Hell, it probably never would. He’d have this arousal at the altar. And what would follow that? What would he do then?

Throw his duchess into a carriage and take her like some sort of wild animal, right on the seat? His mind duly noted that Edie wouldn’t argue with it. In fact, he thought it was possible that somehow he’d been lucky enough to find a woman who would relish anything he could come up with.

And he could come up with a lot. It wasn’t just his imagination; his Kinross forebears had been possessed of bawdy imaginations and had stocked the library to suit. Oddly enough, all those books’ images seemed vulgar now that he’d kissed Edie and heard her little shriek. Seen the delicious curve of her neck when she gasped for air.

He wished that he could take her to Craigievar and marry there, so that he could take her directly from his own chapel to his own bedchamber. But no—Edie said that it would cause an indelible scandal if they ran off to Scotland. Frankly, he could see no real difference between marrying in haste in London and marrying in haste in Gretna Green. Any man with a few pounds could get his hands on a special license, after all, whereas a trip to Scotland was expensive, given the changes of post horses, the inns, the inevitable broken axle.

Why should that cause the greater scandal?

He looked around his bedroom in some distaste. Given that he refused the carriage seat as a substitute for the marital bed, he had to find a lodging in London that was worthy of their wedding night; this wouldn’t do. The house was in the very best section of London, only three or four streets from the earl’s town house. But he’d never bothered to change the furnishings after he bought it, and the previous owner had a veritable mania for outré Egyptian flourishes.

He went to sleep every night under a frieze of jackal heads. Not that he disliked jackals, precisely. From what he’d seen in the British Museum, Egyptian jackals had long muzzles and a regal expression. These jackals looked more like beagles, a breed he enjoyed. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to bring his bride to a bed surrounded by panting dogs.

It would have to be Nerot’s Hotel. He rang the bell and his man, Trundle, reappeared with satisfactory haste.

“Inform Bardolph that I wish him to visit Nerot’s and rent the best suite.”

Trundle bowed. “For how long, Your Grace?” He ushered footmen with hot water into the bathing chamber while Gowan thought about it.

The Earl of Gilchrist would resemble a beetroot if Gowan suggested a wedding on the morrow. But on the other hand, he would not—could not—wait much longer.

“From tomorrow until further notice,” he said, when Trundle reappeared. “If the best suite is currently occupied, pay the hotel double to get them out.”

One would never know that he was the most fiscally prudent duke the duchy had seen in decades.

“Would you care to undress now, Your Grace?”

“No.”

“So that you could take a bath while the water is hot?” Trundle sounded a bit desperate.

“No. You may leave. Deliver the message to Bardolph. I shall undress myself.”

Trundle frowned and opened his mouth.

Gowan raised an eyebrow and the man whisked himself out the door.

He went into the bathroom and stared at the steaming tub for a bit before he pulled his wits together. It was distracting to picture Edie’s mouth. More than distracting. There lay madness.

He stripped naked, turned, and caught sight of himself in the glass. Would he be pleasing to Edie?

At twenty years of age, he’d stopped growing any taller. Instead, in the last two years, he had just been growing broader. His legs were huge, probably the result of hard physical labor. When he was in residence at Craigievar, he would rise at five and go to his study, then head into the fields in the afternoon to work alongside his crofters.

An English nobleman couldn’t do that, but his clansmen expected him to lend a hand when he was able. They’d hand him a scythe and point to a row with considerably less amazement than if he bought them a round at the tavern. Whether they were hauling logs or making barley sheaves, he worked alongside them.

The physical work, together with years of swimming, had broadened his chest, too, making it quite unlike the lithe bodies of most English gentlemen. He didn’t fool himself that they were soft and defenseless, because he knew they weren’t. He’d been to Gentleman Jackson’s Saloon in London and seen them boxing each other with calculated ferocity. But English physiques tended toward the sinewy.

Scottish ones just bulged.

Below his broad torso . . .

He was bigger than average; he knew it empirically, from unavoidable observation. After a hard day in the fields, his men would strip naked and plunge into the bitterly cold loch, he among them. Even at eighteen, he could see his ancestors had bequeathed him more than a castle. What if Edie didn’t like that part of his body?

He reached down and palmed his balls. They were drawn up close to his body, and had been from the moment he’d caught sight of Edie that evening. It wasn’t particularly pleasant to feel like a powder keg, overly tight and explosive.

Watching in the glass as he wrapped a hand around his tool, he saw it in double vision, as if Edie were beside him, and it was her delicate, long fingers that caressed him.

She looked a perfect lady, but the fingertips of her left hand were callused from endless hours of playing. He was still trying to get his head around the idea that he was marrying a musician. Watching her play a duet with her father had been a revelation. Her body bent with the music like a willow in a high wind, her face utterly alive with joy.

He wanted her to feel that with him as well. And he wanted her to stroke him with her musical hands.

The thought led to an image of Edie kneeling at his feet, that wash of golden hair over one shoulder, her lips opening as she . . .

A hoarse noise broke from his throat and his hand tightened.

A few minutes later, he lowered himself into the tub. The water felt like a caress, causing his body to stiffen again. Still, the swiftness with which he had lost control was percolating into his brain, and not in a happy way. It was unacceptable.

He couldn’t blaze up like brandy put to flame: he had a responsibility to Edie. It was more than a responsibility with regard to consummation of their marriage. He had a distinct sense that a couple’s first night together determined the pattern of their marital relations for years to come.

Having inherited his dukedom at an early age, he had long ago learned to plan out, and rehearse, any new action. A young boy tasked with leading a household can practice what needs to be said in the privacy of his bathing chamber, if that happens to be one of the few places where he’s ever alone.

On another day, he can rehearse the speech he will make while taking back control of the local bench. And when joining the bank’s board of governors. Over time, he can become so good at thinking through the various possible outcomes of any action that he rarely makes a mistake—because he had thought through all conceivable weaknesses beforehand.

Marriage and intimacy were just another challenge. There was a danger that, having never done the act before, he would lose control and act like a raw boy of fourteen. That would be unacceptable, but he wasn’t overly worried. He had not enjoyed pulling away from Edie, even less so when he tucked those luscious breasts back into her bodice, but he’d never been in danger of losing control.