Once Upon a Tower (9 page)

“I am fond of verse.”

“Any woman could tell that you’re fairly swelling with your seductive prowess.”

He fell back a step and broke into a crack of laughter at that. “Swelling?
Swelling?
”

Edie’s already flushed cheeks turned rosier still. “You know what I mean!” she said. “You’re—you know everything and I don’t.”

Should he be honest?

She put her hands on her hips—and she had luscious hips, perfect hips. The action pulled her nightdress taut across her equally perfect breasts. Her gaze was so sincere and direct that he confessed the truth. “I don’t know about it, either, Edie.”

“I’m not talking about marriage,” she said instantly, her cheeks turning even brighter red.

“What, then?” he asked. He was really enjoying himself.

“The bedding part!” she cried. “
That
part. You know it, and I don’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “Though if you laugh at me again, perhaps I’ll see if I can gain a bit of experience in the next few months before we marry.”

He backed her against the door in a flash, caught her hands over her head in one of his, felt her body hot against his. “Absolutely not.”

Laughter shone in her eyes and she batted her eyelashes at him deliberately. “I’m sure you’d be grateful to find that you didn’t have an ignorant chit like myself in your bed on your wedding night.”

“No.” He bent his head and drank her in, deep and fierce.

When he drew his lips away from her again, she said in a ragged voice, “You have all those love poems and lines of Shakespeare and the rest. I have none of that, Gowan. I can’t read a play to save my life. I tried, and I couldn’t make head or tail of it.”

“I don’t care. Let me teach you to love poetry.” He traced the curve of her bottom lip with his finger. “You’re mine, Edie.”

“That is hardly the point,” she said, her voice darkening. “I’m . . . And you’re . . .”

“As untouched as you are,” he said, fascinated by the way thick lashes framed her eyes.

Her brow furrowed.

“A virgin,” he said, growling it because, after all, a man isn’t supposed to be a virgin. Ever.

He released her hands and swung her into his arms. She was a snug weight, a soft female weight that sent a flame right down his limbs. But he made himself walk to a chair rather than topple her onto the bed.

“
You?
” She was stunned.

“Aye.” He sat down, relishing the way her bottom settled onto his lap. “I was betrothed from the time I was quite young, so I could not sleep with a woman who might have expectations—or dreams—of becoming a duchess. Paying coin for the act would be distasteful; I would have dishonored my fiancée at the same time as myself.”

Edie sat still as a mouse; he drew his arm tighter around her back. Her eyes searched his, wide and surprised.

“So I am quite certain that I do not have ‘a disease of an intimate nature,’ ” he told her.

“Ah, my letter.” She recognized her own words. “No, I suppose you do not.”

He gave her another fierce, lingering kiss. They broke off with a new wildness between them, all but visible in the air. And they met each other’s eyes now with that between them like a glimmering possibility.

“Together,” she whispered, awed. “It’s nothing I would have expected. I always thought that a woman brought such a thing to her marriage, but a man . . .”

“Is supposed to have slept first with a chambermaid or a barmaid,” Gowan said. “That would be to abase myself as well as a woman in my employ.”

A choked laugh escaped from Edie’s mouth. “You’re a man of principle, Your Grace.”

“Is that not a good thing?”

Thirteen

L
aughter was fighting with an aching, twisting
need
in Edie’s heart. She couldn’t look at Gowan any longer without leaning in to kiss him. She closed her eyes and put her cheek against his shoulder. “It’s a very good thing to have principles,” she said, the words coming soft and low. “You must have laughed when I wrote you about mistresses, let alone diseases.”

“I didn’t laugh. It was a fair question. There’s many a man has a mistress in addition to his wife. But I always hoped that I’d find a wife who would want to carry my children, and how could I dishonor that wife by pouring gold into the lap of a woman whom I had no intention of marrying?”

Edie turned and kissed Gowan’s neck. It was a strong column, that neck. “You are a complicated man.”

“These are not complicated things. There’s an old Scottish saying that ‘your present is your future.’ I choose not to tarnish what may come. Besides, my father . . .” He trailed off.

“Had mistresses?” Edie asked.

“Many.”

She dropped another kiss under his jaw, where his pulse was beating. “I thought my father had a mistress, but now I’m not so sure. Layla fears that’s why he doesn’t come home at night.”

“I doubt it,” Gowan said. “ ’Twould shame him to do so, and your father is not a man who would bring shame upon himself.”

Edie smiled, knowing he couldn’t see it. Her father was a bit stiff, but at heart, he and Gowan were both the sort of man whom a woman is lucky to find at her side. “Did your mother know of your father’s affairs?”

“Aye, she did.” The burr of his Scottish ancestry grew more pronounced. “But her behavior matched his. She would have had no right to make complaints.”

“I’m sorry,” Edie murmured, and leaned back against his arm in order to see his face. “That must be a difficult thing to find out about one’s parents.”

“My mother was notorious for her dalliances, so I learned it as a young boy.” There was a bleak acceptance in his voice. “Did your father tell you that I have a half sister, called Susannah?”

“Really? No, he didn’t mention it. Does she live in Scotland?”

“She lives with me, and she is five years old, or so we think.”

“
What?
” Edie sat up straight. “You have a half sister who lives with you and is five, ‘
you think
’?”

“My mother left us when I was eight, and she died a few months ago, leaving a child. Presumably, she remarried after my father died, though I had no knowledge of it. We have not yet found a baptismal record for my sister.”

“Oh my goodness.” Edie sprang from his lap and walked across the room before turning to face him. “Do I collect that you are marrying partly in order to provide a mother for your sister? I must tell you that I have no experience of children whatsoever.”

He had stood, of course. “Neither have I. But I engaged three nursemaids and a nanny.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you rise.” She came back and sat down opposite him. “I don’t even know how big a five-year-old child is. Has she adult teeth yet? Can she speak? What am I saying? Of course she speaks!”

“Oh, Susannah speaks,” Gowan said, with feeling. “All the time. And she has teeth, too; she bit me the first day she came to Craigievar. So I would advise you to be careful when approaching her.” He sat again and reached out to take her hand.

“Oh my,” Edie breathed. Without really noticing, she watched as he traced a pattern on her palm with one finger. Her mind was reeling. She was not only marrying and moving to Scotland; she was evidently taking on an orphaned child. Really, her father could have mentioned that detail.

“I do remember that you expressed the wish to have children only after a few years. I was not prevaricating by neglecting to mention Susannah in my letter; I must confess that, because I wasn’t in Scotland, I actually forgot about her.”

He didn’t look guilty in the least.

“Have you any family members who are helping raise her?” Edie asked hopefully. “An aunt, perhaps?” She couldn’t possibly become a mother to a five-year-old, overnight. She wasn’t sure she had even
seen
a five-year-old before.

“Unfortunately, no. I have some aunts, but they haven’t yet met Susannah. They are my father’s sisters,” he explained. “They live in the Orkney Islands.”

“She is in the castle alone?”

“There are one hundred and thirteen servants in residence, including the four who are dedicated exclusively to her care.”

Her own mother had died when she was still a child, and so Edie was well aware that even one hundred servants couldn’t make up for a lost parent. “Perhaps there are books about this sort of thing,” she muttered. “Is the poor child terribly grieved? How did your mother die, if I might ask?”

“She drowned in a loch after imbibing more whisky than advisable.” There was a pause, and then he added, “My father died years earlier, after drinking two bottles of whisky. On a bet, you understand.”

Edie began sorting through the standard expressions of sympathy she had been taught; none seemed adequate.

“Still, my father died triumphant in his ill-advised wager, which would undoubtedly be a consolation to him. I do not drink spirits, in case you are concerned about the possibility that I have inherited the family susceptibility.” Gowan delivered these facts in an utterly even tone, as if he were recounting no more than a change in the weather.

“And Susannah’s father . . . your stepfather?”

“My mother referred to herself as a widow, though no one in her household knew much about her life before she moved to Edinburgh last year. She may have concealed her marriage from me in order to protect her allowance. Or it may be that Susannah is illegitimate. I have hired Bow Street Runners to find out.” He folded his arms over his chest. “There are those who would maintain that I offer you a tarnished name.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Edie frowned at him. “Your parents’ foolishness does not reflect on you.”

“That is very generous of you.” He hesitated, then said, “I must add that Susannah appears to be fairly unmanageable. I’m not the only person she’s bitten: I gather the nursemaids consider themselves in danger as well.”

Wonderful. Edie was already unnerved by the idea of caring for a child, let alone a difficult one. “Did she have any idea that you existed before she arrived on your doorstep? What is she like?”

“Small. Puny, in fact. I think she is remarkably articulate for someone so young, though her governess assures me female children are often so. And no, she seems to have had no idea she had family at all.”

“Does she look like you?”

“Her hair is a much brighter red. Other than that, I cannot say. I have not yet spent much time with her.”

“She must be miserable, what with losing her mother and then meeting a strange brother.”

“There is no reason for her to be miserable. It is my impression that she knew little of our mother.”

Edie had the distinct feeling that the Duke of Kinross was of the opinion that there were only narrow circumstances under which someone might be allowed an emotion as powerful as misery. “Even if Susannah was not close to her mother, she lost everyone who was familiar to her,” she pointed out.

“I receive a complete report every day of all events of significance, and the nursery has not been mentioned since a biting episode last week, so I am confident she is happy.”

Edie jumped up from her chair again. All that tingling awareness of Gowan she had felt earlier had been swallowed by a storm of nerves. She went over to the mantelpiece and picked up a pretty little porcelain Madonna holding the infant Jesus, fiddled with it briefly, then put it back down. Likely Mary had known perfectly well how to raise her son. Whereas Edie felt a dawning terror at the thought. Why hadn’t her father mentioned the child when he announced that she was marrying Gowan? She might have launched a protest.

Not that her father would have paid the slightest attention to her qualms, given that the alliance would make her a duchess.

“How on earth do you receive daily reports if you are here, and Susannah is in Scotland?” she asked Gowan.

“A groom leaves the castle every morning with a full report.” He, too, had risen, and stood at the opposite end of the mantelpiece. “I find that managing a large estate is significantly easier with a constant flow of communication. My more remote estates send messages to the castle every two to three days.”

“That must require a great many servants,” she said, awed at the idea. “And coaches, and horses.”

He shrugged. “I have a great many.”

Then, in an instant, a taut desire came back into his eyes, making her pricklingly aware of her body again. He took a step toward her. “Don’t worry about my sister,” he said. “If you don’t like her, I’ll find someone else to care for her.”

“Absolutely not!” Edie exclaimed. “I’m merely unused to children. But I shall manage.” Gowan’s smile was pure temptation—and had nothing to do with her reassurance as regards his sister. “This is terribly risky,” she said, remembering suddenly that they were alone in her bedchamber in a strange house in the middle of the night. “You must leave. I wouldn’t want to ruin Honoria’s wedding by creating a scandal.”

“Yes, I must.” His deep voice caressed her skin like velvet. She shivered and heard a strand of music in her head. And he didn’t move.

“If you are caught, it will cause a terrible uproar,” she said, and then added, “You’re rather large. Wide, I mean. Broad.”

“I swim in the loch every day.”

Apparently it was swimming that had given him the chest she longed to touch again. He bowed, and then started toward the balcony. She followed him as if drawn by a string.

“What did you think of my playing?” she asked, just when Gowan had one hand on the balustrade and was about to swing down a rope ladder that had been tied to the corner baluster.

His face was in shadow; the courtyard below him was illuminated only by moonlight. “I thought you were a genius,” he said. “Just as your father said. Will you teach Susannah the cello?”

“Yes,” she said, realizing for the first time that of course she would teach the child, just as her father had taught her.

“Then we must make it possible for Susannah, and any children of our own, to play for an audience if they so wish.” He began his descent.

His head disappeared below the marble parapet while she was still digesting that sentence. She leaned over and watched him as he climbed, making it look as easy as descending a flight of stairs.

Once on the ground, he threw back his head and looked up at her. Her heart gave a great thump at the sight of him. But she was also experiencing a toe-curling sense of embarrassment. Perhaps she should have been more standoffish. What if, after what had just occurred between them, he thought she was a wanton?

“Perhaps you’re right,” she called softly, staring down. “We are ‘quick bright things’ . . . too rash, too sudden, too ill-advised.”

“I can woo you tomorrow as if we’d never met, but I’m afraid that everyone in the drawing room already knows how I feel. And the notice is already in the papers.”

“Things like this don’t happen to people like me,” Edie said.

“Your voice is like music,” Gowan said, staring up at her. “What time do you rise?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I want more of you, and not just while staring across the pews during the wedding.”

He said it matter-of-factly, but her heart soared. “Nine o’clock in the morning. Good night,” she called.

“Good night,” he said, too softly for her to hear.

But somehow she heard anyway.

She stood gripping the cold marble, watching as Gowan strode across the courtyard and disappeared under the portico.

And then she stood a little longer, hearing music tumbling through her mind, even deeper and sweeter than she made on her cello.