Always the Courtesan (Never the Bride Book 3)

by Emily E K Murdoch

  Her shaking hands smoothed her gown as she frowned. She could not let her brother see how disconcerted she was by a mere name.

  “Especially Devonshire,” Harry attempted a light, carefree voice. “You cannot tell me you do not wish for your best friend to attend?”

  It would be no celebration without him, she wanted to say. Without Montague Cavendish? She may as well stay home, shut up all the windows, and claim there was no sunlight in the world.

  Shame rushed through her veins. All she could think about was a silly childhood fancy?

  “Your best friend,” Josiah corrected her, but there was no malice in his words. “Whenever he is here, I do not get a look in with either of you.”

  Harry picked an invisible piece of fluff from the soft folds of the silk of her gown.

  “Well…” She swallowed. “That is not my fault.”

  Risking a glance upward, it was clear Josiah hadn’t noticed anything was amiss with his twin sister. He had turned to view his newly tied cravat in the looking glass.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “I thought Monty would be here by now, to tell the truth. After all, he is my best man.”

  Harry would have expected—nay, hoped that Monty would have been here ten minutes ago. The entire day was divided into moments she might see him, and moments she could neither hope nor expect to see him, and as best man, she had assumed Monty would be tying Josiah’s cravat and keeping him calm. Why else was she here?

  There was a knock on the door. Before she could move, the door flew open, and there stood Montague Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire.

  An unbidden smile stretched across Harry’s lips, and her cheeks colored. Monty Cavendish. The gentleman—the only gentleman—who made her feel…alive.

  “Harry!”

  Monty rushed forward and pulled her into a hug. She closed her eyes, tried to take in the feel of his lapel against her cheek, his scent, fresh and musky, the feel of his hands around her back.

  But it was all over before she could absorb it all, releasing her so he could smile at her brother.

  “Ready for the slaughter, then?”

  Harry hit Monty smartly on the chest, glorifying in their closeness. “He is very much in love, I will have you know, I checked at least twice this morning. He is looking forward to it, and you should get yourself in line, for if he disappears, you will be forced to marry her after all!”

  She saw Josiah roll his eyes at Monty, who laughed.

  “That put me in my place and no mistake,” he said easily.

  This close, Harry could count the freckles on his nose, his sandy hair making him a martyr to the sun. He was grinning, and she could not look away. She felt no need to ever leave his presence.

  Monty nudged her. “Now off you go, Harry.”

  Her face instantly fell. “Go?”

  But you have only just arrived, she wanted to say. You have walked into this room and I could stay here with yo, for hours. Talking. Looking at you. Perhaps our hands would brush past each other, and you could say—

  “You are needed by the bride,” Monty said. “Do not ask me what for, a lot of words were said, but I ignored them. Off you trot.”

  Harry instinctively looked at her brother. If he wanted her to stay….

  Josiah shrugged, far more interested in his cravat still than his sister’s pleading eyes. “The bride is always right.”

  Harry swallowed her retort that Honora Lennox was still getting accustomed to polite society again, and was probably quite happy getting ready for her wedding on her own. That was unkind. This was not the time to argue. She must act the same way as she always did.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I suppose so. I will see you at the church, Monty.”

  Lighthearted as her words were, it was impossible to prevent the heat in her cheeks. Without waiting for a response, she picked up her posy of flowers and strode out of the room.

  She leaned against the closed door and tried to slow her breathing. How could being in the same room as him cause palpitations? Why did her face have to betray her?

  But Monty had always had that effect on her. Always.

  Lady Honora Lennox’s chamber was beside her brother’s, and Harry did not knock before stepping inside, causing the bride to turn around swiftly to see who had entered.

  “Oh,” she said. “Harriet.”

  “Harry.” The correction was automatic. Even their butler, Fleetwood, called her Harry. “How are you, Lady Honora?”

  Harry took in the barely finished hair, the single earbob, and the look of panic. Josiah had only come to Harry two weeks ago to tell her about his impending marriage. There had not been much time for preparations.

  “Please, call me Honora. And this is my sister, Pru.”

  Harry curtseyed. Sunlight streamed through the two open windows from which a breeze wafted. Both Honora and her sister Prudence looked uncomfortable, out of place. Like they did not belong.

  Harry’s heart softened. And why would they? Two sisters separated for four years, sisters who were plain Miss Lennoxes until their brother’s surprise ascension to the title of Duke of Mercia. And now this, a wedding too rushed for polite society. Was it any wonder they both looked as though they’d just sat on hedgehogs?

  “Let me help you with that,” she said kindly, stepping forward and picking up the hair pins from the dresser. “Prudence can pop that second earbob in, and make sure your bouquet is ready.”

  Clearly eager for anyone to take charge, the sisters acquiesced. It was always the same, Harry to the rescue. Not that she minded—it was nice to be needed.

  “Are you excited?” she asked softly.

  A blush crept up Honora’s neck and face. “More excited than you could possibly know,” she said, her voice gentle. “After…after everything that has happened, it is a miracle to be wed at all, and to Josiah—I mean, your brother. He truly is the best of men.”

  Harry snorted. “You wait until you see him at seven in the morning, hungry and bad-tempered!”

  “I have.”

  Harry swallowed and concentrated on the final pin. She was not ignorant of…well, the steps of lovemaking. It was just rather shocking to hear a young lady, and one on her wedding day, speaking in such a way.

  “I have offended you—please, I do apologize,” said Honora.

  A loud knocking on the door interrupted them, and Harry moved to the door as Prudence laughed.

  “What do you want, Chester?” Harry spoke in a stern voice, using his title as befitted a gentleman on his wedding day.

  “I have come knocking for my woman!”

  Honora laughed. “My days of answering to bells and knocks are over—now go to the church! I shall meet you at the altar in twenty minutes!”

  Harry stared in amazement. The shy and nervous bride had transformed into a passionate woman in control.

  “You are more than a match for my brother,” Harry said honestly. “And I am glad of it. Welcome to the family, Honora—let’s get you to the church!”

  The walk to the church was a blur, as was the ceremony.

  And when they returned to Chalding and the guests flocked to congratulate the happy couple, Harry found herself a glass of champagne, circulated around the room, and escaped, finding a quiet nook for herself in the library.

  With the door shut, she could barely hear the murmuring of hundreds of guests.

  They were married. Being a twin was strange, as though part of your soul lived outside of yourself. It had been Josiah and Harry against the world, usually with Monty, and that was life.

  It was all different now. Nothing would be the same again.

  “What a misery guts you are.”

  Harry smiled. She recognized the owner of that voice.

  “If you cannot say anything nice, Monty,” she said lazily, “do not say anything at all. Did your mother not teach you that?”

  Montague Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, appeared with an empty glass and a full bottle of champagne
in his hands, and a grin on his face.

  “Do not pretend that my mother was an awful woman,” he said. “You two are besotted with each other. Now, tell old Monty what the problem is.”

  Harry swallowed and tried to keep her smile steady. Was this her life, then? Monty and Harry, sitting in the corner drinking champagne and laughing at the world? She could think of nothing better.

  Perhaps something.

  “I am tired,” she said, indicating he should take a seat, which he did. “A wedding is an awfully long day for a woman, particularly when one is keeping the bride and the groom in check. Was that not your job?”

  Monty shrugged and poured two glasses of champagne. “Probably, but your brother does what he likes no matter what I say. You have that in common.”

  Harry sipped her glass rather than trust her voice. She felt warm. Monty was just a few feet from her.

  “The Stanhope twins are notorious,” she managed to smile. “But I do not believe we are the only ones. I seem to remember you were stubborn last week when you bet on that horse—what was it?”

  “I knew you would bring that up!” Monty crowed, and Harry’s heart clenched. “You and your brother are as terrible as I am at betting on the horses, and ’tis more shameful for you because you own so many!”

  “I own one!” Harry retorted, trying not to focus on the hand on the side of the armchair so close to hers. “And I am but a lady, and so cannot be expected to participate on your fine gentlemanly pursuits.”

  She did not know what possessed her to say it. Monty blinked.

  “My God, so you are,” he said with a handsome smile. “You know, I forget sometimes. So what did you think of Black Beauty’s last run? I thought his shanks looked worn, to tell the truth.”

  Harry’s heart sank. She had known how he saw her, but it was painful to hear him say it.

  Monty Cavendish did not see her as anything other than a best friend. Would he ever see her differently?

  Always the Best Friend coming soon – please subscribe to www.dragonbladepublishing.com for updates

  About Emily E K Murdoch

  If you love falling in love, then you’ve come to the right place.

  I am a historian and writer and have a varied career to date: from examining medieval manuscripts to designing museum exhibitions, to working as a researcher for the BBC to working for the National Trust.

  My books range from England 1050 to Texas 1848, and I can’t wait for you to fall in love with my heroes and heroines!

  Follow me on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find me on facebook at facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read my blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com.