Three Weddings and a Murder (24 page)

“Old friends,” he repeated in disbelief.

“We grew up alongside one another.” She was speaking to her maid, but her eyes had not left Simon’s. “At one time, we were quite inseparable.”

“I would not have put it that way,” Simon said, not quite as mildly as he’d intended. “Inseparable means unable to separate. The last seven years suggest something rather different.”

“Oh.” Alice glanced between them, perhaps catching a hint of a dangerous undercurrent. “Shall I bring some tea, ma’am?”

Ginny pursed her lips. “Yes,” she finally said. “That will do nicely. And some of the new bread. And butter. And the raspberry preserves.”

“The, um—” The maid blushed, and glanced at Simon.

“The
good
raspberry preserves,” Ginny said sweetly. “Not the ones we use when the vicar comes calling.”

Simon scarcely muffled a smile at that. She had not responded to his accusatory tone. She’d always been stubborn—damned stubborn. That, apparently, hadn’t changed. It was what he’d liked best about her.

He waited until they were seated around a table, tea steeping beside them in a chipped china pot, before he spoke again. “How long has it been since last we spoke?” he mused.

She met his eyes levelly. “You know perfectly well, Simon.”

“True.” He picked up his teacup and swirled the dark liquid around. “It was seven years, two months, and three—” He cut himself off. “No. It was four days, not three. That last time we saw each other, you refused to speak to me altogether.”

She hadn’t even blinked at the precise nature of his recollection. “Of course I did.” She took a sip of her tea and smiled, as if that final, bitter argument had become nothing but a fond memory to her. “Can you blame me?”

“No,” he admitted.

In the corner, a clock ticked. He counted off the beats, watching her. Waiting for her to break the silence.

But if the tapping of his fingers unnerved her, she did not show it. Ginny rarely let her emotions show. She simply set down her teacup and turned her saucer precisely. “Sometime in the last seven years, you might have apologized.”

“Unfortunately, no. I could not have done.” He lifted his head. “What I said to you then... It was rude and unpardonable. And yet there has not been a moment between now and then when I could have truthfully taken it back. You see, I meant every word. I still mean it.”

She blinked at him. The long column of her throat contracted in a swallow. It was the first unguarded reaction he’d drawn from her. “Oh,” she said quietly. “That’s interesting.”

“Indeed.” He was watching her very closely. But other than that initial reaction, she betrayed no other response. Not even a twitch of her lips.

“You must be here for a good long while, then,” she said.

“Three days. I’ve urgent business back in town after that.”

“You’ve allotted three days to accomplish all your threats?” Now she did smile. “My. You’ll be working quickly. When last we spoke, you said that if I married Mr. Croswell, I’d regret it.”

“I don’t believe I used quite those words. But yes, you’ve got the general gist of my sentiment.”

She put her head to one side, looking off into the distance. “You claimed that when he passed away, you’d seduce me, and once I’d fallen in love with you, you’d stomp on my bleeding heart and leave me weeping.” She recited those words as sweetly as if she were discussing a favorite recipe for plum preserves. “Oh, don’t give me that freezing look; I’m just trying to make sure our memories are in accord.”

There was only one thing for it. He was going to have to lie.

He reached across the table and took her hand. “You’ve got one thing wrong, Ginny. I didn’t just claim that I’d do those things. I
promised
I would.” He stroked his thumb across her palm. “And you know I always keep my promises.”

His heart was racing. It was just like one of their old games—this time with a touch more bitterness, and with stakes so high he was afraid to breathe. Her hand was cool against his. Another woman might have taken him at his word and pulled away. But after all these years, Ginny still knew him, heart and soul.

She curled her fingers around his. Not in surrender; Ginny never surrendered.

“Goodness,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “You think you can accomplish all that in seventy-two hours?”

He drew a little circle on her wrist. “I know I can. You have no idea how these last seven years have honed my instincts.”

That was how they’d always played the game. He made some arrogant claim of utter balderdash in an attempt to provoke Ginny into an uncharacteristic response. She, in return, tried to flummox him with her restraint.

She beamed at him as if all those bitter years between them had come to nothing. “How lovely. Would you know, I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve not once been seduced? All I’ve been exposed to thus far is the regular sort of marital intercourse. I am positively looking forward to the experience. I trust you’ll do a creditable job?”

God, he had missed her. There was a reason that no other woman had ever taken her place. He’d tried, damn it, he’d tried. But everyone else simply found him...intimidating. Announce to any other woman that you planned to seduce her, and she’d slap your face. Ginny, on the other hand, brought him to life.

He stifled a grin. “I can hardly stomp on your bleeding heart if I make a hash of your seduction.”

“Good,” she said. “Then I look forward to the…attempt.” There was a slight emphasis on that last word. That small pause, the rise in her voice…

She might as well have thrown down a gauntlet. She pulled her hand away and took a long, lingering sip of tea. As she did, she glanced at him through her eyelashes. “But you know, Simon, informing me of your plans was always your downfall. It makes you so much easier to thwart.”

“What can I say? I’m a gentleman. I have to give you a sporting chance.” He paired those words with an indulgent smile. But inside, he was grimacing. Not this time. This time, he’d lie to her, deceive her. Whatever it took to have her, he was going to do it.

“Poor Simon,” she said. “You’re checkmated already, did you know that?”

He shrugged once more, cheerful despite the wretched events of the last few weeks. He’d been right to come here—right not to wait until her mourning had passed. “So long as it’s you who mates me,” he said breezily, “I’ll have no complaints.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. No, despite what he was going to do to her, he couldn’t make himself regret it. This time, she was going to be his.

H
E WAS HERE.
He was here! He had come. He had come!

Ginny wasn’t sure how to say the words, how even to think them with the proper emphasis. She was all tangled on the inside—tangled and confused and scared and giddy—and she hadn’t felt that way in seven years. On the outside…

She was walking sedately down a track that cut through the pale spring meadow grasses, still scarcely high enough to tickle her ankles. Her fingertips rested on Simon’s elbow; his hand, encased in soft, fine leather, covered hers. It was all very proper, if one happened to observe the two of them from thirty yards’ distance.

If one were closer…

Simon wasn’t just covering her hand with his. He was stroking her fingers. Even through their gloves, his caress sent a light, excited pulse through her body.

Her body, it turned out, had taken one good look at him and blithely dismissed all need to contemplate their past history. Her body would have been perfectly content to skip right past the arguments and the hurt they’d imposed on each other, and get straight to the seduction. Given the way he was touching her, he felt the same way.

Alas. That light, sensual caress only meant she had his attention. The martial set of his jaw suggested that she had a long way to go to win his approval.

And she wasn’t even sure she wanted it.

The tips of his fingers brushed her wrist and then slipped beneath her sleeve. She held her breath when he touched her bare skin—but he stopped walking and pulled her hand closer.

Her gloves had been white once, but an unfortunate spill had left one discolored. The edges of her sleeve were fraying. She’d have to turn the gown again in a few months.

“Well,” he said, the first word he’d spoken since they’d left the house. “I can see it didn’t turn out as you expected, marrying a rich man.”

Simon had never been one to let old wounds heal. No; he’d jab at them repeatedly with a sharp stick. “Mr. Croswell left me nothing to complain about.” Ginny squared her jaw. “I tell you, Simon, I’ll not hear you speak ill of the dead.”

“Nothing to complain about?” He raised one eyebrow. “It looks like he left you nothing at all. No fine house in Anniston. One maid, if I’m not mistaken. Old mirrors and old furniture and dust in the entry. It wasn’t even this bad when your aunt was among the living.” He slid his finger over her fraying cuff.

“There have been some expenses since his death,” she admitted. “But I’ve managed to meet them all.” Barely.

His mouth formed a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Poor Ginny. Maybe you should have married me after all.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad as to drive me to wish that,” she said, as breezily as she dared. “I have enough, and this is really only a temporary shortfall.”

His false friendliness faded into an altogether more believable frown.

“You see,” she added, “having
enough
is superior to marrying a man still in university, one whose parents promised to cut him off if he married that dreadfully impecunious Virginia Barrett.” She was very proud of the fact that her voice didn’t shake. After all these years, she scarcely felt anything at all when she uttered those words. She’d buried that pain too deeply to be hurt by it.

He pulled away from her, his movements stiff. “Damn it.”

“Your language hasn’t improved any, I see.”

He looked relieved at the change of topic. Anything to spare themselves from revisiting that old argument.

“If anything, it’s grown worse. I spend all my time around men, more than half of them laborers.” His hand drifted to the top button of his jacket, and he undid it. “When there are no women about for miles, they say the most amazing things. You would bloody love it.”

She couldn’t pull her eyes from his fingers. It wasn’t as if he were actually disrobing—he had a shirt and a waistcoat on underneath. Still, he was slowly and methodically unbuttoning his coat. Unsettled as she was, she still found herself watching those buttons with far too avid an interest.

He undid another button and tilted his head down the path. “You see that bench there?”

“Yes?”

He popped the next button, and glanced over at her. She colored and looked away. A loss; he had always tried to get a response out of her. But then, it would have been an equal loss if he’d noticed how she’d been staring.

And perhaps he had noticed anyway, because he smiled faintly—a real smile, this time.

“I’m going to race you there.” He continued undoing his coat. “And I’m going to win.”

He probably would. She had, in a fit of vanity, donned half boots that had a hint of heel before they had left. But that arrogant assertion put her back up.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said. “The lady always wins.”

“Ha.” He undid the last button on his coat and rolled his shoulders, finding his range of motion after confinement. “If memory serves, the lady always blusters.”

“By all accounts,” Ginny continued, ignoring him, “you’ve been slaving away, burning the midnight oil and all that. How fast can a man run, when he spends his days trapped behind a desk? It’s a wonder you haven’t gone to fat.”

“I’ll have you know, I spend long days in the field—” He stopped before he could truly start his tirade, and shook his head ruefully. “Ah. You almost had me there.”

“I’m going to have you again,” Ginny said, and took off running.

She could scarcely breathe with the boning of her corset bound tightly around her. Her shoes kept sinking into the new spring ground. He passed her easily. By the time she came to the bench, he had positioned himself behind it, one hand leaning on it casually. He did a creditable job of disguising the fact that he was gasping for breath.

“It’s not really fair,” she pointed out. “I’m wearing stays. And heels.”

“I’m not playing fair, Ginny,” he responded. “Most especially not about you. When you jilted me—”

“I never jilted you! How could I have? I never agreed to marry you in the first place.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” he shouted back. “Who else were you going to marry?”

“I think that is rather obvious. I was going to marry Mr. Lionel Croswell.”

He growled at that—actually
growled,
like a dog. But he didn’t reach for her. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair and spoke in a lower voice. “Maybe what I meant was—who else was
I
going to marry?”

It was, perhaps, the first honest thing they’d said to each other since his arrival. He said it with such bitterness in his tone that he almost broke her heart. She could feel his pain like a sharp knife, could feel her own remorse at a decision made long ago. The years of their separation had cut them both equally.