“Of course,” Edie cried. “If there’s a house on the island, we would love to have you join us.”

She felt a bit peculiar about all those estates. It seemed she was marrying a potentate. It wasn’t that she was displeased to find that her husband was wealthy, but she wasn’t overjoyed, either. She’d seen her father run ragged by the responsibilities inherent in managing his estate and various houses.

Without those responsibilities, the earl could have been one of the world’s most renowned musicians. She felt a prickling of sorrow for him at the thought. She’d grown up knowing that women had no chance of performing in public, but for her father, a choice must have presented itself, at some point.

Then, looking at his strong jaw, she was struck by the truth of it: there had never really been a choice. The earl would never have turned his back on his responsibilities. He was as trapped by his birth as she was by her sex.

If Gowan hadn’t inherited his own set of responsibilities, he would presumably have spent his life growing wheat. The idea didn’t have the same force as becoming a world-class musician, although it did have a certain bucolic charm.

“I shall inform the duke of my decision as regards the ceremony this afternoon,” her father said now.

“Since there won’t be enough time to have a wedding gown designed for you, you can wear mine,” Layla put in. “The fashion has not changed so very much since I wore it. We’ll have it taken in, a stitch or two here and there, and it will fit you perfectly.”

“Oh, Layla, that is such a generous offer.” Edie took her stepmother’s hand again, wishing with all her heart that things had been different. Layla had been keeping the gown for her own daughter . . . but had apparently abandoned that dream.

Even in the grip of adolescent charmlessness, Edie had been in awe of her new stepmother’s wedding gown. It was made of silk embroidered all over with pinpoint spangles so that it flowed like water, catching the light and lending its wearer an impossibly ethereal air. Layla had floated down the aisle, beaming at Edie’s father. The memory was unbearably poignant now.

“Edith will wear her mother’s wedding gown,” the earl stated, brushing aside the offer.

Layla flinched.

Edie scowled at him. “I didn’t know my mother left a gown.”

“Her gown and her jewels are to be given to you upon your wedding.”

“I see.” She gave Layla’s hand a squeeze under the table.

Her stepmother’s eyes had grown precariously shiny. She stood up and said simply, “I do believe that I drank too much champagne last night to enjoy this meal.”

Edie and her father finished eating in complete silence. She waited to see if he was going upstairs to talk to his wife, but instead he strode into the hallway calling for his cloak. A moment later, the front door opened and he was gone.

So Edie ran up the stairs and found Layla surrounded by maids—and three open trunks.

“I am leaving to pay a visit to my parents in Berwick-upon-Tweed.” Her face was the color of parchment, but she wasn’t crying. “Now that my father’s gout precludes visits to London, I must travel to them instead.”

Edie sank into a chair.

“The only thing I’m sorry about is missing your wedding,” Layla continued. “But for all I know, I wouldn’t be welcome in the presence of your mother’s dress.”

“Oh, Layla, no!” Edie cried.

Her stepmother’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears. “You know how much I love you. But the idea of standing in a church next to your father during a wedding, and pretending that he is anything other than indifferent to me . . . I can’t do it.”

“I understand,” Edie said, getting up to give her a hug. “I truly do.”

“My parents’ country house is close to the Scottish border, so I’ll pay you a visit before—if I return to London.” She swallowed hard.

Edie pulled her closer, her heart aching. She opened her mouth to say that her father would surely fetch his wife back home, and then closed it. It seemed quite likely that the earl wouldn’t bother.

“The important thing is that you, my darling, are going to be happy with that gorgeous Scotsman of yours,” Layla said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Sure enough, when her father appeared at the dining room table that evening he remarked indifferently that there was nothing to do in a small town on the Scottish border. “My wife will find no frivolities to entertain herself, and she is sure to return posthaste. I see no reason to waste my time and energy following her.”

“If you could just be kinder to her,” Edie implored. “She adores you.”

“You know nothing of what you are saying!” her father snapped.

“I know that you love her, and yet you treat her as if she were a veritable concubine. As if the fact that you conduct yourself with such a high moral tone means that everyone must genuflect as you pass. I know that she loves—”

He didn’t wait for the rest of her analysis, but stood up and left the room. Edie sighed. Her father’s rudeness was a sign of extreme agitation, given that he considered manners to be next to godliness, or perhaps even above it.

The house was strangely silent without Layla’s husky bellow of laughter and fluting voice shouting outrageous comments.

At luncheon the following day, the earl’s face was more withdrawn than ever. For the first time in Edie’s memory, he shook his head when she asked if he wished to practice duets. When it was plain that he would not be persuaded, Edie retired to her room and played for hours, but the music sounded as hollow as her heart.

Gowan appeared in the late afternoon and suggested an immediate ceremony, employing a ducal tone that assumed compliance. Her father didn’t bristle, as he would have earlier. And then Gowan added that, as far as he was concerned, it was absurd to stay in London merely to satisfy gossipmongers, and that anyone who wanted to believe ribald rumors could go to the blazes. The earl didn’t argue over that, either. He simply capitulated to everything the duke demanded.

He managed to keep that wooden expression for days, until the morning of Edie’s wedding. Edie came down the stairs wearing Layla’s gown after all because, as it turned out, her mother’s gown had been eaten into ribbons by moths.

Edie was not given to immodesty, but she could see that Layla’s dress did her proud. All the tiny spangles caught the light and made her look as if she were wearing a gown fashioned from diamonds. Its small sleeves and form-fitting, deeply cut bodice shaped her breast, and fell into graceful folds around her hips. She wore her hair caught up with jewels, just as Layla had, though she wore her mother’s opals, rather than Layla’s pearls.

It was only then that her father’s stony façade cracked: he flinched, and there was a flash of something like agony on his face, but he bowed and stated, “Daughter, you look extremely well,” in that measured tone of his.

Even when they entered Westminster Abbey, her father showed no signs of regret that Layla was not at his side.

Edie, on the other hand, desperately wished Layla were there. What’s more, she hated the idea of leaving her father alone in an echoing house with nothing more than four cellos, no matter how much consolation he derived from playing them.