Cultivating wheat was certainly more useful than training piglets, so Eddie made an encouraging sound, and was about to inquire whether the aunts had had any luck with geese—having met a cheerless and aggressive goose in her girlhood—but the carriage had come to a stop. They had arrived at her family’s house in Curzon Street. She was feeling about for her reticule when a rattle of wheels passed them and drew up sharply.

Edie slid over to the window on her side of the carriage and pulled open the curtain. Her father’s carriage had also just drawn up. A liveried groom popped down and opened the door. “My parents have arrived.”

Gowan moved to his window and peered out with as much interest as she. “Presumably your father managed to convince your stepmother that dancing while inebriated is not a good idea.”

“Why aren’t they coming out?” Edie said, after a moment.

“I cannot say with certainty, but I would guess your father is endeavoring to rouse the countess. I expect that drink has rendered her sleepy, if not insensible.” There was a biting undertone to his voice that Edie didn’t like.

She opened her mouth to defend Layla, but at that moment her father emerged from the carriage carrying his wife in his arms. Sky-blue silk rippled behind him as he walked up the front walk toward the open door, Layla’s head lying on his shoulder.

“You’re right; she must have fallen asleep,” Edie said, instead. “I would have thought one had to imbibe something stronger than champagne.”

“It’s not only the quality of the drink, but the quantity. How much did she take?”

“Perhaps six glasses? But she hasn’t eaten much today.”

“Nearly an entire bottle,” Gowan pointed out. “She’s soused.”

As the earl neared the front step, Layla suddenly reached up and pulled her husband’s head down to her mouth. She was, definitively, awake. Edie dropped the curtain and sat back. “Goodness,” she said. “I’d rather not have seen that. Nevertheless, we now know that Layla is not insensible.”

“She can certainly hold her drink.”

“You needn’t say it like that,” Edie said, frowning at him. “Layla is not an inebriate.”

“In my experience, inebriates aren’t nearly as unfamiliar with the bottle as they would wish their family members to believe.”

“That certainly may have been true of your parents,” Edie stated. “Though I am loath to insist on an unflattering distinction between our families, I see Layla almost hourly, since I have been unable to convince her not to interrupt my practice. Tonight was the first time I’ve seen her befuddled.”

Gowan’s eyes had turned sympathetic. “The most ferocious of rebuffs would not have stopped my father from interrupting my studies.”

“Gowan. That was not my point.”

After a few second, he said, “Oh?” It seemed that the duke was not accustomed to opposition. Well, one had to assume he could learn.

“While your cynical attitude arouses my sympathy,” Edie continued, “I would like you to acknowledge my point. My stepmother does not drink to excess. We don’t even take wine at dinner as a matter of course: only if my father is coming home, which is rare, these days.”

“I understand,” Gowan said, nodding. He glanced back out the window. “They’re still kissing. Your father is quite passionate for a man of his years.”

“He’s not so very old,” Edie said, switching from defending her tipsy stepmother to her irascible father. “He’s only just over forty. You yourself boasted that Scotsmen are active for many years past forty.”

“I thought the man had a touch of the Scots about him.”

It was absurd that even a glimpse of Gowan’s smile made her feel unsettlingly soft and melting, but that was the truth of it. “I thought perhaps you had mislaid your sense of humor,” she observed.

“I apologize. I’m afraid that my parents left me with a distinctly unsympathetic attitude toward over-indulgence in alcohol.”

“That is quite understandable,” Edie said. “Do tell me when my parents are finally inside, because I should follow. There will be hysterics if Layla looks in my chamber to say good night, and I’m not there.”

Gowan glanced out again. “They’ve entered the house.”

“In that case, I must retire. We should not be sitting in a stationary carriage without a chaperone, betrothed or not.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Gowan said, a wicked light rousing in his eyes. “I could take you driving alone in Hyde Park.”

“Not in the dark. I really must go in.” But the sentence came out in a rather husky tone.

“Not until I kiss you good night,” he whispered, taking her hands and drawing her to his side of the carriage. “My nearly wife.”

Edie tipped her head so she could see his eyes. They had gone sleepy and possessive.

His head came closer, and she held her breath for a moment, wondering if the kiss would be as intoxicating as their first . . . and then she didn’t wonder any longer. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she stopped thinking altogether.

She was learning that there were some things that you shouldn’t try to think about while you were experiencing them; you should simply feel them. So she let herself feel how thick and soft his hair was, and then, when her hands drifted down from his neck to his shoulders and below, the way his back was corded with muscle.

By then the kiss was growing more insistent, and she found herself clinging to him, hardly breathing, her body thrilling to a rhythm she didn’t know but instinctively felt in her veins.

“Edie,” Gowan said hoarsely, breaking off their kiss with a muffled groan. “We have to stop before—”

“Don’t stop,” Edie said, pulling his mouth back to hers. “No one knows where we are.”

And so he didn’t stop, and the next time either of them spoke was when Gowan cupped Edie’s breast, which felt so wonderful that she uttered something incoherent. He laughed low in reply, and rubbed his thumb across her nipple.

The sensation made Edie cry out and press forward into his hand. Her cloak had disappeared somehow, and even through layers of cloth she could feel the heat and power in his hands as he touched her. Each touch brought a wild surge of feeling.

He seemed fascinated, watching intently as her breasts overflowed his hands.

“They’re rather large,” Edie whispered, thinking of how Layla had characterized her bosom as unfashionably ample.

He glanced at her, a fleeting gleam of his eyes that made her want to curl against him and beg him for more caresses. Harder ones.

“They are perfect,” he said. The sound of his voice rubbed against her skin like her cello’s deepest notes. “I have dreamed of holding you, Edie.”

“You have?”

“Since the night I met you. But no dream is like reality.”

He did something so pleasurable with his hands that Edie could do nothing but sink back onto the seat. He followed, and then he was kissing her neck, and all the time he caressed her breasts while Edie thought about what it felt like to have the weight of a male body on her. And how nice it would be if he were touching her without the barrier of her gown and chemise.