“Sorry.”

There was a second of silence while Edie contemplated whether it would be worse to die of influenza, or to marry a man whose face she’d never seen clearly.

“What does he look like?” she asked. “And could you please ring for Mary? My head is pounding.”

“I’ll make you a cold compress.”

“No, you can’t move from the window until you’ve finished that vile thing.”

“Then how on earth can I ring for Mary?”

Even face down, Edie could tell that Layla was staying right where she was on the window seat. “You don’t have proper maternal instincts,” she complained.

“That’s true,” Layla replied dryly. “Just as well, under the circumstances.”

After the death of Edie’s mother, Lord Gilchrist had remained unwed for years—until he’d lost his head at age thirty-six and fallen in love with Layla. Edie hadn’t much liked her new stepmother, who had a seductive air that Edie did not appreciate at thirteen years old. In fact, Edie had been rather revolted by the fact that her father had married a mere twenty-year-old, let alone one whose crimson lips and shapely figure flaunted her sensuality.

But a couple of years later she had come upon Layla crying, and had learned just how heartbreaking it is to be unable to give one’s husband an heir. They had become fast friends over the subsequent years. Alas, no children ever arrived; lately Layla had taken up smoking and developed a bit of a reckless edge.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Edie said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I probably would have made a bloody horrible mother anyway.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re funny and sweet, and if you would throw away that cheroot and make me a cool compress I’d love you forever.”

Layla sighed.

“Did you put it out?”

“Yes.” A moment later fingers touched Edie’s shoulder. “You have to turn over so I can put this compress on.”

Edie obediently shifted onto her back. “You looked wonderful last night, too, Layla.” She squinted at her stepmother. Layla was forever going on slimming regimes, but Edie thought her luscious shape was perfect as it was.

Layla smiled. “Thank you, darling. Do you want me to ring for Mary so you can change your clothes and get under the covers?”

“No, I’m too tired.”

Layla being Layla—and lacking a maternal instinct—she didn’t insist, but simply put the damp cloth on Edie’s head and walked back across the room.

“Are you lighting another one?”

“No, I am not. I’m sitting before your fireplace like a good stepmother. Maybe I’ll learn knotting so I can do a better impersonation of one. I’m not quite certain your new husband will appreciate my more eccentric qualities; I must develop some respectable traits so I’ll be allowed to visit.”

“Why do you say so? Is he a thoroughgoing stick?”

“I don’t know him any better than you do.”

“But at least you saw him clearly, and you weren’t feverish.”

“Perhaps a bit stickish,” Layla said. “But nothing you’re not used to, given your father.”

A trickle of water ran down Edie’s neck; she was so hot that it felt quite agreeable. “I was hoping to avoid marrying someone like Father.”

“Your father is not so bad.”

“Yes, he is. He’s out of the house all the time, and he hardly ever takes you anywhere. I know that you say that it’s different when you two are alone, but all he does at dinner is lecture me. Which is quite unfair, inasmuch as I’ve never given him the least cause for anxiety. He should be more grateful. Last time I saw her, your mother told me all about Juliet Fallesbury, who ran away with a footman.”

Layla had a wicked chuckle. “My mother loves that story, mostly because the man was nicknamed Longfellow. You know, Edie, it might be good for you to rebel a little. It’s not natural to cheerfully agree to marry a complete stranger.”

“I am not cheerful,” Edie pointed out.

“But you’re not rebellious, either. I’m worried you’ll let your husband have his own way all the time and he’ll become a monstrous dictator.”

There was something about Layla’s tone that sounded a warning note in Edie’s mind, but she felt too sick to figure out the problem, if there was one other than her father’s dictatorial habits. “Perhaps I will run away, disguise myself as a man, and join an orchestra. Imagine it, Layla. Some people have nothing to do but play music, all day long. And then at night they play some more, but with an audience.” A few notes of the prelude of Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1 in G Major slid through her mind. The fever made the arpeggio shimmer in her head, as if the music floated like oil on top of water.

“What I’m saying is that you should assert yourself more, Edie. Men are not easy to live with.”

“Father has never refused me anything I truly wanted.”

“It’s true that he’s allowed you to remain home and play the cello, far past the age when you should have made your bow to society.”

The notes sneaked into Edie’s mind again, luring her into thinking about the broken chords in Bach’s prelude. They should be easy, like a basic exercise, and yet somehow . . .

Her stepmother’s voice intervened. “The fact is that your father is terrified to let you go. Who will play duets with him? Who will talk endlessly of music? Take pity on me, why don’t you? I haven’t the faintest interest in discussing the cello. I don’t mind hearing it, but I find talk of it tedious. And yet I am facing a lifetime of your father’s harangues about bowing and tuning.”

“The cello is the only thing my father and I have in common. I can hardly remember talking to him of anything else. And now I’m to marry someone like that, but who likely knows nothing about music?”

Really, if Edie weren’t so sick, she would feel righteous indignation, but she was already so sorry for herself that there wasn’t any room to moan about marriage to a philistine. “My eyes feel like boiled eggs,” she added.

“I’m sorry, darling. Do you want me to send for the doctor?”

“No. He’ll give me laudanum, which won’t help. Fevers can’t be cured by a narcotic.”

“I like laudanum,” Layla said. “I had it only once, but I’ve never forgotten the way it made me feel all floaty and free, as if nothing in the world was worth worrying about.”

“I’ll have to make sure no one ever gives you any. You’d probably develop a habit, the way Mrs. Fitzhugh has. Bell’s Messenger said that she collapsed on the ballroom floor the other day, and her husband had to carry her out.”

“Reason enough to avoid it. I’m not absolutely certain your father could hoist me from the ground without staggering.”

“Would you mind dipping my cloth in the basin again?”

Layla did it while Edie thought about her impending marriage. “Did Kinross give any reason for making such a precipitous proposal?”

“It was because he fell in love with you,” Layla said promptly, putting the compress on Edie’s forehead. “He took one look at your golden tresses, not to mention the delectable rest of you, and decided to ward off the competition.” But there was something about her voice . . .