Once Upon a Tower Read Free

gentlemen’s club.
    Men were everywhere, posies and bouquets by their side, laughing amongst themselves. Incredibly, a discreet game of piquet was going on in one corner. He recognized only the half of them. Beckwith was there, decked out in an orange coat with garish buttons. Lord Pimrose-Finsbury was there as well. Pimrose-Finsbury held only a life title, but he owned a good share of Marylebone. He clutched a delicate little violet nosegay.
    Gowan felt a prick of chagrin; it hadn’t occurred to him to send someone to Covent Garden to procure roses or something of that nature.
    “If you would join the morning callers, Your Grace,” the butler said, “I will serve refreshments very shortly.”
    Instead, Gowan turned on his heel and strode back to the entry.
    “Would Your Grace prefer to leave a card?” the butler asked, following him.
    “I would prefer to speak to Lord Gilchrist. When did Lady Edith debut?” he asked bluntly.
    The butler’s eyebrow twitched, but he controlled himself. “Last night,” he said. “Last night was her first appearance in society.”
    Gowan wasn’t the only man who had taken one look at Edith and pictured her by his side.
    But he now knew precisely why Gilchrist had asked him to attend his ball: the invitation had included the gift of his daughter’s hand. There would be no further competition if he chose to take up the earl’s silent offer.
    “I should like to speak to His Lordship, if he is free.” He did not ask. Gowan never asked; he stated. It made no difference, because he always got what he wanted. And there was something undignified about asking .
    Dukes, in his opinion, did not ask.
    They stated.
    He had a feeling that there would be no asking with regard to Lady Edith’s hand, either.

Two
    I t was a fever that had turned Lady Edith Gilchrist into the greatest success of the season, winning her the hand (and presumably, the heart) of the Duke of Kinross. If Edie hadn’t been dreadfully ill at her own debut ball, she might well have been less popular. But as her head felt like an empty gourd, all she did was drift about the ballroom and smile. And smile.
    That turned out to be a formula for extraordinary success.
    By halfway through the evening, she’d danced with every eligible bachelor on the market, and twice with the Duke of Kinross, Lord Beckwith, and Lord Mendelson. Her stepmother, Layla, caught her arm at one point and said that Lady Jersey had declared her the most enchanting debutante of the season. Apparently, the queen of Almack’s patronesses would overlook the fact that at nineteen, Edie was unfashionably old.
    Edie had just smiled. She was trying to maintain her balance.
    By the time she appeared in her father’s library late the next morning, her cheeks as white as her gown, the negotiations surrounding her marital future had already been concluded.
    She kept her eyes lowered (to hide the fact they were bloodshot), smiled when spoken to, and said only: “Of course, Father.” And: “I would be honored to marry you, Your Grace.”
    “The truth is, Edie,” Layla declared five minutes after Kinross had departed and she’d brought Edie back to her bedchamber, “your fever was sent by a fairy godmother whom your father forgot to mention. Who would have thought you’d catch a duke?”
    This particular duke was Scottish, which was a mark against him—but according to Layla, the fact that Kinross owned the grandest estate in all Scotland made him an honorary Englishman and the most desirable man on the marriage market.
    Edie just moaned and fell face down onto her bed. Her head was throbbing, she felt faint, and frankly, she wasn’t even quite sure what her fiancé looked like. He had lovely voice, but he was too tall, she thought. Big. At least he didn’t have red hair. She didn’t like red-haired men. “That’s not very kind,” she said into her pillow.
    “You know what I mean. You looked so lovely and pale. The way Mary wove pearls into all