Once Upon a Tower

by Eloisa James

He skipped Shakespeare’s sonnets; he’d memorized all those in his youth. There was a great deal of verse written by a man named John Donne, who seemed to have a sense of humor, at least. I am two fools, he read, for loving, and for saying so in whining poetry. Gowan gave a bark of laughter, and turned the page.

  He read the next poem four times . . . five. It begged the sun not to rise and call lovers from their bed. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

  The element that was missing from his marriage was printed here in black and white. The bed gave no center to their lives. She’s all states, Donne wrote, and all princes, I. Nothing else is.

  Gowan looked around himself with a bleak sense of futility. If he was a prince, Edie was not his state, nor his dominion. He was a prince of land and soil, of small villages and wheat fields.

  Not of a woman as elusive as the wind. He had failed. He had failed in their bed, and his heart squeezed with the pain of it.

  Later that afternoon, he looked out the window and saw the recital. Layla and Susannah were sitting on a blue blanket, looking like bright flowers. Edie sat in a straight-backed chair, her back to the castle, and Védrines stood to her right, a violin tucked under his chin.

  Even from this distance, he could see Edie’s body sway as they began playing. And he could see that Védrines was standing at an angle, facing away from her, his eyes presumably on the music stand before him. He had probably concluded that his employer was stark raving mad, but he was keeping to his word.

  Gowan’s heart began hammering in his rib cage. One of his bailiffs was talking, but the words made no sense. He snatched up the legal papers Jelves had prepared with regard to Susannah’s upbringing.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, pivoting on his heel. “If you will please excuse me for a few moments, I will deliver these papers to Lady Gilchrist myself.”

  He was down the hill a moment later, but he skirted the trees so no one saw him. Védrines’s face had the same transcendent joy on it as Edie’s had while playing, damn his eyes. Just then the Frenchman lifted his bow and said, “A C-sharp is quite different in the open air.”

  Whatever that meant.

  But, of course, Edie knew. She plucked a string, and one note quavered before dying away. “I hear just what you mean.”

  Védrines turned a page on the stand before him—which Gowan recognized as the one that usually stood in the library, supporting the Kinross Bible—and nodded. Then they were off. Edie’s slow, sweet notes played beneath the violin’s, sounding like the wave of the sea. Her sound would die just as the violin picked up and yet it was never subdued: a moment later it would rise up again. In contrast to her lines, the violin bounced like a nursery rhyme, childish and thin.

  The look on her face . . .

  He turned and walked back up the path before the piece was finished. For the first time, he understood that a man could just give up his life and walk away from his wife. He could put his back to his castle and cease to be a duke. He could walk until the jealousy in his heart was silenced, and a woman’s face didn’t wring his heart’s core.

  Back at the castle, he handed the papers for Lady Gilchrist to Bardolph, telling him to get them signed. It didn’t sit well with him to know that Susannah would grow up an Englishwoman. But their mother had not shown the slightest interest in mothering either him or his sister; nationality surely mattered less than Layla’s clear love for Susannah.

  Later that afternoon the butler informed him that Her Grace had requested they dine privately in her bedchamber. And shortly thereafter, the bailiff from the Highlands estate finally arrived; he had been delayed by a broken axle. At some point Gowan asked Bardolph to inform the duchess that he would be late.

  But even he was astonished when he raised his head and discovered it was ten o’clock.

  Bardolph had an uneasy flicker in his eyes when Gowan emerged from the study, the book of poetry tucked into his pocket. His factor had apparently been hovering outside the door for some time. “I fear the meal is cold, but I believe Her Grace would not have wished me to intrude with warmer food, as she is playing her instrument.”

  Bardolph was learning, Gowan realized. Edie had somehow put the fear of God in his grumpy factor.

  Thirty-one

  Edie was playing something low and languorous; as he climbed the stairs, he heard notes spilling out into the corridor.

  Gowan climbed faster, prodded by guilt. She had been waiting for at least two hours. Perhaps three. He couldn’t remember when Bardolph had first asked him if he was ready to break off for the day.

  That was the life of a nobleman. She would simply have to endure it, just as he did. The alternative—to be the sort of desultory duke his father had been—was unthinkable.

  Still, she would likely be angry. Ladies were not happy when their arrangements were disrupted. He walked into the bedchamber and stopped short. The room had been transformed. The blue walls had been hung with saffron-colored silk that seemed to ripple in the light of the candles. And candles crowded every surface—on the tables, on the mantelpiece, on the table. The illumination was superfluous, because Edie wasn’t using a score.

  Instead, her eyes were closed, and she was playing something so low and soft that it felt as if she were humming it. He listened without moving, his back to the door, as notes built and subsided, as if a giant were softly breathing them, as if each note was a drop of water going down a stream filled with rocks.

  Then he entered into the room. He took the book of poetry out of his pocket, put it to the side, and dropped into a chair. Edie didn’t open her eyes, but surely she knew he was there.

  The stress of the day seemed to slip away with the music. It took him to another world, away from numbers and reports and stocks, giving him a feeling that he had only occasionally, when standing deep in the loch in the Highlands, fly-fishing. Those were his happiest moments . . .

  This made him pretty damn happy, too.

  Even with all their problems in bed, he and Edie had a deep, thrumming awareness between them, a tension so taut that it overtook the music. Her bow quickened and he thought she went straight into playing something different, a piece less melancholy.

  When she lifted her bow, he said, “Was that played allegro?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “And the first was largo. Was that last written by Vivaldi?” he asked, trying out the new names that he was just beginning to store in his memory.

  She beamed. “Exactly! The Vivaldi piece is one of the first I learned as a child.”

  “It sounds as if they were written by the same person,” he said. “As if he was trying to capture birdsong.”

  “What a lovely thought.” She put the bow aside and hoisted up her instrument.

  Instantly Gowan was on his feet, reaching out for the cello.

  “Careful!” she cried. Then she fell back with a shamefaced smile as he placed the instrument face up in its padded case. “I love my cello. I don’t know what I’d do if it was injured.”

  She said injured, Gowan noted. As if it were a living being.

  “Are there differences between one cello and another?”

  “Absolutely. Mine was made by Ruggieri. My father and I think he is the finest cello maker in the world.”

  “Was it costly?”

  She named a sum that made his jaw drop. “You could buy a house in an excellent area of London for that.”

  “That’s why I’m so fussy, and why it travels in a padded case.”

  “I should have suspected when Bardolph informed me that the cello required a carriage of its own.”

  “And a footman to keep it steady during the journey,” she said, nodding. “It’s an expensive business, being a musician. But I imagine we won’t travel for some time.” She looked up at him, a smile glimmering in her eyes. “I have to warn you, Gowan, that I may spend the rest of my life playing outdoors, in the orchard. It’s so quiet except for the river, and the acoust
ics are wonderful. It’s everything I ever wanted.”

  Everything she wanted?

  She picked up a glass of champagne and took a sip. “May I give you a glass? I thought we might celebrate our . . . well, arriving home.”

  She poured a glass for him. He accepted it, but set it down on the table without tasting it, and curled a hand around her neck. He kissed her openmouthed, and the taste of her struck deep into his body. He already had an erection; these days he lived in a constant state of readiness. By the time he pulled back, in need of air, she was trembling in his arms and making little stifled noises in the back of her throat.

  “You should eat,” he whispered, running his teeth down the slender column of her throat.

  She pulled back. “No.”

  “No?” Was she rejecting the cold food, or dinner altogether?

  Edie had an endearing gleam of uncertainty in her eyes, and he swooped to kiss it away.

  “I don’t want to follow a plan,” she said.

  “Ah,” he said, remembering their wedding night. He wrapped her even more tightly in his arms, sliding one hand down onto her beautifully rounded rump. “In that case, my lady, would you mind if we took an indirect route to dinner via our bed?”

  “I think you should drink your champagne,” she said, a little wildly. She turned to the side and groped for hers, found it, and then tossed down the glass.

  Gowan didn’t like champagne. It was the kind of wine that tried to claw you in the throat. He couldn’t imagine why anyone liked it, but then he felt that way about most spirits. He took a sip.

  Edie picked up the bottle and refilled her glass. He watched her and wondered. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who had a plan for the intimate side of their marriage. Then he gave a mental shrug. With luck, her plan would work better than his had.

  When she turned back, her eyes shone from the wine. “I thought I might play for you. I mean, just for you, since you were unable to join us this afternoon.”

  “I would enjoy that.”

  “But I forgot, and now my cello is put away.”

  “I would be happy to retrieve it for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, beaming as she finished her second glass. Or perhaps it was her third? He glanced at the bottle, but the glass was too thick to tell if it was half empty. The butler had probably opened the bottle for her some three hours ago.

  Edie fussed with a chair as he brought out the cello, putting it directly in front of the couch. “You sit there,” she ordered, pointing. He sat.

  “You forgot your champagne!” she exclaimed. She handed it to him and then apparently realized that her own glass was empty.

  He was out of his seat before he knew what he was doing, stopping her hand as she reached for the wine. “Don’t. Please don’t.” He uttered a silent curse, hearing the note of pleading in his voice. This marriage was turning him into a bloody infant, begging for what he could not have.

  “Oh,” Edie said. And then: “Do you think I’m tipsy yet?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She sat down on the chair and reached for her cello. “Good. Oops.” She popped up again, holding her instrument around the neck. “Will you hold this for a moment?”

  He was already standing, the command to rise with a lady so ingrained that he felt like a jack-in-the-box. The cello’s wood was satin-smooth under his fingers, as smooth as Edie’s own skin.

  As he watched, she untied what seemed to be some sort of robe and tossed it away. Underneath, she was wearing a nightdress of thin lawn, trimmed with lace at the bodice, and the elbows, and the hem, and . . . She sat down, a slit fell open, and there was Edie’s utterly delectable leg. The lace fell on either side of her thigh, like a ribbon on the best cake he ever saw. Her thigh was plump and luscious and—

  “May I have my cello again?” Her voice broke his trance.

  He handed it back.

  She spread her legs wider and he almost lunged forward and called for the recital to be postponed, but instead he lowered himself slowly into the couch as she fussed with her instrument, positioning it correctly.

  Then she looked at him rather shyly. “I’ve never played for anyone like this before.”

  “I should damn well hope not!”

  Her smile broadened. “What would you like me to play?”

  “Something brief.” He couldn’t stop looking at the way that big instrument balanced between her open legs. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.

  Edie always seemed transformed when she played. But this was a different sort of transformation: while it was about the music, it was also about him. She kept peeking from under her lashes, even as she played some sort of rippling thing that made her fingers dart among the strings.

  Listening, Gowan had an idea. He had discarded his coat and neck cloth while in his study; now he stood up and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  Her eyes grew a bit wider, but she continued to play, even when he pulled his shirt over his head. She made an error when he bent over to pull off one boot. He had catalogued the way a cascade of notes fell down a scale, and one of Edie’s struck a sour note.

  He had a distinct impression that his wife liked his muscles. So he bent over again, slower this time, twisting like some sort of Roman statue to pull off his other boot and roll down his stocking. She was watching . . . the tempo of her piece was not allegro any longer.

  The room was half in shadow now, as some of the candles were burning low and the last midsummer daylight was gone for another night. He put his hands on his waistband.

  Her bow lifted, and the last note was cut short. In the silence, he became aware of the patter of raindrops against the windows.

  “Dear me,” he said, unbuttoning the top button of his breeches, and meeting Edie’s eyes. “That note should have lasted longer, shouldn’t it?”

  “How did you know that?” She looked surprised, but her eyes drifted back to his hands. He undid another button and shoved his breeches down a little, showing off his rippled abdomen.

  “It’s the piece you played with your father.” The notes were stored in his mind, like everything else.

  “You remember the music that closely after having heard it only once?”

  He had to work his breeches around that part of him that was barely fitting in his smalls as it was. So he dropped his smalls along with his breeches. It was oddly liberating to stand naked in front of his wife. No servants. Just the two of them.

  Edie rose and pushed the cello in his direction. He laid it in its case. She turned to the mirror and began pulling pins from her hair. He came up from behind and ran his hands around her, cupping her breasts.

  That luscious hair of hers came tumbling down, down over his arms. “God, you have lovely hair,” he whispered.

  She dropped the pins. There was a faint tinkle as they scattered over the ancient wood floor. But then her hands came warm over his and she leaned back and looked up at him. “I’ve thought of cutting it a few times.”

  “Never cut it,” he said. “Promise me, Edie.”

  She hesitated, and her brows drew together. “What if I want to cut it?”

  He pulled her tighter against him. He couldn’t own her. She owned herself. He couldn’t . . . “Forget I said that.” He bent his head and licked her cheek, a blatant, sexual caress. His fingers spread across her breasts. “May I take you to bed, Madam Wife?”

  She smiled, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Yes, please.”

  As long as she said yes at the right moments . . .

  In the length of their short marriage, they had made love four times. Gowan lay Edie on her back, thinking about this, the fifth time. It had to be different.

  Better.

  She began wiggling right away, though, batting his hands away. “I want my champagne,” she announced. And then, when she was upright again and holding another glass, she looked at him through those thick lashes of hers and said, “I’d like you to lie down.”

  “Wh
at?”

  She pointed. “On the bed. On your back. You’re my husband, so . . .”

  Edie would have laughed at the expression on his face, except this was too serious. She sipped her champagne again, hoping that Layla was right. It made her head swirl, which had to be good. Just let go, she told herself again. Let go.

  But first . . . For a moment she thought Gowan wouldn’t do it. He was the most dominant man she’d ever met in her life, after all. But then he lay on his back, except that his face turned blank.

  She crawled up beside him and pressed a kiss on his lips. “I don’t like your expression,” she informed him. Yes, the champagne was definitely helpful.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sometimes you have nothing in your eyes. Are you certain that you don’t want champagne? It’s quite good.”

  His eyes narrowed. “No.” The word came out with a wolfish snap, and made her remember that his drunken parents complicated the whole question for him.

  “All right,” she said, putting her own glass away. “Now I’m going to learn what pleasures you.”

  “What pleasures me?” He rose up on his elbows, staring at her incredulously. “It all pleasures me. If you let me touch you, I’m pretty damned near in heaven.”

  Edie could almost wish she hadn’t drunk that fifth glass, because her brain wasn’t working properly. “Well,” she said, “all right then.”

  He gave her a gentle tug. “What if we did it the other way around?”

  “What way?” His chest was in front of her, and she ran her fingers across his muscles.

  “What pleasures you?” Suddenly she found herself flat on her back, both of her wrists loosely pinned above her head.

  She frowned at him. “Not being held down.”

  “Damn.” He let her go.

  “Unless you want to,” she said, feeling a sudden streak of excitement.

  He cocked his head. “This isn’t about what I want to do. This time is about what you want to do.”

  “That’s right,” Edie said, nodding. “I need to give you a road map.”

  Gowan came back on his heels, looking down at the luscious, delicate body of his wife. He required every ounce of his self-control not to fall on her and bite her all over. “Tell me what to do, sweeting.”