Free Once Upon a Tower by Eloisa James

each. Not . . . not . . . not . . . He frowned, looking again from white gown to white gown.
    He had been certain that he would recognize Lady Edith’s sweet countenance. After all, he had stared at it for two dances in a row. He knew the tilt of her nose, her green eyes, the slant of her cheekbone.
    “Perhaps,” Lady Gilchrist said, amusement curling through her voice like smoke, “you are not taking into account the fact that Edie is not fond of white gowns, although she does wear them when she must.”
    “I would hope that my daughter is recognizable to her future spouse no matter her gown,” Gilchrist said, his words sharply clipped.
    Gowan ignored him and began to look at each and every woman in the room, not only those wearing white. Beside him, Lady Gilchrist’s chuckle was like the drowsy call of a bird at dusk.
    Then he saw her.
    His fiancée . . . His future wife.
    Edie .
    His heart thundered. He recognized every angle of her face, lush lips, hair . . . who could forget that hair? It looked as if old Roman coins had melted into canary wine, leaving strands of darker gold woven with sunlight.
    At the same time, she was not precisely the woman he had chosen to marry.
    This woman was utterly sensual. Her body was shaped for a man’s caress; her breasts were soft and full, alabaster skin framed by red silk. She was talking to someone and laughing . . . her laughing lips matched her gown. Her hair shone with the deep luster of jasmine honey. It was pulled up in ringlets that flowed with slight variations in color.
    He heard Gilchrist say something, but he didn’t listen. Blood pounded in his ears. When he’d first met her, Edie’s eyes had been placid pools of sweet water. Now they were deep, filled with laughter and intelligence. There was nothing placid there. Nor in the scarlet lips, nor the rounded bosom.
    “I see why you did not recognize her immediately,” Gilchrist was saying, his tone pinched and disapproving. “That gown is most inappropriate. I can only think this is your influence, Lady Gilchrist.”
    “It is not merely my influence, but indeed my gown,” his wife replied. “As a betrothed woman, she need not rigidly adhere to the conventions regarding dress which govern unmarried ladies.”
    “If you will excuse me,” Gowan said, bowing. “I will greet Lady Edith.”
    “Do call her Edie,” Lady Gilchrist said gaily, seemingly untouched by her husband’s dour judgments. “She prefers informality among family members.”
    Gowan had the same edgy, intense feeling as when he embarked on a hunt. This was the woman who had written him that letter. She was to marry him. She had written of dancing in the sheets with him.
    As he moved across the room, his eyes fixed on his betrothed, his kilt brushed against his legs, reminding him of other body parts that were hardening as he walked. He sensed a kind of erotic surprise such as he’d never felt—never dreamed he would feel—before.
    As if conscious of his gaze, she turned and met his eyes.
    How in the world had he believed her to be chaste, quiet, and submissive? Her eyes were brilliant, her mouth mobile and utterly sensual. It was as if he were encountering a complete stranger.
    Desire flamed through his body. Her lips parted slightly, and he knew that she, too, recognized him.
    He had thought she was like a drink of clear water. But now, meeting her gaze, she was a river that tumbled with life and danger. She would change his life. She would change everything about him.
    Instinctively, he responded as the men of the Highlands always had before the woman they honored above all others. Dimly aware that the room had gone still, he stopped just before his fiancée, sank onto one knee, and took the hand that she extended to him.
    “My lady,” he said, his voice deep and sure. He saw no one but her, knew she saw only him. With one swift, sure tug, he peeled off her glove. A sigh came from behind him, but he paid no mind.
    This was