Gowan removed her hands and stepped back. “You told the woman who will raise my own sister that I hurt you in bed. You told the wife of one of the governors of the Bank of England that you had to feign pleasure . . . because I couldn’t take the truth.” He bared his teeth, and his final sentence came out in a growl. “Damn you—you took my manhood and made me a laughingstock!”

Edie was shaking with uncontrollable, violent sobs. “Gowan, no,” she implored. “Layla will never mention it.”

“Layla already has.” His face was savage, but his voice had gone icily calm. “Your stepmother did me the kindness of lending me a book of poems about copulation. I thought it was odd. Now I see that she was giving me lessons on how to bed my wife.”

Edie’s legs gave way, and she went down on her knees before him, her shoulders shaking, hair falling over her face. “Please don’t do this to us,” she choked out. “I love you. And I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” Gowan stated.

Then he walked out the door.

Thirty-three

It was a long time before Edie stopped weeping. She wept for her marriage, and she wept because she had hurt someone who loved her. He had loved her. Gowan had fallen in love with her, and she hadn’t even known it.

When the tears finally stopped coming, she felt so sick that she got to her feet and staggered into the water closet, where all the champagne that had gone into her came back up.

She returned, still shaky but with a clearer head, and sat down on the bed to think. She wasn’t crying merely because she had hurt Gowan; she was crying because she was in love with him. She’d fallen in love with him—probably between one mile post and the next, while watching him solve problems, while watching him endure an endless description of roast chicken because it made Bindle happy, while watching him listen to music, the music he’d been taught was a waste of time. Even so, he respected her love for the cello, and had changed the itinerary of their journey, and . . .

And loved her.

The next morning, she woke feeling empty, like a shell whose inhabitant had died long ago. Gowan was right: she was useless as a woman and as a wife. She had to drink to have an orgasm. That could lead to a life as an inebriate. Like taking laudanum to get that lovely floating feeling Layla described.

She refused to be that woman.

And he was right about Susannah, too. The child had taken one look at her and turned away. Stupidly, it wasn’t until Layla had stepped in that Edie knew she wanted to be Susannah’s mother. But, of course, the little girl would be happier with Layla. Her stepmother had known exactly what to do. Susannah didn’t push her away; instead, Layla picked her up into her arms. It was petty to weep over the fact that the two of them loved each other.

The truth was that she wasn’t any good at the things that made a woman a woman. Not only did she lack maternal instincts, but she didn’t seem to have the right instincts when it came to intimacy, either. She didn’t really know what she did wrong in bed. He had a disgusted look on his face when she opened her eyes. It made her wince even to think of it.

She had needed half a bottle of champagne to relax enough to enjoy his touch. And she’d rather kill herself then spend hours organizing Gowan’s household the way everyone expected her to do.

She stood up slowly from the bed; her stomach muscles still ached from all that sobbing. Deep down, she’d always known the truth. Music was all there was for her. She just hadn’t realized how much it would hurt to acknowledge it.

Her father would have the marriage annulled. He was rich and powerful; he’d make all this go away. She just had to get word to him, and he would come and take her away. She was fighting tears again when she heard footsteps outside her door. She took a deep breath, expecting Mary—but it was Layla.

“What in the hell happened?” Layla cried, rushing in and closing the door behind her. “Your husband has apparently left, in a fury, for the Highlands. The whole house is in a twitter about it because the man never makes a move without Bardolph, and he left him behind. He took two footmen, six grooms, a solicitor, and a valet, but they all seem to think that he’s traveling light.”

Edie swallowed hard. “I’m leaving, Layla. I’m returning to England.”

“Leave? You can’t leave! You’re married, Edie. You can’t desert your husband. Unless . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “He turned out to have some disgusting perversion, didn’t he?”

“No! It’s me!” Edie shouted. “Me, don’t you understand?”

“You have a perversion?” Layla said, looking bewildered. “Well, couldn’t you—we—”

“No,” Edie said, her voice catching. She turned away, curling her fingers hard around the side table until she regained control. “I’m no good at marriage, Layla. Could we just leave it there? Gowan deserves better: someone who is good at bedding, and doesn’t lie to him, and wants to have children.”

“What are you talking about? You lied to him? About what? And where do children come into it?”

“I wouldn’t be any good at raising them, as he pointed out,” Edie said steadily. “And I don’t want to run a castle, either, Layla. I should never have married. I’m good at only one thing, and we both know what that is.”

“You’re wrong,” Layla said, sitting down on the couch. “Come and sit beside me, darling. I’ve always thought your father laid too much emphasis on your playing. You are so much more than a musician.”

“Gowan wouldn’t agree with you.” Edie had a little struggle with herself again, but she bit her lip hard, refusing to succumb to self-pity. “I’ll go to Italy. Father will support me; I know he will. I shall take another name and begin playing seriously, for audiences.”

“But Edie—”

“I’ve made up my mind,” she said, breathing more calmly now that she had forced the tears back down again. “My marriage is over, Layla. Gowan was so furious because I had pretended those times. You know how much I hate it when people rage. Even though I deserved it.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Layla was at her side in a moment, pulling her into a protective hug. “He shouldn’t have. He’s a beast. He should apologize.”

“What would be the point? A man who bellows will just keep doing it. He guessed that I told you, by the way.”

“Oh Lord. No wonder he’s furious.”

“I betrayed him with the one person he cannot avoid, because you’ll be bringing up Susannah. I can’t live like this, Layla. I just—I just can’t bear to be shouted at like that.”

Layla held her so tightly that it almost hurt. “I can’t understand it. The man loves you.”

“According to him, he loved the woman he imagined me to be.” Edie freed herself and sniffed ungracefully. “Do you have a handkerchief? I used all mine and almost took to tearing up the sheets during the night.”

“Time for my French petticoat,” Layla said, but the joke fell flat. “I don’t think Gowan will let you go,” she said a second later, having given Edie a handkerchief, and pulled her down on the couch beside her.

“He doesn’t want me any longer. He told me that he made a mistake in purchasing me, because I’ll be a dreadful mother.” The pain felt like some sort of black thing pulsing inside her. “He says I lie there like a pancake in bed.”