Three Weddings and a Murder (Nottinghamshire #2) by Milan, Courtney & Baldwin, Carey & Dare, Tessa & LaValle, Leigh
For Carey, Courtney, and Leigh
Unlike Eliza, I don’t have any sisters. But if I know anything about sisterhood, it’s from being friends with you! I feel proud and blessed to be on your team.
With many thanks to Jennifer Haymore, Brenna Aubrey, Diana Greenroad, Maggie Robinson, and Martha Trachtenberg.
Mr. and Mrs. Bartholomew Cade request the pleasure of your company at a ball in celebration of their daughter Margaret and her engagement to Sir Roland Farnsworth
Cade House, Grosvenor Square
On the twenty-sixth evening of April, 1810
“ISN’T IT ROMANTIC?” Georgie asked. “He and Margaret make such a fine couple.”
“I suppose,” Eliza said, trying to be diplomatic.
She angled herself for a better look. By peeking through a gap in the double doors, she just could manage a glimpse of the dancers.
Sir Roland Farnsworth wasn’t exactly Eliza’s picture of romance. He wasn’t even her picture of a desirable brother-in-law. He was more staid and cautious than men his age should be. He didn’t whisper sweet words to Margaret as he turned her about the room. In Eliza’s observation, he didn’t engage Margaret—or any female—in much conversation at all.
But all this, she could forgive—if he weren’t so dreadfully slow.
“He certainly took his time proposing,” she said. “Snails mate faster than Farnsworths.”
Georgie gave her a chastening look. “Eliza.”
“Well, it’s true. I’ve watched.”
“You’ve spied on Sir Roland?”
“No, I’ve spied on snails.”
Her sister just shook her head in that way that said, Honestly, Eliza.
She pressed her brow to the slender gap between the doors again, peering hard at the colorful whirl of gentlemen and ladies. On nights like tonight, it seemed this was the closest she would ever come to dancing among them. She was eighteen years old and still sneaking glimpses through keyholes—all because of one impulsive mistake, made years ago. So wretchedly unfair.
“Look happy,” Georgie urged. “That’s one of us engaged, which means one less in your way. Soon you’ll have your turn.”
Oh, certainly. When she was thirty, perhaps. An old maid before she’d ever begun. Lord only knew how long it would take dreamy Philippa to find her feet.
“Peter Everhart is in that ballroom.” She let her forehead thump against the door. “Peter Everhart. He’s made lieutenant now. It’s been ages since he’s seen me, and he’ll be going back to Portsmouth next week. This is the year my bosoms finally arrived, and now he’ll never notice.”
“Eliza. I would think you’d rather be noticed for your lively personality.”
“Yes. You would think that,” she replied. “I’m not you.”
She wished she could be like her sister, so naturally patient and dutiful. Such qualities would have been a boon, in her predicament.
But she just couldn’t be like Georgie—a taste for daring and excitement was too entrenched in her nature. In a family this crowded, a girl had to carve out her own niche. Even when they were children, Margaret had been responsible—therefore, Philippa kept her head in the clouds. Next came Georgie, the sweet one. Eliza had to be the spice. That was the way of things with sisters, wasn’t it?
Her sister straightened her gloves. “I’m engaged to dance the next with Colonel Merrivale.”
“Oh, what bad luck. That crusty old thing?”
“Don’t talk of him so. He’s Papa’s good friend. Speaking of whom, you know our father would rage if he found you here. To bed with you, darling.”
With a kiss to Eliza’s cheek and a delicate swish of apricot silk, Georgie quit the room.
To bed with you, darling?
To the devil with that.
“I’m not a child,” Eliza argued with the closed double doors. “I’m a grown woman. With accomplishments and bosoms and everything.”
The beveled slabs of oak remained unmoved.
A surge of frustration built like lava, shooting up from some deep, maligned stratum of her being. She balled her fists, tensed her shoulders—but in the end, she couldn’t contain the emotion. Not entirely. It erupted as a sound.
Not just a sound, but a growl. Years of frustration made manifest. Her teeth shivered with the primal quality of it.
It wasn’t proper or ladylike, or even very grown up—but it felt good.
“Now this won’t do.”
Oh no.
A male voice. A darkly commanding male voice—and Eliza knew, with that brow-smacking certainty of the obvious, it must be connected to a darkly commanding male person.
She wasn’t alone.
She turned in place, dreading what she would find.
A stranger came to his feet, rising from the sofa that faced the hearth. He sported a rumpled waistcoat, mussed hair, and a profile so finely hewn, it would make Byron incinerate with envy.