I would likely insist upon my sanity regardless. We shall have to leave the question of my judgment or lack thereof to our next meeting, at the Chatteris wedding. You shall find me sane, but, alas, not as winsomely silent as I was during our dances.
The words were so lively that Gowan could hear a woman saying them, except he couldn’t remember what Edith’s voice sounded like. He was burning to meet her when she wasn’t ill.
For a moment the serene angel with whom he had danced wavered in his imagination, but he pushed her away. He had much rather be married to a woman who considered him pricked out for her pleasure. A thousand times better than being married to a placable dormouse, no matter how peaceful.
I should also confess to finding Edith a name without music. I prefer Edie to Edith.
With all best wishes from your future wife, who has good reason to pray for your continued health . . . given my expectations of sixty-five (seventy!) years of marital bliss,
Edie
Eight
Fensmore
Home of the Earl of Chatteris
Cambridgeshire
E die was aware that she wasn’t acting in a normal fashion. She was accustomed to feeling strong emotion only in response to a musical score or a battle with her father. She prided herself on maintaining tight control over her sensibilities.
But now, with less than an hour remaining before she was due to join the Earl of Chatteris, his fiancée, and their guests in the drawing room before dinner, she was overwrought, for lack of a better word. She felt as if she were about to burst out of her skin, too edgy to settle down.
She found herself pacing the floor of her guest chamber, rejecting out of hand every gown Mary offered her. Edie was not the sort of woman who spent time worrying about her attire. But that did not mean she was ignorant the power of clothing to wreak havoc on the minds of men.
She hadn’t paid much attention yesterday when Mary had packed her trunk for a few days at Fensmore and the Earl of Chatteris’s wedding; her attention had been fixed on the Boccherini score. But now that she was here, and Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith (soon to be the Countess of Chatteris) had just informed her that the Duke of Kinross was already in residence, she felt vastly different about what she would wear.
The duke would be at the evening meal, and she would see him for the first time since his proposal. The very idea made her feel feverish all over again.
Any woman in her right mind would dislike the idea of meeting her fiancé garbed as a vestal virgin missing only a lamp—and obviously a white dress with a modest ruffle at the hem confirmed that particular illusion.
After their exchange of letters, she was fairly certain that Kinross wanted to marry someone boldly sensual. Someone who could bandy about words like prick , words that Edie barely understood. She wanted more than anything to look into his eyes and see desire. Lust, even. If he looked at her and his prick wasn’t on the dial of noon, to put it in a lyrical but earthy fashion, she would be humiliated.
She wanted to dazzle him.
The stupid thing was that she wasn’t even certain she would recognize him. She was betrothed to a tall man with a Scottish burr, but she couldn’t recall his face at all.
Still, his letter— that letter—had given her just enough that she had decided he had a pair of laughing eyes. Not dissolute eyes or a rakish expression. But desirous.
Only after Mary had offered every single gown she’d packed, and Edie had rejected each and every one as unbearably lackluster, did she give in to the inevitable and send her maid to find Layla.
“May I wear one of your gowns instead of mine?” Edie asked, when Layla appeared in the doorway. “I loathe my frocks. They make me look like an insipid fool.”
“You know perfectly well that a young unmarried lady should wear only pale fabrics.” Layla strolled across the room and pushed open the window.
“No smoking!” Edie ordered, pointing at a
The words were so lively that Gowan could hear a woman saying them, except he couldn’t remember what Edith’s voice sounded like. He was burning to meet her when she wasn’t ill.
For a moment the serene angel with whom he had danced wavered in his imagination, but he pushed her away. He had much rather be married to a woman who considered him pricked out for her pleasure. A thousand times better than being married to a placable dormouse, no matter how peaceful.
I should also confess to finding Edith a name without music. I prefer Edie to Edith.
With all best wishes from your future wife, who has good reason to pray for your continued health . . . given my expectations of sixty-five (seventy!) years of marital bliss,
Edie
Eight
Fensmore
Home of the Earl of Chatteris
Cambridgeshire
E die was aware that she wasn’t acting in a normal fashion. She was accustomed to feeling strong emotion only in response to a musical score or a battle with her father. She prided herself on maintaining tight control over her sensibilities.
But now, with less than an hour remaining before she was due to join the Earl of Chatteris, his fiancée, and their guests in the drawing room before dinner, she was overwrought, for lack of a better word. She felt as if she were about to burst out of her skin, too edgy to settle down.
She found herself pacing the floor of her guest chamber, rejecting out of hand every gown Mary offered her. Edie was not the sort of woman who spent time worrying about her attire. But that did not mean she was ignorant the power of clothing to wreak havoc on the minds of men.
She hadn’t paid much attention yesterday when Mary had packed her trunk for a few days at Fensmore and the Earl of Chatteris’s wedding; her attention had been fixed on the Boccherini score. But now that she was here, and Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith (soon to be the Countess of Chatteris) had just informed her that the Duke of Kinross was already in residence, she felt vastly different about what she would wear.
The duke would be at the evening meal, and she would see him for the first time since his proposal. The very idea made her feel feverish all over again.
Any woman in her right mind would dislike the idea of meeting her fiancé garbed as a vestal virgin missing only a lamp—and obviously a white dress with a modest ruffle at the hem confirmed that particular illusion.
After their exchange of letters, she was fairly certain that Kinross wanted to marry someone boldly sensual. Someone who could bandy about words like prick , words that Edie barely understood. She wanted more than anything to look into his eyes and see desire. Lust, even. If he looked at her and his prick wasn’t on the dial of noon, to put it in a lyrical but earthy fashion, she would be humiliated.
She wanted to dazzle him.
The stupid thing was that she wasn’t even certain she would recognize him. She was betrothed to a tall man with a Scottish burr, but she couldn’t recall his face at all.
Still, his letter— that letter—had given her just enough that she had decided he had a pair of laughing eyes. Not dissolute eyes or a rakish expression. But desirous.
Only after Mary had offered every single gown she’d packed, and Edie had rejected each and every one as unbearably lackluster, did she give in to the inevitable and send her maid to find Layla.
“May I wear one of your gowns instead of mine?” Edie asked, when Layla appeared in the doorway. “I loathe my frocks. They make me look like an insipid fool.”
“You know perfectly well that a young unmarried lady should wear only pale fabrics.” Layla strolled across the room and pushed open the window.
“No smoking!” Edie ordered, pointing at a
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