Once Upon a Tower

by Eloisa James

  “I can’t imagine Kinross being giddy, can you?”

  “Could you have imagined your father giddy, if you hadn’t seen the evidence with your own eyes?”

  “No.”

  “Temporary madness,” Layla said sadly. “Jonas came to his senses and realized that I’m a light-headed fool, and that was that.”

  “You are not a light-headed fool!”

  “I had it from the horse’s mouth, just last night.”

  “Father said that?” Edie pulled off the cloth, pushed herself up against the pillows, and squinted blearily at Layla. Her head was throbbing, but there was no mistaking the downcast expression on her stepmother’s face.

  Layla stubbed out her cheroot and returned her pink glass holder to its tin box. “I shall ring for Mary so you can take off that corset and crawl into bed. Would you like a cool bath?”

  “Yes,” Edie said. “But are you truly miserable, Layla?”

  “It’s only a fit of the dismals,” she replied, coming over to perch on the side of the bed. “I shall miss you, and the thought makes me fidgety. Here, let me feel your head.”

  “Now that I’m almost a married woman, will you tell me exactly where Father goes at night? What I’m getting at is, does he have a mistress?”

  “I haven’t actually asked him.” Layla bit her bottom lip, and then she said: “I don’t want to know. Goodness, but your head is warm. We have to cool you down.” She reached over to pull the cord that summoned Mary.

  Edie couldn’t seem to keep her mind focused on any particular subject. “What does Kinross look like—up close, I mean?”

  “Ferociously masculine. Beautiful in that male way. Shoulders as broad as a plow horse’s, with muscled thighs. I’d like to see him in a kilt. Do you suppose he’ll wear one at your wedding?”

  “Do you think he has a sense of humor?” And then Edie held her breath because, to her mind, that was the most important feature one could possess. Having been called beautiful all her life, she knew just how meaningless that attribute could be.

  Silence.

  “Oh no,” she moaned.

  “It was a very formal occasion,” Layla offered. “I could scarcely tell him a joke about a Welshman and wait for his reaction.”

  “I’m to marry a Scotsman the size of a bloody tree, with no sense of humor and an impulsive bent.”

  Layla shrugged. “You’ll have to stop swearing, at least in his presence, darling.”

  “Why?”

  “He seemed a bit formal.”

  Edie groaned. “I’m marrying my bloody father.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Three

  En route to the New Steine Hotel

  Brighton

  At the very moment his betrothed labeled him impulsive, Gowan was saying the same to himself. He had never done anything so reckless in his life. Never.

  In fact, Gowan couldn’t remember doing anything impulsive, let alone jumping into one of the most important acquisitions of his life, without doing diligent research beforehand.

  The truth was that he never made direct purchases of any kind. He had people to do that sort of thing. He didn’t care to shop. The only things he bought directly were his horses.

  But—and it was a reassuring thought—he had bought most of his horseflesh without fuss. He saw the right mare, and recognized instantly where she would fit into his breeding program.

  Obviously, that wasn’t a flattering way to think about his future wife, but it was true. He had taken one look at Lady Edith and knew immediately that he wanted her. And her children.

  The idea of bedding her was entirely pleasing. For all her modesty in gaze and demeanor, her body was delightfully rounded. Other young ladies looked like skeletons swathed in a yard or two of fabric. Whole rows of skeletons, with their ringlets bouncing off the sharp edges of their bony shoulders.

  Not a kind thought, he reminded himself. He was trying to curb his descriptive instincts: they might be silently expressed, but he could hardly ignore the fact that they were often critical. Always critical, his conscience insisted.

  But he hadn’t come up a single negative aspect to Lady Edith, other than the fact that he didn’t care for her name. Who could? She was an angel, not an Edith.

  His first fiancée’s name had been Rosaline, which had a romantic sound to it. The two of them had been matched as children. Indeed, they hadn’t even met until she was sixteen and he nineteen. After that, they settled into waiting for her to reach her majority—except she died a few days before her birthday. He’d only met her twice in the intervening two years. So theirs could hardly be termed a romantic pairing.

  “Your Grace?”

  His factor, Bardolph, was seated on the opposite carriage seat, looking annoyed. Bardolph had been Gowan’s father’s agent, and had been passed on to Gowan precisely as the wines in the cellars were, except that, unlike the wine, Bardolph was not improving with age. His beard came to a point in a manner that was distinctly goatlike. Goatish. Goat-reminiscent. Goat—

  Gowan wrenched his mind back to the subject at hand. “Yes?”

  “The head bailiff and the mine manager are in disagreement owing to silt carried from the diggings at the Currie tin mine, which is choking the fish in the Glaschorrie River,” Bardolph said, in the painstaking way that people do when you’ve ignored their question the first time around.

  “Halt the mining,” Gowan said. “Unless the mine can control the drainage, we’ll have to close. There are six villages dependent on fish from that river.”

  Bardolph went back to his ledger, and Gowan went back to thinking.

  Gilchrist had suggested a five-month-long betrothal, which sounded fine. He was in no rush to begin married life. One had to expect that accommodating a wife would entail a certain level of fuss, and he didn’t like fuss.

  But then he thought about the creaminess of Lady Edith’s skin. Creamy wasn’t the right word. He’d never seen skin so white, like the finest parchment. He had decided that the loch was darker than her eyes, which were closer to the green of a juniper tree.

  This line of thought made him feel a surge of possessiveness. She would be his soon: the dreamy eyes, white skin, rosy mouth, and all . . . He had bartered for her with a settlement that would make Bardolph turn faint.

  He had given Gilchrist every single item the man requested. One didn’t haggle when it came to a wife. That would be most ill-bred.

  Bardolph raised his head again. “Your Grace, would you care to discuss the provisions of the contract with Mr. Stickney-Ellis as regards the bridge to be built over the Glaschorrie? I have the provisions as established by the builders.”

  Gowan nodded, and settled more comfortably into his seat. No more thinking about Lady Edith: it was detrimental to his concentration, which was unacceptable. In fact, once he had her in the castle, he would have to make very certain that she didn’t disrupt his attention.

  He wasn’t entirely sure what his grandmother had done from morning to night—women’s work—but it had to do with linens, and the sick, and the crofters . . . Gilchrist would have made certain that his daughter was well trained.

  He was a bit stiff, Gilchrist, but a decent fellow.

  Bardolph’s voice filtered through one part of his mind. He held up his hand. “I’d prefer three arches rather than two.”

  The factor made a note and droned his way through the rest of the page.

  Gowan cleared his throat.

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “Tomorrow morning, there will be an announcement in the Morning Post of my betrothal. Jelves is finishing the agreed-upon settlements.”

  Bardolph’s mouth fell open. “Your Grace, you—”

  “I am betrothed to Lady Edith Gilchrist. Lord Gilchrist offered to send the announcement to the papers.”

  Bardolph bowed his head. “May I offer my sincerest congratulations, Your Grace?”

  Gowan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “The earl has suggested
a betrothal of five months or thereabouts. I expect you to see to all arrangements. You may be in touch with Lord Gilchrist’s representative.”

  The factor nodded again. “Yes, certainly, Your Grace.”

  “Reconstruction of the water closet between my chamber and the future duchess’s must be completed.”

  “Of course,” Bardolph said.

  Then his factor pulled forward a bound volume. “Next I would like to review the estate agent’s breeding provisions for the Dorbie farm. I brought the stock book with me for that purpose.” He began to read aloud.

  Gowan was rather surprised at how hard he had to work to keep his mind attentive. It was probably the novelty of the whole affair. It stood to reason that a new experience would be distracting.

  The most surprising thing of all was the deep strain of satisfaction he felt. It threaded through all his thoughts like the awareness of a coming rainstorm: silent, but leaving its mark. Edith was his now. He would bring that lovely, delectable woman home.

  He had been missing that calm warmth in his life, and he hadn’t even known it. He felt something bigger and more profound than desire. He wasn’t certain what it was.

  Acquisitiveness, perhaps. Satisfaction. None of those words were right.

  Bardolph cleared his throat.

  “Yes?”

  “As I was saying . . .”

  Four

  Two more days passed before Edie felt well enough to drag herself out of bed. Layla had finally insisted on a doctor’s visit; the man had simply confirmed what Edie’s common sense had already told her: She should remain in bed in the dark. She was not to play her cello.

  “Has Father inquired how I am?” she asked on the morning she felt well enough to join her stepmother for breakfast in Layla’s chamber. Layla was wearing a robe that fell open in a cascade of silk ruffles. She looked as delectable as a peach tart.

  “He has not,” Layla said, choosing another grape with all the seriousness of someone selecting a diamond ring. She must have started on another slimming regime.

  Edie sat down opposite, picked up three pieces of cheese, and popped them in her mouth. “Beast,” she said, without much rancor. “His only child could have died of the influenza, and he wouldn’t have noticed my passing.”

  “He would have noticed,” Layla said, inspecting the grapes once again. “He may not notice if I expired, but if he had no one to play the cello with, that would probably make an impression.”

  “Just eat some!” Edie snatched up a handful and dropped them into Layla’s lap.

  There was nothing that Edie could do for Layla’s marriage, but the whole situation did get her thinking after she found her way back to her room and into a hot bath.

  She was betrothed to a duke whom she wouldn’t be able to pick out from a crowd. That fact didn’t actually bother her much.

  It had been impressed upon her from the age of five that her thirty-thousand-pound dowry and her blue blood ensured that her marriage would be a matter of dynastic lines, a way to create children and to concentrate wealth. She had never conceived of marriage as more than a meeting of (hopefully) compatible minds.

  However, she definitely wouldn’t want to live through the kind of drama that accompanied Layla and her father’s marriage. Hopefully, the man with the enchanting Scottish burr in his voice would be a reasonable fellow, with as little nonsense about him as there was about her.

  In fact, despite her irritation with his lack of courtship, the truth was that Kinross’s swift proposal was a point in his favor, as it indicated that nothing about her person had entered into his decision. He had likely decided to marry her before attending the ball, and he had danced with her merely to ascertain that she didn’t have a hump or a wooden leg.

  Edie sank lower into her bath, letting the water lap at her chin. She found this explanation of her fiancé’s brisk proposal very reassuring. She wouldn’t care for an impulsive man. She much preferred to think of Kinross as having made a reasoned decision.

  She never wanted to face the sort of emotional storm that surrounded her father and Layla. Never.

  When she finally rose from the bath, pink and wrinkly, her natural optimism was restored for the first time since she had fallen ill. She could handle a man like her father.

  Her stepmother had made the mistake of falling in love, probably because the earl had wooed her with such unexpected ardor. If Layla didn’t care so much, she wouldn’t flirt with other men to try to get her husband’s attention. And if he didn’t care so much, he wouldn’t get so angry. Surely Edie and Kinross could avoid that vicious circle by establishing some ground rules for suitably mature discourse.

  In fact, why wait until they met again? It might be a good idea to express her ideas in writing.

  The more she thought about it, the more she liked the sound of an exchange of letters. She would write her betrothed, and lay out what she considered to be the features of a successful marriage. He was in Brighton; very well, she would send a groom there with a letter in hand. It would take the man only a day if he went by mail coach. A duke who traveled with two carriages and eight footmen shouldn’t be difficult to locate.

  Pulling on her wrapper, she waited until her maid left before she sat down at her writing desk. Her demands must be tactfully phrased. Mutual respect was an obvious requirement. And plenty of time alone: she didn’t want a husband who trailed her about and interrupted her cello practice.

  The most delicate issue was that of mistresses. As she understood it, a gentleman generally had a mistress. She didn’t have a strong objection; one could hardly claim that a vow between strangers, motivated by power and money, was sacrosanct. On the other hand, she did not want her husband to treat her with the cavalier disdain that her father demonstrated toward Layla, staying out all night, and so on.

  And she definitely didn’t wish to catch a disease from a woman in her husband’s employ, if that was the right terminology for such an arrangement. Edie pulled out a sheet of letter paper and paused. Should she specify that such a disease would be grounds to break their betrothal?

  Surely her father would have asked that question.

  She made a mental note to check, and began to write. At the end of an hour, she had filled two pages. She read them over and found them quite satisfactory.

  The letter was respectful, but candid.

  To her mind, honesty was the most important thing between a husband and wife. If only her father would tell Layla that he loved her desperately, and felt hurt every time she played the coquette with other men, and if only Layla would tell her husband that she was starved for affection and felt wretched about her inability to bear a child . . .

  Well, then they would have a marriage, instead of this unending series of battles cobbled together by a wedding ring.

  She rang a bell and gave the missive to the butler, Willikins, with instructions that it be taken to Brighton without delay.

  By the next morning at breakfast it seemed that her father’s marriage had taken another turn for the worse. “Did he not come home last night, either?” Edie inquired, realizing that Layla had been crying.

  A tear rolled down Layla’s cheek and she scrubbed it away. “He only married me because I was young and presumably fertile. And now I’m not, he sees no reason to be with me.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. He’d never been very fussed about a male heir; he likes my cousin Magnus.” Edie handed her a handkerchief.

  “You’re wrong. He hates me because I haven’t had a baby.”

  “He doesn’t hate you, Layla. He truly doesn’t.”

  “And he has decided that I have been unfaithful to him with Lord Gryphus.”

  “Gryphus? Why on earth does Father think that? Mind you, Gryphus is very pretty and I can see why his face would inspire jealousy.”

  “I don’t care how pretty he is; I haven’t broken my wed-wedding vows,” Layla said, her voice cracking. “All I did was allow Lord Gryphus to take me in to supper tw
o or three times, when your father didn’t accompany me to a ball. I had no idea people were gossiping!”

  “I expect Father is jealous because Gryphus is your age. How unpleasant it is to think that someone must have tattled.”

  “Jonas believed that horrid gossip, without even asking me! And now he won’t—he won’t have anything to do with me, and he says that I should go to the country and direct my lover to follow me, except that I don’t have a lover!” The sentence ended with a huge sob. “He says I should be more discreet.”

  “That’s absurd, and I shall tell him so.”

  Layla reached over and caught her wrist. “You mustn’t. It wouldn’t be right. You’re his daughter.”

  Edie frowned. “Who else can set him straight? It’s a consequence of our relationship. Like Hamlet, you know. My governess tried to beat that play into my head for ages. Not much stayed with me, but I remember Hamlet moaning, ‘Oh woe, that I was born to set it straight.’ Or something along those lines.”

  “Jonas would be horribly offended if you mentioned it,” Layla said with a hiccup. “Besides, he won’t believe what you say, any more than he believes me.”

  Edie got up and sat down beside her, wrapping her arms around Layla’s shoulders. “Oh, sweetheart, he’s such a fool. He loves you. I know he does.”

  “No, he doesn’t. I caught him in the hall last night and he—he said he wished he had never married a goose like myself. I expect that he’s found someone else,” Layla said, her voice cracking again. “I’m sure of it, because he went out and didn’t come back home.”

  After a while, when Layla had pretty much stopped crying, Edie said, “Just wait a moment, dearest. I’ll be right back.”

  She ran from the room and darted down the passage. Her cello was resting in an upright stand in the spare bedchamber that she used for practice; she picked it up and carried it, walking more slowly, back to Layla’s room.

  Layla was curled up in the corner of her couch, an occasional sob still shaking her.

  Edie sat down in a straight-backed chair and adjusted her skirts so that she could position the cello between her legs. This position was by far the best for her bow hand, but of course it could be assumed only in private. Or in front of Layla, which was practically the same.