappear.

  Her husband was in the library.

  Time, which was supposed to have stood still, or slowed, or demonstrated any other gentle kindness to make the moment easier to bear, instead raced forward and backward like a dog searching out a scent and not knowing where to begin. Her turbulent heartbeat scrambled along, a pulse behind, unable to catch up.

  She took a deep breath. Then another. “So, you are home.”

  Sunlight glinted off Forster’s dark hair as he lifted his head from the book in his hands.

  He glanced across the room and met her eyes. His face was thinner than she recalled, sculpted into sharp lines and hollows. But his eyes were the same sky blue. Set against his tanned skin, they appeared only more brilliant.

  Uncoiling his long limbs, he pressed to standing. He seemed taller, or perhaps that was the thickness of his shoulders. “Lady Forster.”

  His voice was deep velvet. Somehow, her husband had become a man. The boy she’d known since childhood had lived an entire chapter of his life without her.

  Sorrow, or something like it, knocked at the heavy door of her heart. Cat refused to let it in. She straightened her spine and closed half the space between them.

  Faint lines fanned out from his blue eyes. A tiny scar, one she had never seen before, marked his right cheekbone. Another scar, the shape of a small star, sat high on his forehead. She knew that one. She’d put it there herself.

  “Good afternoon, Jamie.” His name slipped from her lips. He’d once traced his name on her mouth, claiming when she said “Jamie” it appeared she said, “Kiss me.” Where was that boy who had brought her wildflowers and embraced her in the thick woods?

  The man standing before her tilted his head to the side. “Good afternoon, Cat.”

  It poured through her, the sound of her name. His deep voice. Poured through her like church bells ringing into the hills, awakening those who would forget their longing, their anger, their terrible regret.

  She fingered the riding crop in her hand. “Whatever are you doing in the library?”

  He arched a dark brow at her tone. “You sound surprised to see me. One might have expected my return after Sutton’s passing.”

  “I wasn’t aware you knew of Sutton’s illness.” One does not expect things of a husband after five years’ absence. “My condolences on the death of your cousin.”

  “Thank you.” Still, he did not approach but remained before the rosewood armchair he’d always favored. In a fit of pique, she’d had it reupholstered in pink and green damask with matching tasseled pillows.

  The pillows were now on the floor.

  Cat noticed it then, the tea tray waiting beside his chair. A plate of crumbs and jam.

  He’d called for tea without even informing her he was home.

  How dare he. The current of her blood burned beneath her skin, left her nearly breathless. She wished she could recall any of the set-downs she had practiced over the years. Any of the gracious welcomes that were to show her equanimity in the face of his absence. Instead, she blurted the only thing that came to mind. “I was in my dressing room.”

  He dropped his gaze, slid it over her in a quick lick of heat that ended with her toes curling in her riding boots. When he met her eyes again, the left side of his mouth quirked in the half smile she remembered so well.

  She ignored the quick flip of her heart. “What I mean to say is I have been home all day, should someone have thought to inform me of your return.”

  Forster didn’t apologize for his lapse. He didn’t shrug his shoulders or shift his feet. He didn’t do anything.

  Infernal man. “Did you not even inquire if I were home?”

  “It is not so big an estate. I assumed our paths would cross.” He swept his hand toward her. And here you are.

  Her husband was either a hopeless idiot, a selfish arse, or still punishing her. Most likely all three.

  “That is it, then? Five years and I get a”—she waved her hand in a motion that mimicked his—“crossing of our paths?”

  He had the intelligence to look wary. “What would you like me to say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about ‘How are you, Catherine?’ or ‘I’ve been in India and the goats ate all my
correspondence.’”

  His blue gaze was intent upon her. Once, this expression had made her feel like the center of his world. “It is good to see you, Cat.”

  “Good to see me?” Her throat burned with the urge to yell at him. She tried to take a calming breath. Composure. Graciousness. Indifference. Those were the qualities she needed to strive for.

  “Perhaps we should continue this conversation later,” he said.

  “Later?”

  Jamie scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Though this homecoming is truly heartwarming, I am exhausted from my journey.”

  “You’ve had five years to avoid arguing with me, Forster.”

  “Then what’s an afternoon more?”

  “What’s an afternoon more?” she repeated. Loudly.

  “I do not mean to interrupt your day.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, he was definitely thicker there, in his shoulders.

  “What do you know of my day? You’ve not even inquired into my affairs.”

  “Yes, a husband should know all about his wife’s affairs, should he not?” Ice cold. The man still wanted his revenge, then.

  “You know very well I did not have an affair.”

  “Funny, then, how I was deemed a cuckold only a fortnight after my wedding.”

  “I…you…” Cat snapped her mouth shut. Finally, the argument she’d been waiting years to have, and she could think of no sharp retort.

  JAMIE STARED AT HIS WIFE. Anger glinted off her like sparks beneath a hammer.

  She was glorious.

  It took everything he had within him not to breach the space between them. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to touch her, taste her. Goddamn smell her. She, the woman who had betrayed him worse than any other.

  He was a bloody fool.

  A fool who was in no mood for an argument. The last he had seen Cat, they’d had a row to end all rows. Between them, they had smashed two matching Rouen vases, torn down a curtain from the window, and disemboweled a throw pillow.