And she came, thank God. He heard the piping sound of her voice with a thankfulness that was as deep as his pleasure. And then he was lost to it, shocked by the joy, the piercing heat, the way bone-deep delight filled his body.

To Edie’s mind, the evening’s end had always been inevitable.

The only difference from the other nights was that she thought Gowan might have begun to understand that she wasn’t feeling the same pleasure he was. There was a concentration on his face that didn’t resemble the savage joy he’d taken in her body the other times.

That thought made her heart sink.

The third day of their journey came and went. When they were installed at that night’s inn, Mary told Edie with a giggle that His Grace had informed the servants that the duke and duchess would dine in his chamber.

By then, Edie was limp with exhaustion. That morning Gowan had told her, apologetically, that he couldn’t sleep away another afternoon. So he and Bardolph spent the day reading about companies that Gowan might acquire, while the carriage jolted over roadways on the way to Berwick-upon-Tweed. She had practiced for barely an hour when Mary appeared to put her in nighttime attire so that she could have an intimate supper with her husband.

She went next door and found Gowan with his hair still damp from his bath. It was stupid, given all the tangled problems they had, but the moment they were alone, something eased in her. That contained wildness that was Gowan’s very essence sang to her like a chord, resonating deep in her bones. He had only to wrap his arms around her and she felt safe. As if she were in the right place.

It made no sense, given that they may well have irresolvable problems. Layla hadn’t mentioned any potion for a woman’s difficulties in bed, only for a man’s.

A half hour later they were lying side by side on the bed. Gowan’s dressing gown was pushed back from his shoulders and Edie’s fingers were roaming over the planes of his chest and even, daringly, down to his muscled stomach. Though she’d heard nothing at all, Gowan suddenly lifted his head and barked, “Come.”

The door opened and two footmen walked through.

Edie pulled the covers over herself, even though her nightdress still covered her legs. The head footman began to arrange ducal china on a side table, his eyes never straying to the bed. He made several trips to the hall, returning with covered silver platters. When he finished at last, he poured their wine, bowed, and backed toward the door, his eyes still lowered, as if they were royalty.

“Peters, isn’t it?” she asked.

He swung his head up, startled. “Peterkin, Your Grace.”

“You may leave the bottle here, Peterkin. Thank you for bringing our meal.”

He ducked his chin. “I’ll be pleased to wait in the corridor and refill your glasses when you have a need, Your Grace.”

Edie couldn’t imagine anything more appalling. “We will serve ourselves,” she told him.

But later, when they’d eaten, Gowan summoned Peterkin and another footman to remove the plates, even though by then her nightdress was bunched around her upper thighs, albeit still under the covers. They had been kissing, and Gowan ran his hand up her leg. The sensation made her want to squirm away and come closer, both at the same moment.

But once the plates were gone, she knew that it wouldn’t be long until they made love, and after that thought, she couldn’t relax. Even so, it was definitely getting easier. When he entered, she didn’t gasp aloud; she merely flinched. But she could not relax.

It made it worse that Gowan seemed capable of going on all night. “How much does it hurt?” he asked her after a while, propping himself on stiffened arms and staring down at her.

“Not at all,” she said, wiping his shoulder so she could pat him. “The pain goes away after a while.”

It was unnerving to feel so happy when he smiled at her. But she did, even though he was smiling because he thought . . .

Well, what he thought was happening wasn’t happening, that’s all.

When she swung her legs from the bed to return to her own chamber, Gowan had a tense, nearly angry look on his face, but she just kept her head down. She couldn’t explain.

There was nothing to explain.

Twenty-four

The next morning there was blood on her nightdress, and Edie panicked. She thought for a moment that something had been ripped open inside her.

“Your courses have begun,” Mary said, coming up behind her. “The duke will be sorely disappointed,” she added with a laugh.

Edie laughed a little, too. Weakly, but with relief, she laughed.

At breakfast, she informed Gowan that a female complaint precluded any visits to her bedchamber for the time being. It felt good to say that. Fueled by the memory of her useless practice sessions, she launched straight into another pronouncement. “I should like a two-hour stop in the afternoon to practice.”

Gowan looked at her as if she’d just announced her intention to immigrate to Philadelphia. “Our route is laid out and on a strict schedule, Edie, as you know.”

“I must practice and I’m too tired to play after supper. We could remain here for another day,” she offered.

“We are holding every room in the Partridge Inn tonight. And the early coaches left an hour ago.”

“I kept my cello back. Gowan, I must practice. I can do it here, or we can pause at midday.”

Gowan’s mouth tightened, but to her surprise, he didn’t argue. Instead, he decided that it would be better to lose a day on their journey, so she played until lunch and then again until suppertime. Throughout, servants kept coming and going in the parlor, attending to Lord knew what tasks, until she gathered them—all eighteen of them—and announced that anyone who interrupted her playing again would have his or her employment summarily terminated. She let her eyes linger on Bardolph for the pure pleasure of it.

She’d seen enough to know that Bardolph was integral to Gowan’s retinue, but threatening him, no matter how impotently, made her feel as if she was developing the backbone Layla said she needed.

“What shall we do about your practice tomorrow?” Gowan asked at dinner.

“I would be so grateful if you could spare two daylight hours,” she told him. “The cello would be quite loud in the carriage and make it difficult for you to hear your reports.” That was an empty threat because, of course, she would never achieve the proper balance in a moving vehicle. But she was relying on the fact that he knew nothing of stringed instruments.

“We’ll leave an hour earlier and arrive an hour later,” Gowan said. That was the way he approached obstacles, she was beginning to notice. He assessed them, dealt with them, and moved on. The daily estate reports would present a problem, and Gowan would build a road around the obstacle without growing irritated.

Bardolph did not share Gowan’s matter-of-factness. His back teeth were obviously clenched, so she gave him a sunny smile, the better to rankle him. “It is almost midsummer. I shan’t mind if I practice in a field,” she told him.

“We can do better than that,” Gowan said. “We will stop in Pickleberry,” he said to Bardolph. “I believe that Her Grace would enjoy playing in the Merchant Tailors’ Hall. Send someone ahead to ensure it is available, and donate the appropriate amount to their charitable endeavors.”