Once Upon a Tower

by Eloisa James

  She made certain that the endpin of her cello was firmly set into the floor, and then drew her bow across the strings. After not having played in four days, the sound was like a blessing. She tuned it and then began, two eighth notes and a half note ringing in the air.

  Layla asked in a choked voice, “Is that my favorite?”

  “Yes. Dona Nobis Pacem.” Give Us Peace poured from her strings like the balm of Gilead, always stately, always measured, joy kept in check.

  Maybe it was the days of enforced rest, but her fingers didn’t stumble once, and her bow slid across the strings at the perfect angle, the music calibrated to make the listener’s heart sing.

  At the end of the hymn, she heard Layla take a deep breath. Edie smiled at her, bent her head again, and swept straight into the “Winter” concerto of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the piece she had been working on before becoming ill.

  As she neared the end of the piece, and had (to be quite honest) forgotten about Layla altogether, the door opened. When she glanced up, her father stood in the door.

  He was staring at his wife. Tumbled gold hair covered Layla’s face, but the handkerchief clutched in her hand told its own story.

  Edie almost felt a pulse of sympathy for her father. He was tall and broad-shouldered and handsome, though he’d hate to hear that. He liked to think of himself as a statesman, rather than an ordinary mortal.

  That was the real trouble. Logic mattered to him above any sort of emotion, even though when it came to Layla, he was often quite illogical. “That was well played,” he said, shifting his eyes to Edie. “Not perfectly, as the last movement is marked allegro. Your playing was not quite nimble enough.”

  Edie looked at Layla, but her only response to her husband’s voice was to curl up more tightly.

  “May I request a moment with my wife?” he asked, his voice as flat as his expression. At that moment his eyes fell to Edie’s legs, one on either side of her instrument, her skirts barely covering her knees. “Daughter!”

  “Father.” She moved the cello forward and came to her feet, her skirts spilling back down to the floor. Then she tucked her bow under her arm and picked up the cello, turning to her stepmother. “Layla, darling, I shall be ready whenever you decide to retire to the country and commence on a life of unending debauchery.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes, but she marched past him and out the door. A half hour later, after she had requested and eaten breakfast—another breakfast, as her first had been left untouched back in Layla’s chamber—she began work on Bach’s cello suites.

  Irritation wasn’t good for music. She believed that it soured the notes. She had to start over three or four times until the notes finally carried the emotion Bach had written into the piece, rather than her own.

  At some point, she stopped just long enough to eat the luncheon her maid brought her. By then she was working on a cello sonata by Boccherini that was so difficult that she had to stop over and over to look at the score.

  Her right arm was aching by four o’clock in the afternoon, but she was suffused with a sense of deep satisfaction.

  In spite of Layla’s tears, it was her favorite kind of day.

  Five

  Gowan stared in total disbelief at the pages before him. The letter was written in a strong hand, too strong for a woman. His grandmother had written in a delicate script, which she ornamented now and then with flourishes. There were no flourishes to this letter.

  There was nothing feminine about it.

  In fact . . .

  His eyes narrowed. He almost didn’t believe it had been written by a woman. It was altogether too direct, too demanding.

  Not the sort of letter that could have come from the delicate flower with whom he had danced, nor from the woman who had kept her eyes demurely lowered when her father announced that he had accepted an offer of marriage on her behalf. There hadn’t been a flicker of dissent or rebellion on Lady Edith’s face.

  He picked up the letter again. In fact, it wasn’t rebellious, precisely.

  It was . . .

  It was contractual, that’s what it was. She used the phrase “I would request” when what she clearly meant was “I demand.”

  I would request that you do not keep a mistress, nor engage in such frolicsome activities, until such time as we have produced the requisite number of heirs (such number to be decided amicably between us) and have ceased marital relations, as will happen in due course. I am most reluctant to contract a disease of an intimate nature.

  He had already read that paragraph four times, but he read it again. Frolicsome activities? Mistress? Cease marital relations? When he was dead, perhaps. The fact that he hadn’t yet engaged in relations didn’t mean that he had no interest in doing so. He had a keen interest.

  In fact, he had a running tally of things he was looking forward to trying. With his wife. Who apparently thought she would make love to him on a schedule, and a limited schedule at that.

  As I have very little interest in pursuits of the flesh, I shall give you no reason for anxiety in that regard.

  She sounded like a nun. All right, he didn’t mind that particular statement so much. He could tempt her into interest in pursuits of the flesh. Or he could spend his life trying.

  But her next suggestion was a great deal more irritating.

  I propose that we do not engage to produce an heir for three years, although five might be better. We are both young, and need not worry about age as a factor in procreation. I am not ready for that burden. To be frank, I simply don’t have the time.

  He stared at that for a long time. She didn’t want children? What in the bloody hell was she doing all day that she didn’t have time for children? He was ready to have children now. His half sister, Susannah, was five years old and she would do better with siblings.

  What’s more, the work of running the estate wouldn’t be any easier in five years.

  On the other hand, he did like the next paragraph:

  I am certain that your responsibilities are many and burdensome; I propose that we agree not to interrupt each other during the day. I have noticed that considerable unhappiness stems from the needful behavior of a spouse. I trust you do not take my suggestion here as an insult: as we have no knowledge whatsoever of each other, you will understand that I speak merely as a proponent of a wish for a happy marriage.

  He agreed with her.

  But it was a bit stuffy. No, more than a bit stuffy. Still, if he had thought to write something down—which he never would, because there was something unsettling about putting all this on paper—he might well have shaped that very paragraph himself.

  Or something like it.

  It was the final part of the letter that made him want to bare his teeth and growl at the page like some sort of madman.

  Finally, I wanted to note that I much appreciate the way by which you dispensed with courtship. Although I was surprised at first, on further examination, I respect your good judgment in this matter. I assume that you hold the same understanding of marriage that I do: it is a contract enacted for the good of one’s lineage, and the general good of society. It is a celebration to be respected and mutually enjoyed. It is not a relationship that should provoke displays of inordinate emotion. I myself greatly dislike conflict in the household. I trust that we can avoid all manner of unpleasant scenes by making ourselves quite clear before we say our vows.

  In short, she didn’t love him, she didn’t care to ever love him, and she thought love within marriage was rot.

  The rage he felt was completely inappropriate, and he knew it. He was the one who had eschewed the idea of courtship, closed the door on a drawing room full of men, and essentially bribed her father into giving her hand to him.

  But he felt insulted, nevertheless.

  No: not insulted, enraged. Insult was something felt by paltry people whose feelings bruised easily. His feelings never bruised.

  And she wasn’t even finished:

  I would b
e most grateful if you would write me back. I am certain that you have requests of your own, and I am most willing to take them under advisement.

  Take them under advisement?

  A great swell of rage swept up his chest. She thought he would disgrace his own marriage vows by taking a mistress? She planned to take his wishes under advisement?

  And she thought he would make requests? He was a bloody duke. He issued orders, not requests.

  Gowan almost never lost his temper. A raised eyebrow was more than enough to cow a man aware that a duke held the power of ruination in his hands. One word, and Gowan could have anyone thrown in jail. Not that he had or would. But he held the power in abeyance.

  Expression of rage was a blunt weapon, as clumsy as it was unneeded. And he was well aware that on those rare occasions when he lost his temper, he tended to say a good many hotheaded things that he regretted later.

  Unfortunately, just now anger swept straight from his gut to his head. Lady Edith’s letter was disrespectful: of his person, of his title, and of his offer of marriage. He sat down at his desk and snatched a piece of letter paper. His quill stabbed the paper, tearing it.

  He had offered to make her a duchess. Not just any duchess, either: the Duchess of Kinross. One of the oldest, most respected titles in all Scotland. Never held by an Englishwoman. Never.

  Maybe there was a reason for that.

  He started a fresh sheet.

  Lady Edith:

  Perhaps it is the Scotsman in me—

  No. He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable owing to her unfortunate nationality. It wasn’t her fault. And since it had been his idea to align himself with a noble English family, he shouldn’t cavil about her birth.

  He took a deep breath. He had to keep a sense of humor. His fiancée seemed to be a practical sort with all the humor of a dormouse, but he had never asked her if she enjoyed life. He had just taken one look at her deep green eyes and promised her father a settlement worthy of a princess.

  That might have been a mistake, but it was too late now. He’d apparently got himself betrothed to a dour, child-loathing bureaucrat.

  Then an image of her curves—and those eyes—drifted through his mind, and his whole being sprang to alert. Maybe they could stay away from each other except when they were in bed.

  That in mind, he took up his quill again.

  Lady Edith:

  Thank you for your letter. You honor me with your candor; I hope you will forgive my bold speech. Herewith please find my expectations for this marriage.

  1. I mean to husband your bed every night until we’re ninety, or at the very least, eighty-five.

  2. For a Scotsman, the bawdy hand of the dial is always upon the prick of noon. In short, I would interrupt the activities of the day for one thing only.

  3. I’ll take a mistress when you take a lover and not before.

  4. Children come as God wills them. I’ve no mind to wear pig’s gut on my private parts, if that’s what you’re suggesting.

  5. Are you deranged? I’m curious. The betrothal papers are signed, so my statement is not a plea for freedom. However, you may take it as an expression of genuine curiosity.

  He’d never written anything so sarcastic before; a duke has no occasion to write ironic notes to anyone except his intimates. And as it happened, he hadn’t many intimates.

  In fact, the Earl of Chatteris, whose wedding he would soon attend, was one of few who addressed him as Gowan. He and Chatteris were friends mostly because neither of them liked to attract attention. Years ago, when his father was alive and used to drag him to house parties in the summer, at which the children were forced to put on performances for the delectation of the adults, he and Chatteris had played the trees that moved to Dunsinane Castle and frightened Macbeth. Ever since, they had silently agreed that they found each other tolerable.

  He signed the letter with his full title: Gowan Stoughton of Craigievar, Duke of Kinross, Chief of Clan MacAulay.

  And then he took out the wax that he almost never used and sealed the letter with his ducal signet.

  It was impressive.

  Ducal.

  Good.

  Six

  Edie’s father and stepmother had apparently patched things up, but only to the extent that meals were cool rather than frosty.

  “He still won’t bed me,” Layla confided over luncheon, a few days later. The earl had been expected to join them, but had not appeared.

  Edie sighed. She disliked monitoring her father’s marital folly, but whom else could poor Layla confide in? “The same problem? He thinks that you’re shagging Gryphus in your spare moments?”

  “He says he believes me about Gryphus. But as you will have noticed, that fact doesn’t lead him to sleep at home.”

  Just then Willikins entered, bearing a small silver tray in his gloved hand. “Oh good,” Layla said. “I expect it’s an invitation to General Rutland’s revue. Mrs. Blossom said that she would invite me to join her box.”

  “A letter for Lady Edith,” the butler said, heading around the table to deliver it. “A groom will return for your response on the morrow.”

  Edie took the letter. Sure enough, it was a missive fit for a duke, written on thick paper that smelled like sovereigns and sealed with a fat blob of red wax.

  “Is that from Kinross?” Layla asked. She put down her fork. “I suppose it’s acceptable for a betrothed couple to correspond, but my mother would have . . .”

  She kept talking while Edie ripped open the letter and read it.

  And then read it once more. “Husband your bed” seemed clear enough, though the man had delusions of grandeur. Ninety years old? She snorted. Look at her father, and he was only forty or thereabouts.

  Kinross’s answer to her point about a mistress was precisely what any woman would want to hear. But “pig’s gut”? How would that prevent conception?

  It was the fifth and final paragraph that she read over and over. Her future spouse did have a sense of humor. She appreciated his sarcasm. In fact, it gave her a startlingly different view of her impending marriage.

  “What does he have to say?” Layla asked. Her head was propped on her hand. “I have a terrible headache, and I’m not capable of reading, so just tell me.”

  “He’s boasting that we’ll dance in the sheets until we’re ninety.”

  “He can’t be as stickish as he appeared, then. In fact, he sounds perfect. As unlike your father as can be.”

  Edie folded the letter and put it to the side. It wasn’t precisely a declaration of love, but since it was the first letter from her future spouse, she meant to keep it. And to answer it. “Do you suppose that perhaps you and Father could have a rational conversation to determine the points of discord in your marriage, with consideration how to avoid them from here on out?”

  Layla raised her head just enough to squint at her and then dropped it again. “You sounded just as priggish as your father when you said that.”

  “Really?” It wasn’t a pleasant thought. “I’m sorry.”

  “Talking doesn’t work for us. We communicate on a more intimate level. Which means we don’t communicate at all, these days.”

  “On that front, do you have any idea what the ‘bawdy hand of the dial’ might signify?”

  “Absolutely not. Your father would be unhappy to think that your fiancé has written you a coarse letter. Kinross didn’t allude to anything improper, did he?”

  Edie grinned. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t tell Father that the duke is promising that the said dial is always set to the prick of noon?”

  Layla picked up her head again. “He wrote the word prick? He wrote it down? In black and white? The prick of noon?”

  “He did.” Edie opened her letter and read it again. She was starting to like it more and more. If only she hadn’t had that fever, she might have actually enjoyed meeting the duke. Now that she was perfectly well, it was vexing to think she might have charmed her future husband by bei
ng silent when that was decidedly not her normal state.

  At that moment the door opened and her father walked in.

  “I apologize for my tardiness,” he stated. “Lady Gilchrist,” he said, allowing a footman to place a linen cloth in his lap, “are you feeling quite well?”

  “I have a headache,” Layla replied. “Jonas, that fiancé you chose for Edie has sent her a rather lewd letter. I think he might be—”

  “Not at all,” Edie cut in. “The Duke of Kinross has written an entirely suitable response to a letter I sent him.”

  Her father narrowed his eyes. “It was inappropriate for you to write His Grace. If you desired information, I would have communicated your request.”

  “Yes, but Jonas, would he have written to you about pricks and bawdy clocks?” Layla asked.

  “What?”

  Really, her father was very good at thundering that sort of question. “Kinross was making a point about his nationality,” Edie explained. “He writes that in Scotland the bawdy hand of the dial is always upon the prick of noon.”

  To her surprise, the indignation drained from her father’s face. “He’s quoting Shakespeare,” he said, picking up his fork. “A distasteful sentence spoken by a disreputable character, but Shakespeare, nonetheless.”

  “I don’t understand the meaning,” Edie said.

  “Naturally not. Such idioms are not within the purview of a gently-bred young lady.” He put down his fork. “I had in mind to mention to you, daughter, that you are likely to encounter a more boisterous atmosphere amongst the Scots than you are accustomed to.”

  “So prick is a boisterous word?” That wasn’t precisely the adjective that Edie would have attached to it, but she was aware that she was lacking all sorts of important knowledge when it came to bedding.

  “Don’t repeat that word!” her father barked. “It should never pass a lady’s lips.”