Three Weddings and a Murder (5 page)

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

“W
HAT 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 faster, 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.

“Is it terribly painful?” he asked, all solicitousness. “Your ankle.”

“No. Not terribly.”

“Is there anything I can do to increase your comfort?”

“No, thank you. I’m feeling improved already.”

His mouth pulled to the side. He stood and brushed the dust from his thighs. “Well, in that case, perhaps I’ll catch up to Brentley and your sister.”

Eliza startled. “No! You can’t leave me here alone.”

“Why not?” His head cocked to the side. “You said you walk alone all the time.”

“Well, yes. But—”

“And your injury, such as it was, is already improved. If you have no need of me, I’ve an interest in seeing the ruins. I won’t be long.”

He turned and began to walk away. Impossible man! Could he not allow his friend a moment’s peace?

“Wait.” She jumped to her feet. “Mr. Wright. Please wait.”

He stopped, but did not turn. He merely stood there, waiting, his broad-shouldered back to her.

“You may…” She knotted her hands together and breathed deeply. “You may touch me.”

Now he turned.

“What was that you said?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I recall the last word being ‘me,’ but I think I heard the one before it as…”

“Touch.” She slanted her gaze to a crooked branch in a nearby tree. “Stay here, and give my sister and Lord Brentley their privacy. And I’ll allow you to touch me. Any way you like, so long as my frock remains unsoiled and intact.” She forced herself to brave his gaze. “I know it’s what you want.”

“To protect your frock?”

“To put your hands on me.”

He inhaled slowly. Then he exhaled, even more slowly. He made no attempt at denial.

“All week long, it’s been this way. You can’t stop inventing excuses to touch me.” Eliza bit her lip. “Well, now you have an invitation.”

“An invitation to touch you.”

“Through my clothing. Yes.”

He removed his hat and hung it on a nearby branch. “How very sacrificial. What a martyr you must think yourself, offering your virgin flesh to distract the wicked rake.” He tsked. “You cunning, selfish thing.”

Cunning?
Selfish?
Eliza fumed. How dare he.

“This way, you can tell yourself you don’t really want it. That you’re not being naughty at all. You can pretend an altruistic motive—concern for your sister. But I know the truth.” He came to a halt, just a pace away. “Perhaps I’ve been wanting to touch you all week, but you’ve been waiting on my kiss for over a year.”

Her heart beat faster.

“Did you dream of it?” His eyes teased with their merciless green. “Did you go up to your room that very night and kiss your pillow, imagining it was me? Perhaps not even just
that
night, but every night since?”

He raised that nectarine to his mouth and took a prolonged, juicy, sucking bite.

She balled her hands into fists. “Have you been practicing ways to torment me every drunken, debauched evening? What is it you want from me, Mr. Wright?”

As he chewed, he looked her over, everywhere. Eventually, his gaze settled on her simple coiffure.

“I want your hairpins,” he said, swallowing.

“My hairpins?”

He nodded.

She crossed her arms. “Well, you mayn’t have them.”

“But this was your idea, Eliza. You said I could touch you any way I wished, so long as your frock remained intact and unrumpled. I don’t recall anything being said about hair.”

With his free hand, he reached just behind her earlobe—like a cheap conjurer who meant to pull a sixpence from her ear. But he came away with nothing more magical than a hairpin.

“There’s one.”

He circled her, pulling them free one at a time. Eliza stood still, feeling her neat coiffure—the work of an hour that morning—disintegrate into a confusion of haphazard locks and curls.

At last, he had them all freed.

“I don’t know how I’ll fix it again,” she said.

“That’s easy. You won’t.” He tossed her hairpins into the bushes. Then he combed through her hair with this fingers, separating and arranging the heavy locks. “Do you plait it at night?”

She didn’t know how to react to his question—whether to receive it as innocuous or lascivious. So she simply answered it honestly.

“No.”

“But you should. All proper ladies plait their hair at night.”

“I know, but I…”

“But you don’t. Because you like it down, and why wouldn’t you?” His voice grew low, thoughtful. Entrancing. “To think, all this glorious, golden hair, confined in pins or plaits every hour of the day? Unconscionable. It’s beautiful down. You haven’t a lover to tell you so, but you know it just the same. It’s the color of raw honey, the texture of silk. You like to brush it and twist it in the mirror, even after your maid has left you for the night. You like the feel of it gliding across the cool pillow.”

His words—so near, so intimate—tormented her. Did he mean to touch her or not? Eliza thought she’d go mad, wondering. Waiting. Fearing. Thrilling.

“You asked what I want of you, Miss Eliza. It’s just this.” He came to stand before her. “I want you to know that there’s someone who sees you. The real you. The girl who can’t bring herself to plait her hair at night, because it pains her vanity. The girl who’d marry her sisters to tinkers and tailors, if it meant
she
could finally have a chance. The girl who longs to drive fast and free—to feel the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. The girl who’s clever enough to recognize a dangerous man when she sees one—but desperately wants him to kiss her anyway.”

She closed her eyes tight.

No,
she wanted to protest.
You have it all wrong. I’m not that girl at all.

But she was that girl. At least part of the time. She wasn’t as selfish and vain as he made her out to be, but she wasn’t exactly good, either.

“You’re interesting. I want you to know that there’s someone who sees all this, Eliza. And likes you for it.”

She opened her eyes.

His words…they were presumptive. Infuriating. And also the very thing she’d been yearning to hear for years. Her impetuous, yearning nature was the cause of all the unhappiness in her life. She’d spent years trying to deny or overcome that part of herself—all in vain. This man saw it anyway.

And devil take him, he
liked
her for it.

Perhaps her father was right about her. Perhaps men like this were her destiny. Wicked, dissolute scoundrels.

He held out the nectarine, turning the uneaten half to her lips. His smile was subtle, but teasing. “Go on. I know you want it.”

She did want it.

She opened her mouth for a hesitant bite. He pushed the fruit forward, forcing her to take more. As her teeth sank through the ripe flesh, the tart-sweet flavor and heady fragrance of nectarine flooded her senses. The experience was succulent, sensual. And the way he watched her intently as she licked the sticky juice from her lips…it made her feel wanton.

“Delicious,” he whispered.

She nodded, dabbing her mouth with the heel of her hand.

They stared at one another. The buzzing of a nearby bumblebee droned in her ear.

He had her alone. Alone, with her hair unbound and her inhibitions destroyed. She’d given him leave to touch her however he wished.

He could do with her whatever he pleased. They both knew it.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m going to catch up to Brentley and your sister and have a look at the ruins. Is your ankle healed enough? Will you join me?”

She nodded, twisting her hair into a loose knot before accepting his arm.

Once again, he’d refused to ruin her. But she sensed from the tense energy in his arm and the unevenness of his breath…walking away hadn’t been so easy for him this time.

Interesting.

If she were wise, Eliza told herself—if she had one shred of sense in her entire being—she would make certain of one thing, from this day forward.

She would never again be alone with Mr. Wright.