Once Upon a Tower (4 page)

Five

G
owan 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 be 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

E
die’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 being 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.”

Layla raised her head. There was a touch of the mischievous about her eyes, the way there used to be in the early days of her marriage. “You’ll be disappointed to hear this, Jonas, but women quite regularly discuss that particular organ. Depending on the size of the organ under discussion, you might call it a dart, or a needle. Then there’s a pin: used only in truly unfortunate circumstances, of course. But one might discuss a lance.” She swept her hair out of her eyes, the better to see whether she was getting a rise out of her husband.

And she was.

“This conversation is unforgivably vulgar,” the earl said, his voice grating.

“Sword, tool, poleax,” Layla added, looking even more cheerful. “Edie is to be a married woman now, Jonas. We can’t treat her like a child.”

Edie groaned silently. They were spiraling right back to the same emotional morass. Her father should have married a Puritan.

Luckily, there were signs of life in her fiancé. If she ventured into a spate of jokes about lances, she had the idea that he would laugh. Unfortunately, she might not understand his jokes, especially if he borrowed them from Shakespeare. She didn’t know much literature. She hadn’t had time for it.

“What play is that quote from?” she asked.

“
Romeo and Juliet
,” her father said.

Perhaps she could take a quick look at the play before replying to Kinross. She wasn’t much of a reader, if the truth be told.

“Let’s change the subject. I feel truly ill. Do you suppose I’ve caught a wasting illness?” Layla asked. “Perhaps just a small one, something that would make me faint at the sight of a crumpet?”

“You—” The earl caught himself.

Edie nimbly took up the conversation before her father said something he should regret, even though he likely wouldn’t. “I’m quite looking forward to meeting Kinross again.” She could have sworn she saw stark longing in her father’s eyes when he looked at Layla. But how could that be? He was always criticizing his wife, picking at her for the kind of unguarded and impulsive comments Layla couldn’t help making.

“Naturally, I hope that you and the duke will be happy together,” her father said.

“And I hope you have babies!” Layla said. “Lots of babies.”

The silence that followed that sentence was so desperately tense that Edie found herself leaping to her feet and fleeing the room with little more than a mumbled apology.

Layla and her father had certainly loved each other when they married, but then he had begun to criticize the very qualities he once adored. The worst of it was the sense of disappointment that hung in the air around them.

Above all, she and Kinross had to avoid that sort of situation. A modicum—perhaps even an excess—of rational conversation was necessary.