Once Upon a Tower

Page 19

Then he strolled back into the gardens, his mind busy. He would never dishonor his future duchess. But that didn’t mean he was content to sleep under the same roof and not kiss her good night. Chastely and tenderly, naturally.
It was bewildering, this thing that had happened between him and Edie. Like being caught in a whirlwind. Even the thought of her brought a stab of raw hunger that made his stomach clench. When her fingers had brushed his hand, a sensual fleeting touch that shied away like a frightened deer, it ignited a fire in him. He was ravenous. Out of control.
He made himself walk around the gardens for another half hour, using the chill evening air to force his body into quiescence. Then he rejoined the gentlemen. Chatteris called over to him, and they retired to his study for a game of billiards, another friend of theirs from childhood, Daniel Smythe-Smith, wandering after them.
They played silently, until, after successfully pocketing a ball, Chatteris straightened and said, rather abruptly, “I watched you speaking to your fiancée during supper.”
Gowan glanced at him. “I was seated beside Lady Edith. Naturally I spoke to her.”
“Congratulations,” Chatteris said. “Lady Edith is truly lovely.”
Chatteris lined up his cue and neatly sank another ball into the bag hanging on one of the far corners. “When do you plan to marry?”
“In four months,” Gowan replied. But that idea was no longer palatable. “Or perhaps somewhat sooner.”
“I was not the only one watching you. The lady’s father did not seem pleased.”
Gowan shrugged. “The papers are signed, though the earl would rather his daughter’s marriage remained a matter of cool practicality.”
Chatteris sank yet another ball. Then: “Your conversation did not appear to be, shall we say, emotionless.”
Gowan refused to pretend that his marriage was a matter of convenience; that would tarnish the growing feeling between himself and Edie. He contented himself by retorting, “Yours is merely practical as well, as I noticed earlier this evening.”
Chatteris’s smile revealed that he knew precisely what Gowan meant. “We are both lucky men.” His ball ricocheted and spun to a stop. “As are you,” he added, nodding at Smythe-Smith, whose own marriage would take place in a week or so.
Gowan lined up a ball. “My fiancée tells me that she has a room with a balcony.” He glanced up at Chatteris. “I am guessing her chamber faces your inner courtyard.”
The earl frowned. “I couldn’t say.”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Smythe-Smith put in. “If Lady Edith has a balcony, it must be facing the inner courtyard, since my parents have rooms facing the back gardens. You do not want to make a mistake and climb to my mother’s balcony, Kinross.”
Chatteris leaned against the table, ignoring his soon-to-be brother-in-law. “I believe I’ve known you my whole life, Kinross.”
“We met at eight years old.” Gowan sank the ball. “A party in this very house, as I recall.”
“That makes it a particular pleasure to see you falling victim to an arrow shot by a blindfolded child.”
Did he mean Cupid? It wasn’t an unreasonable supposition. “Pot. Kettle,” he retorted. “So is Smythe-Smith correct about the balcony?”
“It’s just a thought,” Chatteris said, “but why not follow the path of least resistance—in short, the stairs?”
Gowan looked up, knowing that his eyes were alive with a wild mischief that his friend would never before have seen in them. “I would prefer to surprise her. We were discussing plays at dinner.”
“Oh, was that what you were discussing?” The earl broke into laughter. “I’ll warrant over half the company thought there was nothing literary about the conversation.”
“It was bookish, I assure you. Romeo and Juliet.”
“Ah. Dangerous things, balconies.”
Gowan pocketed another ball. “I’m fairly fit.”
“I’d guess the old ladder in the carriage house that we used to play with as kids is still there,” Smythe-Smith said, laughing.
“Surely a ladder would not reach that height,” Gowan said.
“It’s a rope ladder,” Smythe-Smith explained. “Woven from horsehair, as a matter of fact. Could have been made for that purpose.”
“I find that suggestion highly inadvisable,” Chatteris said.
“Nonsense!” Smythe-Smith retorted, poking his friend in the side. “You’ll be married by tomorrow, and I’ve only a week or so to wait, and poor Kinross is looking at months, if not longer.” He turned back to Gowan, his eyes alight with mischief. “I’ll send someone to fetch it. My man will attend to it without the lady’s maid knowing aught of the matter.”
Gowan took care of the last ball, straightened, met Smythe-Smith’s eyes, and burst out laughing. “You’ve used that ladder yourself!”
“I couldn’t possibly comment on such an assumption,” the man said, his eyes dancing. He turned. “The ladies won’t retire for an hour or so. Consider it my wedding gift.”
Gowan watched Smythe-Smith weave his way out of the room, followed by the earl. They were both damned handsome men.
He felt a sudden flash of gladness that Edie hadn’t debuted last year, or the year before. What if he’d only met her as Lady Chatteris?
Inconceivable.
Once they married, he could kiss her at the dining room table if he wished. At Craigievar, there was no one to say nay if he commanded the footmen to leave so he could tup his wife on the table itself.
With a silent groan, he realized that the calming effect of the gardens had been utterly lost.
Twelve
Edie prepared for bed in something of a dreamlike state. She bathed and put on a nightdress and a wrapper, then sat on a stool as Mary took the pins from her hair and brushed it out.
Gowan was such an odd mixture: grave and intense, with just the faintest strain of sardonic humor. His heart was true. But he was a complex man who, in her estimation, revealed almost nothing to anyone.
“Would you like to slip into bed now, my lady?” Mary asked.
“Not just yet,” Edie said, smiling at her. “I must practice first. Thank you; that will be all.”
After Mary slipped away, Edie took her cello from its stand by the wall and began to tighten the bridge. Even weary as she now was, she had to play for at least an hour. Tomorrow, the day of the wedding, would be entirely lost.
Years ago, when she had begun to refuse to travel without her cello, her father had had a special case constructed, padded and lined in velvet, a near duplicate of his own. Now their instruments traveled in a separate carriage, their protective cases so heavy that they needed two grooms to carry them between house and vehicle.
She began with Vivaldi. The “Winter” section wasn’t going well. A half hour later, she was working hard on her bowing, playing two phrases again and again until she was satisfied.
With that, she started again from the beginning, intending to play the piece all the way through before allowing herself to retire at last. She was concentrating so hard on her music that she started when a sudden gust from the French door leading to her balcony ruffled her score and blew a few pages to the floor. Her fingers slipped, and with a muttered curse she started over.