Once Upon a Tower by Eloisa James

into the textile factory in West Riding last night, so we’ll discuss. When we reach Cambridge, the three of you can return to London. Sandleford can return to the Royal Exchange, but first I’d like to hear his opinion about acquiring shares in that glass lighting utility in Birmingham.”
    “A full complement of grooms,” Bardolph said to himself, making a note. “Three carriages rather than four, I would think. The sheets and china must go with you for the journey, though not, obviously, for use in Fensmore.”
    Gowan stood up. “I’m going for a ride.”
    Bardolph summoned up one of his ready frowns. “We have yet fourteen letters to review, Your Grace.”
    Gowan did not care for dissension; he strode from the room without answering. Perhaps the Scot in him had taken over. He felt stronger and more alive than ever before, and his mind raced with tender words and wild images. He wanted to take his wife into the woods and lay her on a white cloth in a field of violets. He wanted to hear her voice in the open air, the cry of a pleasured woman, like that of a bird. He wanted . . .
    He didn’t want to be sane any longer, or to sit in that airless room reading fourteen more letters before he affirmed each with his long and tedious signature.
    He told himself in vain that Edith was a humorless dormouse. Frankly, humor did not come into many of the plans he had regarding her. Images blossomed in his heart like roses, each one in feverish counterpoint to the solemn intelligence of her letter.
    He wanted to shower her with gifts, yet nothing he could conjure up seemed good enough. If he had the heavens embroidered on a cloth, wrought with gold and silver light, he would lay it at her feet . . .
    Nay, he would lay her on top of it, as tenderly as if she were Helen of Troy, and then he would make slow love to her.
    He had lost his mind.
    His imagination bloomed with metaphors describing a woman whom he’d seen for scarcely an hour. Later, that night, he woke from a dream in which Edith raised her arms to him, the liquid gold of her hair tumbling almost to her waist.
    “Ah, darling,” he had been telling her, “I am looped in the loops of your hair.” Had he said that aloud? He would never do something so imbecilic.
    He really had lost his mind.
    He knew why, too. Obviously, he had kept himself away from women too long, and now he was deranged as a result. Abstinence wasn’t advisable for a man. It had enfeebled his brain. What’s more, although he’d never before thought twice about performance, he suddenly had an image of himself fumbling about in the act, not knowing what he was doing, being foolish.
    Damn.
    Then the letter arrived.
    Your Grace,
    I was happy to read your response to my query about extra-matrimonial cavorting. It is gratifying to know that although Nature pricked thee out for woman’s pleasure, you intend to reserve some sixty years’ worth of said activity for myself.
    Gowan read that paragraph three times and then broke into a crack of laughter. She’d picked up his Shakespeare reference and tossed another back at him.
    I write with the worry that you have formed a false impression of me. I smiled a great deal on the night of my debut ball . . . because I was so ill that night that I could not bring myself to speak.
    I mentioned this concern to my stepmother, Lady Gilchrist, who is firmly of the belief that it is inadvisable for a couple to learn of each other’s character before marriage. But as she is not on speaking terms with my father, I consider her a less than reliable source of advice about marital happiness.
    If Gilchrist hadn’t been able to ascertain his wife’s disposition by a quick glance at her, Gowan didn’t think that all the time in the world would have helped them to a greater understanding of each other’s characters. He was sorry to hear that Edith had been ill, though.
    I also write to assure you that I am not mad, although my claim is of dubious value because