by Eloisa James
His laughter rumbled through the room and as if by a signal, the people around them turned away, judging that the drama had come to an end.
“You didn’t know that my hair is red, and I had no idea that you are a musician.”
“I play the cello,” she said lamely.
“Which instrument is that?” he said, his forehead creasing in a frown.
“What? Which instrument? You don’t know?”
His eyes searched hers, and then his laughter enfolded her again. “I suspect that you have a great deal to teach me, Lady Edie.”
Edie frowned at him. “Are you jesting, or do you truly not know what a cello is?”
“I know very little about music in general. My grandmother did not approve of frivolities, and I’m afraid that she put music into that category.”
“Music is not a frivolity!”
“She found it unnecessary to daily life in the way that shelter and meat are.”
Edie debated whether to inform her future husband just how far ahead of bread music came for her. It didn’t seem like a point she had to make at the moment. He had great composure, this duke of hers. She saw flashes of deep emotion in his eyes, but at the same time, he was so ducal.
And male.
And in that moment, she realized that she didn’t really care what he thought of music. She was more interested in what he thought of the claret dress. Some female part of her purred with satisfaction at the way he still held her hand.
He smiled down at her, his gaze so potent that her heart sped up once again. “I believe that it is time to repair to the dining room.” He drew her hand into the crook of his arm. She hadn’t even heard the butler announce the meal, but the other guests were arranging themselves to proceed to dinner.
Kinross looked at her with all the fierce interest of a musician with a new sheet of music, a score never played. And she felt the same.
It was very strange.
The smile that curled her lips came from her heart. The duke—Kinross—was the epitome of imperturbability, and yet, for a moment, she had caught sight of a flash of vulnerability in his eyes.
She was not alone in this whirlpool fever of desire and curiosity.
They moved toward the other guests, who were forming themselves into a procession, according to the customary rules of rank. Her father and Layla had taken their places toward the front; Kinross, as duke, moved ahead of them. They ended up just behind the bride and groom, Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith and the Earl of Chatteris.
Kinross leaned close; his breath was warm on her ear. “Are you as musical as the bride and her relatives?”
Laughter bubbled out of Edie’s mouth. “No!”
The touch of his arm sent a shock down her body. “Better or worse?”
That made her laugh even more. “What if I were to say worse?” She looked up at him from under her lashes, enjoying the flirtation.
A slow smile grew in his eyes. “Could I bribe you not to play?”
“Never. Playing the cello is the thing I love most in the world.” She added, “You might as well know that it’s the only thing I do truly well.”
“You dance very well.”
“That’s part of being a musician. I was terribly ill the night we met; did you guess?”
He shook his head. “I had no idea until you wrote me about it.”
“I had a high fever. I felt as if I were floating from place to place.”
“I think dancers are sometimes described as levitating.” His eyes crinkled with laughter. “I did think that you were marvelously graceful.”
“I was afraid I might topple over,” she confessed. And then: “I think the only part of the evening I truly enjoyed was our waltz. You waltz very well.”
“As do you, my lady.”
He was manifestly a duke. It showed in every lineament of his countenance, the unconscious grace of his every movement, in his air of authority. But at the same time . . . there was something else about Kinross as well. She cocked her head, trying to work out what it was, but the doors to the dining room were pulled open and the line began moving forward.
The meal passed in a tumble of conversation—with an older gentleman to her left, with Kinross to her right, then back to the man on her left.
When they weren’t speaking, Edie kept stealing glances at her fiancé. He appeared dispassionate, as if one could never read his feelings in his face. Yet she thought she’d glimpsed a vulnerability. It made her wild to talk at great length, and see if she could tease it out again.
Kinross’s face was harsh in repose. But when his eyes met hers, the ferocity in them disappeared. She didn’t know what was there, but it felt untamed and new. No one had ever looked at her that way.
Of course, he was not truly looking at plain Edie, who played the cello. He was seeing Edie dressed up as Layla.
The duke moved his leg, and his thigh brushed up against hers and remained there. It had to be accidental; a gentleman would never do such a thing. He glanced at her, his eyes wickedly suggestive, and turned back to his conversation. It wasn’t an accident.
Every inch of her skin instantly awoke. Improper though it was, Edie loved it. She’d never felt this sort of racing desire—or, if she were truthful, any desire, other than for a cello made by Stradivarius. She reached for her wineglass, discovering that her fingers were trembling. She could feel heat rising in her cheeks.
Finally, he moved his leg, turned back to her, and said, “Have you ever read Romeo and Juliet?”
Edie shook her head. She had given it a try after receiving his letter, but she had been unable to make head or tail of the play. It was her own fault, because she’d always disobeyed her governess and avoided her lessons. She hadn’t had time for reading. All she had ever wanted to do was play the cello. It had made her a bit of a dunce.
Something hungry in his eyes made her shift in her chair. “I’m not very well read,” she confessed. “I gather that you are my opposite in that respect.”
“My grandmother, who raised me, disparaged reading for pleasure, but considered Shakespeare to be an exception. Generally speaking, my tutors were busy teaching me double-sided accounting and animal husbandry, and I was unable to go to university. So, believe me, I am far less learned than you might think.”
She laughed. “That’s impossible. I know almost everything about the cello, and almost nothing about anything else.”
“I know quite a lot about being a duke and a landowner, and next to nothing about music or literature. But I do remember this: when Romeo first saw Juliet at the ball, he described her as so beautiful that she taught the torches to burn bright.”
“You can’t have thought that of me. I was dreadfully ill.”
“You were something of a torch, from what I remember. I thought your touch was burning me.” She couldn’t imagine him allowing many people to hear that thread of sharp wit.
Edie was starting to feel slightly unbalanced. His eyelashes were so beautiful: thick and straight. And his eyes fascinated her. One moment they were all ducal arrogance, the next a brazen rake was looking at her with such lust and desire that it sent flames down her legs. And then there was that elusive touch of humor, a private wit that made her want to laugh with startled pleasure.
“What does Juliet think of Romeo on first seeing him?” she asked, pulling herself together. “Does she think he’s burning like a torch as well?”
“Oh, she likes him well enough,” Kinross said. “She probably didn’t find the moment as shocking as he did.”
“Why not?” Edie asked. “What did Romeo feel?”
“The man is utterly changed forever,” Kinross said. “He arrives at the ball in love with another lady—”
Edie’s brows drew together. “He is?”
“He was, but I was not,” the duke said bluntly.
Edie couldn’t stop herself from smiling, even as she realized that she had never smiled in quite this way before. It was a Layla smile.
“Romeo believes himself in love, but then he sees Juliet.”
“She burns with a torchlike fever, so he forgets about his previous love?” Edie asked, laughing.
“Something like that.” A twist of husky laughter sounded in his voice, too. She already knew that he didn’t laugh much. Life was serious for the duke; she knew it instinctively. He was as driven as she was, though she wasn’t entirely sure in what direction.
“He falls prey to lust. He risks kissing her, behind a pillar, when that kiss might mean his death.”
“That seems extreme,” Edie remarked. She couldn’t stop looking at him, at his eyes, his cheekbones, his nose, his jaw. She was quite aware that if anyone had fallen prey to lust, it was she. But somehow she wasn’t even embarrassed.
“He throws everything away for the chance to kiss her hand.”
“He would have been killed merely for kissing Juliet’s hand?”
“Their families were enemies. But he doesn’t stop with her hand.” A glow in the duke’s eyes lit an answering fire in Edie’s belly.
“He whisks her behind a pillar and kisses her on her lips.”
Edie swallowed.
“And then kisses her again.”
“Very . . .” Edie couldn’t think of a word.
“He would keep kissing her all evening, but she is called away. He doesn’t even know who she is. But he knows that she is his.” The duke’s eyes were hot and possessive. “So later that night, Romeo leaps the walls of the orchard around her house and risks death again to find her balcony window.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about the balcony,” Edie said, making herself break the spell of his voice. At this rate, she’d find herself begging him to kiss her in front of the whole table. “Juliet asks him to marry her.”
The duke shook his head. Under the table, his fingers curled around hers.
She jumped, and another wave of hot blood rose in her cheeks.
“No,” Kinross said, as if he weren’t doing anything so boldly scandalous, “that’s putting the emphasis in the wrong place. Everyone assumes that Juliet was a brazen minx because she asked if he planned to marry her. But the two of them knew the truth.”
His thumb was rubbing over her palm. Edie discovered she was trembling a little. “She knew, and he knew,” the duke said, his voice low and sure. “Romeo leapt that wall because he wanted to kiss Juliet more than he wanted to live. He climbed her balcony; he offered his vows. Marriage is nothing more than a formality in that situation.”
Edie could hear Layla’s laughter and the click of tableware. She should have read the damned play. She should have spent hours reading Shakespeare. The duke was making literature sound a good deal more interesting than her governess had ever done.
“Without Juliet, life was not worth living,” the duke continued. “So when he believed she was dead, he killed himself.”
“His reaction was rather extreme,” she managed. Surely someone would notice that her fiancé was holding her hand. Down the table, Layla was flirting madly with a man who wasn’t Edie’s father.
“Indeed, I used to think Romeo might have been a bit mad.”
A shiver went straight down Edie’s spine. The duke looked . . . He looked as if he had decided that Romeo was entirely sane. Mind you, he didn’t look entirely sane. He looked ravenous.
“Stop that,” she whispered. “You mustn’t act like this.” She pulled her hand away.
He smiled at her, a kind of happily mad look. “I’m a Scot.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“There are those who say that Romeo had Scottish blood.”
“Wasn’t he Italian? He sounds like a hot-blooded Italian to me.”
Kinross’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you know of hot-blooded Italians?”
“Nothing,” Edie said, surprised. “Why?”
“Italians are a jealous people.” He picked up his glass and took a drink of red wine.
“So I’ve heard,” Edie said, sipping from her own glass.
His eyes had a glint of ice. “Italians are nothing compared to Scotsmen.”
Edie glanced around them again. Conversations swirled around the table, and still no one had noticed that she and the duke were breaking the rules of polite dinner conversation by remaining absorbed in each other. Not to mention the fact he had just snatched her hand again and was caressing it with his thumb.
She managed to drag her mind away from the whispering touch of his fingers. “Let’s drop literature for a moment, and try for rational conversation. Are you informing me that you intend to be one of those husbands who routinely accuses his wife of unfaithfulness?”
“No.” He gave her a wry smile. “I’m talking bilge, aren’t I?”
“Perhaps a bit,” Edie acknowledged.
“We Scots are pigheaded fools,” he admitted, altogether too cheerfully to her mind.
She nodded toward Layla, who was bending toward her dinner companion, her bosom brushing his sleeve. “I am not amused by that sort of accusation. For obvious reasons.”
Kinross’s eyes followed hers. “In my estimation, your stepmother is unlikely to be unfaithful. I would guess that she is engaging in that flamboyant display in an ill-judged effort to gain her husband’s attention.”
Edie felt a surge of something like joy. He was not only rational, but intuitive. She found herself grinning at him. “Exactly.”
“Just because I may experience jealousy does not mean that I intend to act on it.”
“Ah.” She couldn’t stop smiling. But they had to be clear about this, because she refused to spend her life with a man who glowered at her every time she chatted with a neighbor. She dropped her voice again, even though no one was paying attention. “I shall never be unfaithful to my husband . . . to you.”
She had never realized that a man’s eyes could glow like a banked fire. “Nor shall I to you.”
“So if a hot-blooded Italian shows up at your castle—do you really have a castle, by the way?”
“Yes.”
“And if that Italian decides he would like to flutter his eyelashes at me throughout the meal—”
“I might boot him into the next county,” the duke said flatly.
Edie studied him closely. “Are you like this as a matter of course? Because I was under the impression that you ran a large estate. I can’t imagine how you could do so if you have a penchant for violence.”
“Five estates, as a matter of fact. I am justice of the peace in two counties. I would say that I am known for rational thought, prudence, and careful consideration of all sides of a question.”
Edie raised an eyebrow.
He leaned closer, and his hand gripped hers a bit tighter. “I expect it’s only because I don’t have you yet. Not to harp on Shakespeare, but Juliet does say that she has bought the mansion of a love, but not yet possessed it.” His voice dropped, too, and Edie had that peculiar feeling again, as if she were drowning in his eyes.
Then his words sank in. “Did you just imply that you bought me?” And: “Ow,” she said, shaking free of his hand. “Your grip is very strong.”
“I did not imply that I paid for you, but quite the opposite: Juliet says that she has purchased Romeo.”
“So I bought you?” Edie quite liked that notion.
“But you have not yet taken possession.” His voice was throaty and deep, the sound of a man who was taking pleasure in the reversal of their roles, who had utter confidence in his own masculinity. The erotic heat of his voice slipped into her blood like an intoxicating drink.
“I like Juliet. Do you know, I have always wanted to own a puppy, but I suppose a man will do just as well.” She laughed. “My room here at Fensmore even has a balcony.”
The look in his eyes when she said that made her color again. “I wasn’t saying it for that reason!”
“The question of being owned works both ways. Juliet also says that she is sold, but not yet enjoyed.”
“I had no i
dea Shakespeare plays were so . . .”
“So what?” The duke took another drink of wine. Somehow he managed to look calm, even serene, although he was caressing her wrist.
“Sensual,” she said, clearing her throat.
“Yes, well,” he said, his smile widening. “In the right circumstances, Lady Edith, anything is erotic.”
Edie started wondering how many lovers he’d had. He had probably whispered love verses into the ears of Scottish lasses from the time he was sixteen. She almost opened her mouth to ask, and then realized that there were some questions better left unanswered.
It gave her a bit of a qualm. No one had ever bothered to write her a verse. She was a naïve dunce when it came to this sort of thing.
“You’ve told me you prefer to be called Edie,” he said.
She nodded.
“I would be honored if you would address me as Gowan.”
Edie nodded again, and then caught a glimpse of the young lady seated across from her. She was staring at the two of them with stark envy, and when Edie met her eye, she whispered, “You’re so lucky.”
Edie smiled her thanks, and looked sideways at Gowan again. He had, finally, turned to talk to the lady on his right side.
His skin gleamed like honey in the candlelight. His hair tumbled behind his ear, the touch of red matching the dark cherry of his lips. He looked as if he came from a long line of warriors that had bred true.
Edie was starting to feel peculiar. Things like this didn’t happen to her. She spent her days playing an indecorous musical instrument and squabbling with her father. Yes, she was pretty, but not particularly sensual. She never thought a man like this, a man who simmered with erotic confidence, would look to her, because she wasn’t one of those girls who flirted and threw seductive glances. She didn’t even really know how.
Could it be that the duke greeted every woman—or at least, those he was determined to seduce—with this sort of intensely seductive poetry? How many women had found themselves compared to Juliet?
She waited until he finished his conversation; she herself was shamefully neglecting the man to her left. “I don’t look like this most of the time,” she told him.
