Not a kind thought, he reminded himself. He was trying to curb his descriptive instincts: they might be silently expressed, but he could hardly ignore the fact that they were often critical. Always critical, his conscience insisted.
But he hadn’t come up a single negative aspect to Lady Edith, other than the fact that he didn’t care for her name. Who could? She was an angel, not an Edith.
His first fiancée’s name had been Rosaline, which had a romantic sound to it. The two of them had been matched as children. Indeed, they hadn’t even met until she was sixteen and he nineteen. After that, they settled into waiting for her to reach her majority—except she died a few days before her birthday. He’d only met her twice in the intervening two years. So theirs could hardly be termed a romantic pairing.
“Your Grace?”
His factor, Bardolph, was seated on the opposite carriage seat, looking annoyed. Bardolph had been Gowan’s father’s agent, and had been passed on to Gowan precisely as the wines in the cellars were, except that, unlike the wine, Bardolph was not improving with age. His beard came to a point in a manner that was distinctly goatlike. Goatish. Goat-reminiscent. Goat—
Gowan wrenched his mind back to the subject at hand. “Yes?”
“The head bailiff and the mine manager are in disagreement owing to silt carried from the diggings at the Currie tin mine, which is choking the fish in the Glaschorrie River,” Bardolph said, in the painstaking way that people do when you’ve ignored their question the first time around.
“Halt the mining,” Gowan said. “Unless the mine can control the drainage, we’ll have to close. There are six villages dependent on fish from that river.”
Bardolph went back to his ledger, and Gowan went back to thinking.
Gilchrist had suggested a five-month-long betrothal, which sounded fine. He was in no rush to begin married life. One had to expect that accommodating a wife would entail a certain level of fuss, and he didn’t like fuss.
But then he thought about the creaminess of Lady Edith’s skin. Creamy wasn’t the right word. He’d never seen skin so white, like the finest parchment. He had decided that the loch was darker than her eyes, which were closer to the green of a juniper tree.
This line of thought made him feel a surge of possessiveness. She would be his soon: the dreamy eyes, white skin, rosy mouth, and all . . . He had bartered for her with a settlement that would make Bardolph turn faint.
He had given Gilchrist every single item the man requested. One didn’t haggle when it came to a wife. That would be most ill-bred.
Bardolph raised his head again. “Your Grace, would you care to discuss the provisions of the contract with Mr. Stickney-Ellis as regards the bridge to be built over the Glaschorrie? I have the provisions as established by the builders.”
Gowan nodded, and settled more comfortably into his seat. No more thinking about Lady Edith: it was detrimental to his concentration, which was unacceptable. In fact, once he had her in the castle, he would have to make very certain that she didn’t disrupt his attention.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his grandmother had done from morning to night—women’s work—but it had to do with linens, and the sick, and the crofters . . . Gilchrist would have made certain that his daughter was well trained.
He was a bit stiff, Gilchrist, but a decent fellow.
Bardolph’s voice filtered through one part of his mind. He held up his hand. “I’d prefer three arches rather than two.”
The factor made a note and droned his way through the rest of the page.
Gowan cleared his throat.
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Tomorrow morning, there will be an announcement in the Morning Post of my betrothal. Jelves is finishing the agreed-upon settlements.”
Bardolph’s mouth fell open. “Your Grace, you—”
“I am betrothed to Lady Edith Gilchrist. Lord Gilchrist offered to send the announcement to the papers.”
Bardolph bowed his head. “May I offer my sincerest congratulations, Your Grace?”
Gowan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “The earl has suggested a betrothal of five months or thereabouts. I expect you to see to all arrangements. You may be in touch with Lord Gilchrist’s representative.”
The factor nodded again. “Yes, certainly, Your Grace.”
“Reconstruction of the water closet between my chamber and the future duchess’s must be completed.”
“Of course,” Bardolph said.
Then his factor pulled forward a bound volume. “Next I would like to review the estate agent’s breeding provisions for the Dorbie farm. I brought the stock book with me for that purpose.” He began to read aloud.
Gowan was rather surprised at how hard he had to work to keep his mind attentive. It was probably the novelty of the whole affair. It stood to reason that a new experience would be distracting.
The most surprising thing of all was the deep strain of satisfaction he felt. It threaded through all his thoughts like the awareness of a coming rainstorm: silent, but leaving its mark. Edith was his now. He would bring that lovely, delectable woman home.
He had been missing that calm warmth in his life, and he hadn’t even known it. He felt something bigger and more profound than desire. He wasn’t certain what it was.
Acquisitiveness, perhaps. Satisfaction. None of those words were right.
Bardolph cleared his throat.
“Yes?”
“As I was saying . . .”
Four
Two more days passed before Edie felt well enough to drag herself out of bed. Layla had finally insisted on a doctor’s visit; the man had simply confirmed what Edie’s common sense had already told her: She should remain in bed in the dark. She was not to play her cello.
“Has Father inquired how I am?” she asked on the morning she felt well enough to join her stepmother for breakfast in Layla’s chamber. Layla was wearing a robe that fell open in a cascade of silk ruffles. She looked as delectable as a peach tart.
“He has not,” Layla said, choosing another grape with all the seriousness of someone selecting a diamond ring. She must have started on another slimming regime.
Edie sat down opposite, picked up three pieces of cheese, and popped them in her mouth. “Beast,” she said, without much rancor. “His only child could have died of the influenza, and he wouldn’t have noticed my passing.”
“He would have noticed,” Layla said, inspecting the grapes once again. “He may not notice if I expired, but if he had no one to play the cello with, that would probably make an impression.”
“Just eat some!” Edie snatched up a handful and dropped them into Layla’s lap.
There was nothing that Edie could do for Layla’s marriage, but the whole situation did get her thinking after she found her way back to her room and into a hot bath.
She was betrothed to a duke whom she wouldn’t be able to pick out from a crowd. That fact didn’t actually bother her much.
It had been impressed upon her from the age of five that her thirty-thousand-pound dowry and her blue blood ensured that her marriage would be a matter of dynastic lines, a way to create children and to concentrate wealth. She had never conceived of marriage as more than a meeting of (hopefully) compatible minds.
However, she definitely wouldn’t want to live through the kind of drama that accompanied Layla and her father’s marriage. Hopefully, the man with the enchanting Scottish burr in his voice would be a reasonable fellow, with as little nonsense about him as there was about her.