They had decided to eschew a reception of any sort, given Layla’s absence, so after the brief ceremony they returned to the earl’s house and shared a surprisingly cordial luncheon in which all three of them carefully avoided any mention of the countess.
Instead, Gowan and Lord Gilchrist had, to Edie’s mind, a very good time denouncing the British tax system, particularly efforts by certain astonishingly unsympathetic politicians to reintroduce a personal income tax—which would thereby defraud such innocent persons as the two noblemen at the table of their rightful profits. Edie found herself looking from her father to her husband and realizing that they truly had a great deal in common. It was an odd thought, and one she stored away to consider further.
In the late afternoon, after she had changed into an extremely chic new gown, and all her trunks and belongings had been whisked away by the duke’s men, the time came to say good-bye. Gowan stood waiting beside the carriage, flanked by so many liveried grooms that he looked like a member of the royal family.
She took her father’s hands and tried once more, “Please bring her back.”
He nodded, but it was such a clipped gesture that she knew it indicated only that he’d heard her, not whether he would obey.
She could do no more. So Edie stepped up into the carriage. She was no longer Lady Edith. She was no longer the peacemaker in the Gilchrist household. She was no longer an unmarried daughter.
She was the Duchess of Kinross, and there, sitting across from her, was her husband.
And her husband . . .
Gowan looked entirely calm and inscrutable but she knew the truth: he had been as moved by the wedding rite as she had been.
When he had promised to “love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health,” she had felt color creep into her cheeks at the expression in his eyes. The breath had caught in her lungs and she had clung to his hands as if they were the only things keeping her upright.
She had never dreamed that wedding vows could mean so much. Nor that she would be so lucky as to find the one man in the world who was perfect for her.
And then, when she had promised to “keep thee only unto him, as long as ye both shall live,” Gowan’s eyes had glowed with a joy that she had seen only a few times in the whole of her life.
Now, she was sitting opposite him in a velvet cloak trimmed with real pearls. After a moment, she allowed the cloak to slip down her shoulders so that her breasts gleamed like the opals in her hair.
A banked flame smoldered in Gowan’s eyes, a fierce interest that made her shift in her seat and straighten her shoulders, which merely served to bring her bosom into further prominence. “You’ve got them,” Layla had told her. “Flaunt them.”
Edie reserved judgment about whether Layla’s propensity to flaunt her bosom in public had done her marriage any good or any ill. But Layla’s propensities—and Layla’s bosom—aside, she was keenly aware that Gowan liked her breasts.
They had said to each other all the words that needed to be said.
The rest of the evening?
No words.
Eighteen
Nerot’s Hotel
London
“I’ve never been inside a hotel,” Edie said as they entered, looking about with a great deal of curiosity. “I still don’t understand why we don’t simply repair to your house, Gowan.”
“My town house is not acceptable for my duchess,” he replied. The very idea of bringing Edie into a room festooned with jackals offended him. Nerot’s, on the other hand, offered a suitable level of luxurious privacy. If they could not spend their wedding night at his castle, Nerot’s was the next best thing.
Mr. Bindle, Gowan’s butler, came toward them across the entrance hall, followed by a short man with a remarkably full head of hair, which gave him the appearance of a blown dandelion. It emerged that this flowery fellow was Mr. Parnell, the manager of the establishment.
Gowan saw no compelling reason to spend time with the man—surely Bindle had seen to every detail—but he listened with controlled civility as Parnell babbled about the various arrangements for housing his entourage, including Bindle, his cook, and his personal servants.
Yes, he’d brought six footmen and grooms, his cook, his valet, and various other retainers—not to mention their trunks and the carriage bearing Edie’s cello—but surely his retinue could be housed without his help.
He glanced at Bindle, who put a hand on Parnell’s arm and drew him ahead of them at a brisk walk. They climbed a flight of marble stairs, where, at the end of a short corridor, they arrived at a set of tall, lavishly gilded double doors.
“How lovely,” Edie exclaimed.
Mr. Parnell wiped his brow. “The Royal Suite. The doors were brought from France, where they used to hang in Le Palais-Royale in Paris, Your Graces.” He turned the key in the lock and they entered the suite’s great drawing room. Bindle announced that a meal, which was even now being prepared by the duke’s chef, would be brought up in five minutes.
Edie drifted around the room examining the furnishings. She glanced over her shoulder at Gowan and he felt her gaze as if he’d been struck by lightning. She expected him to refuse the meal; he could see it in the sparkling naughtiness of her gaze.
But omitting the meal wasn’t a part of his plan. The last thing he wanted was for her to grow weak from lack of sustenance. He nodded his assent to Bindle and sent him and Parnell out of the room. Then he prowled toward Edie, enjoying the way she stood before tall windows looking like a column of golden light. Her gown had been designed to drive a man into blithering incoherence. It resembled a mere length of fabric wrapped around her. As if a man might reach out and pluck a pin here or there, and a delectable, naked woman would stand before him.
The door opened again, and Mary, Edie’s maid, bustled in, followed by his valet, Trundle.
Gowan glanced over his shoulder. “You will not enter this suite unless you are expressly summoned.”
Mary dropped into a curtsy so low she almost lost her balance. She and Trundle fled.
“Was that truly necessary?” Edie asked.
“My servants are not accustomed to granting me privacy,” he said, reaching out with a finger and tracing the line of her eyebrow, “because I have never before requested it. They will have to learn new ways.”
“You’ve never requested privacy?”
“In the bathroom, of course.”
“Servants come and go as they please?” Her voice was faintly disbelieving.
“Only if they have reason to enter a room, naturally.”
“I am almost always alone. And no one enters my rooms without warning except Layla.”
“When you were playing, the evening when your father joined you, you looked fit to murder until you knew it was he entering your room.”
“It wasn’t who he was; it was that he was carrying an instrument. I cannot abide being interrupted while playing, or being asked to stop before I am ready.”
“I shall inform my people. They will not disturb you.” He shifted so that he stood squarely before her, and let his finger run down her cheek and under her chin, tipping it back. “You’re so beautiful, Edie. I am awed.”
“Well, I don’t know why you should be,” she said in that endearingly practical way she had. “Awe is not what I feel when I look at you.”