by Eloisa James
She walked over to the window.
“Don’t you dare take out a cheroot,” Edie ordered.
“That tone must have been a direct inheritance from your father. Just as well, since you’ll need to give an order now and then when you’re running a castle.”
“I’m practicing on you. No more smoking anywhere in my vicinity.”
“I’m trying to give them up,” Layla said, leaning against the frame and staring out the window. “Your father doesn’t like it, and we’re sharing a room while we’re here.”
Edie considered asking how that unaccustomed proximity was working out, but just then Mary reappeared with a pile of iridescent silk in her arms.
“Here it is!” Layla crowed, turning about as the door opened. “That color is called China rose. Isn’t it the most delicious thing you ever saw? Darker than cinnabar, more saturated than claret . . . well, close to claret.”
Within a moment, Mary had stripped Edie to her chemise.
“It’s designed for a chemise, but no corset,” Layla noted, wandering over.
Mary dropped a waterfall of claret-colored silk over Edie’s head. It felt marvelous against her skin.
Layla adjusted the bodice herself. “You look beautiful. Ravishing. Do you see all the ruching here, just under the bodice?”
Edie turned to look in the glass. The silk fell in just the right folds to reveal most of her cleavage. A narrow set of pleats came across each shoulder, gesturing toward a sleeve without bothering to form one.
She looked lusciously uncovered on top, and then the silk fell in pleats and ruching from the waist, and was tied with a bow in the back.
Mary knelt and guided Edie’s feet into Layla’s matching high-heeled slippers.
“It doesn’t seem fair that our feet are the same and our hips so different,” Layla remarked.
Edie turned to look at herself in side view. This gown had sent her entirely in another direction, from Classic Virgin to Classic Layla. It made her breasts large and her legs long. It wasn’t a bad combination. “Do you think he’ll like this?”
“Any man would like that,” Layla said, her tone brooking no argument. “You are ravishing. Now, lip color to match. Come back over here to your dressing table.”
The unaccustomed heels on Layla’s slippers did something to Edie’s balance. When she’d been ill, she had drifted across the floor. Tonight she wouldn’t drift; she would wiggle. She looked as if she were swaying from side to side, like a moored boat in a gale.
The effect was quite feminine, not an attribute that Edie often achieved. It certainly wasn’t feminine to cradle a big stringed instrument between one’s legs and coax music out of it. If a true lady insisted on doing something as outré as to play the cello, she turned her legs to the side, balanced on one hip, and played sidesaddle.
Edie could do that, but she never saw the point. She wasn’t stupid enough to think that she could have a career. As the daughter of an earl, Edie played solely for her own pleasure, which meant she might as well sit in the most natural position.
The fact that her father loved the cello, and that she had inherited his child-sized instrument, and then that he had bought her a Ruggieri for her sixteenth birthday . . . none of that overcame the fact that she was a lady.
There was something of an unspoken bargain between herself and her father. Edie had delayed her debut as long as possible, but they both knew that she would marry whomever he selected. It was a promise, and Edie always kept her promises, spoken or unspoken.
Now she wiggle-waggled her way back over to her dressing table and sat down. Earlier that afternoon Mary had curled her hair into the proper kind of ringlets, the ladylike kind that weren’t as untidy as hers naturally were.
Layla darted forward and began playing with her curls, tousling them into a studied disarrangement.
“You’re ruining all of Mary’s hard work,” Edie protested, as Layla adjusted another ringlet.
“No, I’m making you look a little less perfect. Men are terrified by perfection. Now a touch of lip pomade.”
Painted red, Edie’s mouth looked twice as large, especially her bottom lip. “Doesn’t this look a trifle vulgar? I’m fairly certain that Father won’t approve.” She looked disturbingly unlike herself. In fact, she felt as if she’d veered from feverish saint to feverish courtesan.
“That’s exactly right. Your father has never understood that a little vulgarity is a good thing.”
“Why is it?”
“It wouldn’t be if you were still looking for a husband,” Layla explained. “But now you need to impress upon Kinross the fact that while he may have married you—or rather, he will marry you—he will never own you.”
Edie turned, caught Mary’s eye, and nodded toward the door. As the door closed behind her, Edie said, “Layla, darling, isn’t that technique you just recommended rather a failure when it comes to you and Father?”
“What technique?” Layla had her hair up in an artful nest of curls threaded with emeralds. She stood before the glass, coaxing a lock to fall with disheveled grace over one shoulder.
“Making certain that a man feels he will never own you, or at least own your loyalty. I think it may have led to some of your marital difficulties.”
Layla frowned. “I would never be unfaithful to your father. He should know that because he knows me.”
“But if you are constantly telling him, albeit silently, that you will never belong to him . . . It just strikes me from watching the two of you that men are rather primitive, at least Father is. He looks at you with pain and possessiveness, all mixed up together.”
“But I’ve assured him that I didn’t sleep with Gryphus. He should believe me unconditionally. I am his wife.”
“Perhaps he needs you to assure him that you have no interest in sleeping with any other man.”
“That would be to give him too much power,” Layla said instantly. “He already thinks he owns me. Last night he demanded that I give up smoking cheroots!”
That didn’t surprise Edie. “What did you say?”
“I refused, of course. Although I haven’t smoked any today.” Layla’s mouth drooped. “Marriage is more difficult than you think, Edie. If you do nothing but try to keep your husband happy, you’ll drive yourself mad.”
Edie gave her a kiss. “Forgive me if I say that I’ll be in good company? You are far too kind to my grumpy parent.” She picked up her gloves and a wrap of gossamer taffeta. “Let’s go down to dinner. I’m quite curious to know what my fiancé looks like.”
Nine
Gowan entered the drawing room early and stood about talking to a crowd of Smythe-Smith relations, trying to appear as if he wasn’t bored to tears.
When he’d attended the Gilchrist ball, and indeed most of the time, he’d worn English attire: an embroidered coat, a starched neck cloth, silk pantaloons. But after that sparring exchange with Edie, he wanted to reveal himself to her as himself, not as a pretend Englishman.
He wore the Kinross kilt, in the tartan of the Chief of Clan MacAulay. It felt right. Surrounded by these sleek and silly Englishmen with covered knees, his bare legs felt twice as strong for being free of the hindrance of breeches.
Marcus Holroyd, the Earl of Chatteris, paused at his side. “Kinross, it’s a pleasure to see you here. My fiancée has just informed me that you are newly betrothed.”
Gowan inclined his head. “Yes, to Lady Edith Gilchrist.”
“My very best wishes. I understand that she is a gifted musician. Do you play as well?”
Gowan felt not a little embarrassment that he had no idea of Lady Edith’s interests, let alone her gifts. “A musician along the lines of your inestimable fiancée?” Gowan had sat through a Smythe-Smith recital once, and he hoped never to be in the presence of such dissonant cacophony again. If his wife was a musician of that caliber, he would implore her not to play.
“I have not had the pleasure of hearing Lady Edith play,” Chatteris replied, no
t revealing by so much as the twitch of eyebrow less than complete support for his fiancée’s musical talents.
There was a stir by the door, and they turned. “There’s Honoria,” Chatteris said. Gowan glanced at him. The man had a look of quiet longing in his eyes.
Odd. Weddings among the aristocracy weren’t usually arranged for amorous reasons. As Gowan watched, Chatteris went straight to Honoria’s side.
Where was Lady Edith, damn it? He was getting sick of deflecting lascivious glances from women who appreciated his kilt for all the wrong reasons—and appeared curious about what he wore under it.
The Earl of Gilchrist entered the drawing room, and approached Gowan with his slightly awkward, rigid gait, then bent his head. “Your Grace.”
“We are to be kin,” Gowan responded cordially, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you, Gilchrist.”
The earl clasped it briefly. “I expect that you will be pleased to see my daughter after this separation. It is well that you come to know each other better before your wedding.”
“In fact, we should discuss dates for the ceremony. I would like to reconsider the length of our betrothal.”
“I do not approve of hasty marriages,” Gilchrist stated. “A year’s betrothal would not be untoward, in my estimation.”
Gowan wouldn’t have minded before he and Edie had exchanged those letters. But now . . . “I did mention my orphaned half sister,” he reminded the earl. “I would be reluctant to leave her motherless for a year.”
Lady Gilchrist now joined them; Gowan turned and bowed to her, straightening in time to catch Gilchrist’s unguarded look at his wife. It was embarrassing. The man was at his wife’s feet, figuratively speaking.
“Lady Gilchrist,” Gowan said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”
“You must be so eager to see our daughter,” she said, an unexpected dimple appearing in one cheek. When she looked like that—a bit naughty—the combination of her beauty, sensuality, and wit was dazzling.
He kissed her hand, returning her smile.
Then he noticed that Gilchrist’s eyes had gone black. He was startled until he realized that blank rage could mean only one thing: Gilchrist believed his wife would stray, even to her own son-in-law. Gowan felt sorry for him.
A trace of that pity must have appeared on his face, because Gilchrist’s eyes narrowed, and he raised his chin. “Lady Gilchrist,” he said, his voice as hard as a piece of granite, “where is my daughter?”
Lady Gilchrist didn’t show the slightest reaction to his tone, though Gowan thought his tone was harsh in the extreme, never mind that he’d changed her “our daughter” to the decidedly proprietary “my daughter.”
“Edie entered with me,” she said, “but she met that lovely young lady Iris, who also plays the cello. One of the Smythe-Smith girls.”
She turned, surveying the room. “Ah, there she is.”
Young ladies were everywhere, looking like little drifts of snow in their white frocks. Gowan’s eyes moved from one to the next, rejecting each. Not . . . not . . . not . . . He frowned, looking again from white gown to white gown.
He had been certain that he would recognize Lady Edith’s sweet countenance. After all, he had stared at it for two dances in a row. He knew the tilt of her nose, her green eyes, the slant of her cheekbone.
“Perhaps,” Lady Gilchrist said, amusement curling through her voice like smoke, “you are not taking into account the fact that Edie is not fond of white gowns, although she does wear them when she must.”
“I would hope that my daughter is recognizable to her future spouse no matter her gown,” Gilchrist said, his words sharply clipped.
Gowan ignored him and began to look at each and every woman in the room, not only those wearing white. Beside him, Lady Gilchrist’s chuckle was like the drowsy call of a bird at dusk.
Then he saw her.
His fiancée . . . His future wife.
Edie.
His heart thundered. He recognized every angle of her face, lush lips, hair . . . who could forget that hair? It looked as if old Roman coins had melted into canary wine, leaving strands of darker gold woven with sunlight.
At the same time, she was not precisely the woman he had chosen to marry.
This woman was utterly sensual. Her body was shaped for a man’s caress; her breasts were soft and full, alabaster skin framed by red silk. She was talking to someone and laughing . . . her laughing lips matched her gown. Her hair shone with the deep luster of jasmine honey. It was pulled up in ringlets that flowed with slight variations in color.
He heard Gilchrist say something, but he didn’t listen. Blood pounded in his ears. When he’d first met her, Edie’s eyes had been placid pools of sweet water. Now they were deep, filled with laughter and intelligence. There was nothing placid there. Nor in the scarlet lips, nor the rounded bosom.
“I see why you did not recognize her immediately,” Gilchrist was saying, his tone pinched and disapproving. “That gown is most inappropriate. I can only think this is your influence, Lady Gilchrist.”
“It is not merely my influence, but indeed my gown,” his wife replied. “As a betrothed woman, she need not rigidly adhere to the conventions regarding dress which govern unmarried ladies.”
“If you will excuse me,” Gowan said, bowing. “I will greet Lady Edith.”
“Do call her Edie,” Lady Gilchrist said gaily, seemingly untouched by her husband’s dour judgments. “She prefers informality among family members.”
Gowan had the same edgy, intense feeling as when he embarked on a hunt. This was the woman who had written him that letter. She was to marry him. She had written of dancing in the sheets with him.
As he moved across the room, his eyes fixed on his betrothed, his kilt brushed against his legs, reminding him of other body parts that were hardening as he walked. He sensed a kind of erotic surprise such as he’d never felt—never dreamed he would feel—before.
As if conscious of his gaze, she turned and met his eyes.
How in the world had he believed her to be chaste, quiet, and submissive? Her eyes were brilliant, her mouth mobile and utterly sensual. It was as if he were encountering a complete stranger.
Desire flamed through his body. Her lips parted slightly, and he knew that she, too, recognized him.
He had thought she was like a drink of clear water. But now, meeting her gaze, she was a river that tumbled with life and danger. She would change his life. She would change everything about him.
Instinctively, he responded as the men of the Highlands always had before the woman they honored above all others. Dimly aware that the room had gone still, he stopped just before his fiancée, sank onto one knee, and took the hand that she extended to him.
“My lady,” he said, his voice deep and sure. He saw no one but her, knew she saw only him. With one swift, sure tug, he peeled off her glove. A sigh came from behind him, but he paid no mind.
This was no performance for an audience; it was for the two of them alone.
He raised her hand to his lips, and carefully placed a kiss on her naked fingers. It was a brazen, outrageous gesture.
He didn’t care.
Ten
Edie felt as if she were caught up in a play . . . something larger than herself. Nothing dramatic had ever happened to her, to Lady Edith Gilchrist. The most excitement she’d had was when her father invited a cellist to their house so that she could play for him.
Walking into the room she had been pleased to see Iris Smythe-Smith, who was quite good at the cello, having somehow succeeded in avoiding the influence of her family’s quartet. And then she had felt an odd prickling in her shoulder blades, so she had turned her head. And there, walking toward her, was her future husband.
It was as if her eyes grabbed the image of him and gobbled it up. He had muscled legs, beautiful legs, twice the size of the Englishmen’s in the room. His chest was wide and his shoulders looked even wider thanks to the plaid thrown ove
r one shoulder.
And his face . . .
It was rough-hewn, not beautiful, a warrior’s face with a strong chin. But his eyes were most astonishing. There was no polite emotion in them: just blazing possessiveness.
She felt, suddenly, as if he were looking straight at her, and as if he were the first to do so in her whole life. As if he looked into her soul and saw the real woman. Her heartbeat thudded in her throat.
The duke went on one knee before her. He took her hand, peeled off her glove, and kissed her fingers.
For a moment, Edie felt dizzy. The mere touch of his lips was a voluptuous promise. This was the kiss that a knight errant gives his lady before he gallops off in her defense. The kiss that a courtier gives the queen of his heart. Kinross had abased himself before her. And yet, in the act of kneeling at her feet, he had only asserted himself as a man born to command.
Then he rose, towering over her. How could she have not noticed that the man was the size of a Scots pine? Perhaps she did notice. But not really. She hadn’t seen that he was so big in every way. And ruthless.
He looked like the sort of man who saw a woman and decided on the spot to marry her. And not for practical reasons, either.
That idea was utterly shocking—and delightful.
“Lady Edith,” he said, and she remembered that Highlands burr. It rolled over her skin like a love song.
“I prefer to be called Edie,” she said, forgetting to draw her ungloved hand out of his. And then: “Your hair is red!”
His right eyebrow flew up. “It always has been. Though nothing compared to that of most Scotsmen, my lady.”
“I have never liked red hair,” she said, stunned because this hair . . . this hair she did like. It was the color of blackened steel with fire burning in its depths. It was the red of a banked kiln at night, of a coal.