Once Upon a Tower

by Eloisa James

Layla put down her glass, now empty, and tipped back her head. A husky, sensual moan poured from her lips. She slipped her hands into her hair and tossed her head back and forth. “Yes, yes, just like that, more, more!”

  The door opened and Willikins appeared behind Layla’s shoulder.

  “Ahhh, like that, mon cher, harder, harder! You . . . you are so . . . so . . .” She tossed her head again and her voice rose. “You make me mad. You make me delirious. I’m beside myself. I’m—I’m coming!”

  Willikins was frozen in place.

  Layla snapped upright, patted her hair back into place, and said, “Willikins, we should both like our glasses refilled.”

  “I can imagine that you’re thirsty,” Edie said, giggling madly.

  “That is the secret to a happy marriage.”

  Edie reserved judgment; it didn’t seem to be working for Layla. Willikins, meanwhile, began to pour champagne without visible signs of shock. He was worth every ha’penny her father paid him.

  Layla downed half the contents of her glass at one go.

  They were flute glasses, but still . . . Was it her third? “Time to leave,” Edie said, putting her own glass down. “Almack’s awaits.”

  “Almack’s,” Layla said, with just the tiniest slur to her voice, “is not a place where an adulterous woman can spy on her husband’s mistress. Did I tell you that I’ve decided to remake myself? I’m tired of being Layla. It’s such a tiresome name. Impossible to spell.”

  “Just be grateful you’re not named Edith. And you are not adulterous.”

  “I’m aging, which is worse.”

  “I don’t think the archbishop would agree with your estimation of relative evils.”

  “Prematurely aging,” Layla said, sighing. “That’s what happens to women like me. We sit around getting old, while the Winifreds of the world steal our husbands. If I had been called Joséphine, it would all be different. No man would cheat if he were married to a Joséphine.”

  “We really should call for the carriage.”

  “I believe I’ll start speaking French,” Layla said, ignoring the question of Almack’s while picking up Edie’s glass and disposing of her remaining champagne. “It will be good practice. I could move to France rather than retire to the country.”

  “C’est la vie,” Edie said. “That’s all I know, so our conversations will be short.”

  “Darling, everyone can speak French if they just apply themselves. Here’s a good phrase: Évacuez les lieux!”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Evacuate the area!” Layla cried, waving her arm. “You never know when you might need to scream that in a crowded place. My governess taught me all sorts of useful phrases. Êtes-vous enceinte? That turned out to be not so useful. No, I am not pregnant.” She reached out and rang the bell. “I need more champagne before we leave.”

  “We should go to Almack’s now,” Edie repeated. “Don’t they lock the doors and keep you out if you arrive even a moment too late?”

  “You know I could be pregnant by now if your father wasn’t so stubborn,” Layla said, continuing to ignore her. “You do know why rabbits have so many baby bunnies, don’t you?”

  Edie hauled her stepmother to her feet. Tipsy or not, Layla was delectable, like the prettiest cream pastry a man could hope to eat. The bodice of her sky-blue gown seemed to indicate there was a severe shortage of silkworms in the world, but Layla definitely had the bosom for such a frugal use of cloth. “That dress is absurdly flattering on you.”

  “I have to remember to hold in my stomach,” Layla said, heading for the door, Edie’s empty glass still clutched in one hand. “Oh, there you are, Willikins. Why don’t you pour me another glass, and I’ll drink it while I think about a cloak.”

  Edie took the glass from her and handed it to a footman. “Our carriage, please, Willikins. Almack’s awaits.”

  “As does the carriage, Lady Edith,” the butler replied, bowing. He turned to the footman and took Layla’s cloak in his hands. “My lady, if you will allow me.”

  “Those rabbits, the ones with baby bunnies, know what they’re about,” Layla said, as Willikins draped the cloak about her shoulders. “Besides, Edie, I’ve changed my mind. We’re not going to Almack’s. They don’t have any champagne there. We shall go to Lady Chuttle’s instead.”

  “Who is Lady Chuttle?”

  “A remote acquaintance. Ordinarily I would dismiss a ball of hers as a trifle vulgar, but that was before I received this.” She pulled a crumpled note from her reticule. “I sent a note to your father requesting that he accompany us to Almack’s. This is his reply.”

  Edie flattened it out. Only two lines long, his note expressed regret at being unable to attend them at Almack’s, as he had accepted a prior invitation. “How did you know that he plans to attend Lady Chuttle’s ball instead?”

  “I didn’t have to be told. I was quite aware that a man in his situation would visit that particular event, so I simply replied, informing him that we would meet him there.”

  “What if he has an entirely different appointment?”

  “Where else would he be going?” Layla demanded, with magnificent disregard for the presence of the butler and two footmen. “He’ll be escorting Winifred, no doubt. I might just mention rabbits to your father if I see him. Just drop the word into the conversation and see whether it gives him any ideas.”

  Edie glanced at the butler’s impassive face. “Right. Inform the coachman we’re going to Lady Chuttle’s, if you please, Willikins.”

  And so he did, and a minute later they were under way. Unfortunately, the lady’s house was but a fifteen-minute drive, which meant that Layla was only slightly less tipsy by the time they arrived. “I shall know instantly who she is,” she said chattily, as they descended from the carriage in front of a large town house.

  “Are you implying that there will be courtesans in attendance?” Edie asked, feeling rather more interested in the Chuttle ball than she had been in visiting Almack’s.

  “Undoubtedly,” Layla said. “That’s why your father will be here. As I was saying, I shall recognize Winifred. I know the sort Jonas favors. I’m sure she’s one of those women who rush up and tell you that no matter what they eat, they simply cannot gain weight. He told me once that I had a flat stomach, you know. That was back when I had a flat stomach.”

  “Layla,” Edie said. “I am bored by Winifred, and I haven’t even met her. Follow the nice groom and let’s get out of the chill.”

  “I am the daughter of a marquess!” Layla announced.

  “That’s right,” Edie said encouragingly. “Winifred probably sprang from a cabbage patch. And I bet she has to stuff her corset in order to achieve any curve in the front.”

  “I need not resort to such sorry tactics,” Layla said, tossing her cloak behind her shoulders, and thereby revealing her quite magnificent bosom.

  “Winifred would have to put a cabbage down her corset in order to look anything like you,” Edie said. “Two cabbages, one for each side.”

  Layla nodded sharply and swept into the house.

  As far as Edie could see, there was nothing about the entryway that signaled the possible presence of courtesans. The butler bowed, precisely as butlers did, handed their cloaks to footmen lounging by the wall, then led them down a hallway to the ballroom, where he announced them.

  “Oh, look,” Layla cried with delight, plunging down the stairs and knocking the butler to the side as she did so. “There’s Betsy!”

  “Who is Betsy?” Edie asked, trotting down the steps, braced to catch Layla if she stumbled.

  “A dear friend of my mother’s. Lady Runcible, she must be now. I believe she was widowed last summer, the poor woman. That would have been her third—no, her fourth husband.”

  “Quite a tragedy. Or perhaps triumph is a better word.”

  Layla dove into the crowd, towing Edie behind her. “It’s not her fault. They just drop off after a year or two. But she’s managed to
keep her hair yellow through all of it, and you have to admit . . . that is a true triumph.”

  A second later she plunged into conversation with a woman whose hair did, indeed, have a touch of the victorious about it: time had apparently stood still for Lady Runcible. Edie smiled politely and glanced about for her father. She was certain that he wouldn’t be able to resist following Layla to the ball.

  She heard a deep voice, and someone touched her elbow. She turned to find Lord Beckwith standing beside her. “Lady Edith.” He glanced at her gown—pale pink but without any trim to disguise her bosom—and his face came alive with admiration. “What a pleasure to meet you here.”

  Edie curtsied. “Lord Beckwith, I am very glad to see you.”

  “Au contraire,” Layla was saying nearby. “I have been out of society far too long. I have decided to turn over a new leaf. J’arrive, ma chère, j’arrive!”

  Lord Beckwith bowed, took Edie’s hand and kissed it, then didn’t release it when he ought. “I hope this is not inappropriate, but I know I express the feelings of many gentlemen when I say how much I regret your expeditious betrothal.”

  “Lady Edith won’t marry for months,” Layla said, nipping about suddenly and joining the conversation.

  Beckwith bowed again. “Lady Gilchrist. It is a true pleasure to see you.”

  “My dears, shall we find some refreshment?” Layla asked. “I must admit that after that tiring coach ride, I would welcome something restorative to drink.” Moments later, they were seated at a small table, champagne and small plates of bonnes bouches before them.

  “Eat,” Edie said to Layla, pushing a plate of little cakes closer to her. “You’ll have a terrible head in the morning.”

  “Au contraire,” Layla said in a silvery voice. “I’ve always been able to handle my champagne. I believe I was born with bubbles in my blood.”

  Widow Runcible had towed two men along with her; candidates, Edie presumed, for the hazardous role of her fifth husband. Layla began flirting madly with one of them, Lord Grell. Edie sighed and turned back to Beckwith. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my father this evening?”

  “Yes, he is here, Lady Edith. I gather you arrived separately?”

  Layla must have heard; she stiffened and leaned even closer to her prey.

  “Lady Edith, may I have the honor of this dance?” Beckwith asked.

  She was about to say yes, when she saw her father stalking toward them. “Father!” she cried, popping up and curtsying. “There you are!”

  Layla took a deep breath, picked up her glass so forcefully that Edie was surprised it didn’t shatter, and drained it.

  “Daughter,” her father said, coming to a halt. “Lady Gilchrist. Lady Runcible. Lord Beckwith. Lord Grell.”

  The second of Lady Runcible’s followers had melted away before he could be greeted; the arrival of an incandescently angry man could do that to a conversation. Her father looked like a barbarian dressed in evening wear: though his jacket was plum velvet and his neck cloth immaculately tied, there was more than a hint of madness about his eyes.

  Edie followed his gaze and saw that Layla was leaning close to Lord Grell, who was such a fool that he didn’t have the sense to look alarmed.

  Even after a lifetime of skirmishing with her father, Edie felt apprehension at the look on his face now. Lord Beckwith gave her an apologetic smile and sidled off into the crowd.

  “Goodness me, there’s my husband,” Layla cried, pretending to see the earl for the first time. She bent sideways, as if she was about to fall off her chair, though Edie knew she was craning to see if Winifred stood anywhere nearby.

  The earl was alight with fury; Edie truly doubted that there was a Winifred.

  Lady Runcible now stood up as well and towed Lord Grell away with her, quite likely saving his life.

  Edie expected her father to drag Layla to her feet and call for their carriage, but instead he dropped into the chair Beckwith had occupied until a minute earlier. Edie took her seat again as well, and for some moments the three of them sat in tense silence around the small table.

  At last, Edie broke the silence. “Should I leave the two of you alone? I could stroll around the room or dance with Lord Beckwith.”

  “Why should you?” Layla said. “It’s not as if we will have a meaningful conversation in your absence. His Lordship is likely going to accuse me of doing something unsavory with that poor man who was here a moment ago. As if I would have a chance, now that Betsy has decided to marry him.”

  “I had no such—”

  Layla interrupted her husband. “Where is Winifred?” She looked up and caught the eye of a footman.

  “Who is Winifred?” the earl asked with a frown.

  Layla was busy explaining to the footman that she’d like four glasses of champagne, of which two were for her, so Edie undertook to answer. “Your mistress, Father.”

  “How dare you say such an impertinent thing to me? Who has been telling your stepmother lies? I don’t even know a Winifred!”

  “Oh?” Layla said, snapping back into the conversation. “Thin, very thin, with a corset stuffed with vegetables, too lightweight to sink: you know the type. You could throw her in the Serpentine and she would just bob to the surface, muttering about how much she envies women who are able to put on weight.”

  The earl was clearly lost.

  “Don’t try,” Edie advised him. The footman arrived with the champagne, and she safeguarded hers before Layla could snatch it.

  “Winifred,” Layla said, a bit sadly, “is the woman who stole you away from me, Jonas. I used to please you, you know. We weren’t exactly like rabbits, but c’est la vie.” She shrugged and, with one gulp, drank half a glass of champagne.

  “How long has she been like this?” The look on Edie’s father’s face was edging from half to three-quarters barbarian.

  “Oh, about two years,” Edie said, considering. “In the stages of marital harmony, I’d say the two of you are at about stage eight of ten—ten being the slough of utter despond.”

  “You have no right to speak to me this way, daughter!” he snapped.

  Edie looked away from the mix of anger and anguish in her father’s eyes . . . to see Gowan standing behind the earl.

  Fifteen

  The Duke of Kinross was magnificently dressed in a coat of darkest blue velvet with silver buttons. He fell back a step, moving into a bow that would have graced a prince. “Lady Edith.” He straightened. “Lady and Lord Gilchrist.” He bowed again.

  Edie rose, well aware that she was smiling like a loon. “Your Grace, I gather you concluded your business in Brighton sooner than you thought possible.”

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I whipped the bankers into a lather. They were glad to see the back of me.”

  “I am glad to see the front of you.”

  His smile was response enough.

  “Good evening,” Layla cried, her voice sounding more musical now that it had a faint slur. “You’ve returned just in time, Your Grace. I do believe that Lord Gilchrist is thinking of nullifying your betrothal. He’s rather fickle these days.”

  It was astonishing to see how Gowan suddenly radiated pure menace, without even shifting a muscle. “I trust Lady Gilchrist is mistaken,” he said, turning to the earl.

  Edie’s father had risen. “My wife exaggerates. As I explained to you, Your Grace, I have doubts about your marital happiness, but such worries are no grounds for breaking a contract.”

  “Taking a more optimistic view of our future, I have brought with me a special license,” Gowan said, taking Edie’s hand and drawing it into his arm. “My lord the Archbishop of Canterbury was very amiable about the matter.”

  “Marry in haste?” the earl said, scowling. “Cast a shadow on my daughter’s reputation?”

  Gowan looked down at Edie. “Being a Scot, I don’t understand the intricacies of English polite society. Would it be so terrible?”

  “Yes, it would,” Edi
e replied. “We’d be pariahs for a time, though not as much as if we fled to Scotland and married in Gretna Green.”

  The smile in his eyes told her all she needed to know.

  So she answered his unspoken question: “I am not afraid of scandal.”

  Layla came to her feet with a slight wobble. “It will be no more than a seven-day wonder. Dukes will be dukes. What a charming notion!” She swiveled. “Betsy, ma chère, where have you gone? My darling stepdaughter is to be married tomorrow morning. The tide of true love is sweeping her into the arms of a duke!”

  Lady Runcible jumped up from a nearby table, looking as curious as is possible for a woman whose face paint would crack under the influence of a truly powerful emotion. “How charming,” she cried. “I saw the announcement in the Morning Post, but I had no idea that the event itself would be so speedily effected.”

  “True love cannot be denied,” Layla said. “You know that yourself, Betsy, given your sad experiences. Life is fleeting and one should gather rosebuds—or is it rainbows? At any rate, one should get on the stick before it’s too late.”

  “His Grace has many important affairs to attend to in Scotland,” the earl said with chilly precision. “Therefore, he has requested an immediate wedding date.”

  “Exactly,” Gowan said, smiling at Lady Runcible. “I cannot wait to bring my beautiful bride to my castle at Craigievar.” He drew Edie a little closer to him.

  “I am sure that I speak for all when I wish the two of you a most happy life together,” Lady Runcible pronounced.

  “Love sweeps away all barriers,” Layla put in, sounding a bit ragged. She sat down again.

  Lady Runcible gave them a toothy smile and trotted off, undoubtedly to inform everyone of the scandalous haste with which the Duke of Kinross was to marry the daughter of the Earl of Gilchrist.

  “If I am to marry on the morrow,” Edie said, astonished at how calmly she said the words, “I believe I would like to go home now.”

  “You are not marrying on the morrow,” her father said grimly. “Even if I acquiesce to this notion of a special license, the ceremony will take place in a measured and prudent fashion.”