Priceless (7 page)

“What one tries to do is sell them to another investor, leaving him with the debt and taking the profit,” he explained, patient with her ignorance.

“Why would an investor buy a debt?”

“Because he’s—”

“Betting the stock will rise even higher,” she interrupted as the light dawned, “and he’ll be able to make a profit, also.”

For the first time since she’d lived in his house, he smiled. He smiled at
her
. Her breath caught. She froze. The man she’d thought of as severe, austere, a maiden’s vampire fantasy, transformed himself into a wicked highwayman, waiting to rob her of her good sense. Their eyes locked.

“Is something wrong?”

She thought his voice had deepened, and the smile she found so appealing became a knowing stare.

“No, you…were explaining how the sale of stock worked.” He had grooves beside his mouth, she saw, that deepened with his pleasure. The hem of her apron came loose; she pulled at a thread. “Is there an unlimited amount of South Sea stock to buy?”

“No.”

“That keeps the stock in demand,” she guessed.

“There is more to you than meets the eye.” His fingers touched her cheek, and she jerked back from the contact. His lids drooped; he appeared to know a secret. “I won’t hurt you. I just wanted to see if your skin is as soft as it looks.”

Confused by his attention, she shrugged. “It’s just skin. Like your skin.”

“Not at all like mine.” He lifted her hand away from the ruffle and brought it to his face. “See? The wind and salt of the sea have toughened me.”

He pressed her palm to his chin. She wanted to pull away, but that would be foolish. For some reason she didn’t want him to think she was foolish. Instead she avoided looking at him and felt the stubble of his beard with an increased awareness. Why was she noticing his features in such detail, when she had stayed in his study to speak of stocks?

“And I’m tanned dark by my constant rides into London,” he murmured.

“I’m tanned, too.” Retrieving her hand from his grasp, she flashed him a grin to prove she didn’t care.

“But no freckles. Your complexion is clear as a sunny day.”

Her chin dropped with her surprise, but she thought she recovered before he noticed. “Do you buy stocks from the South Sea Company proper, or do you buy from the other investors?”

“Northrup goes to the South Sea Company when the directors have a consignment to sell. For instance, on
April fourteenth, he bought shares at the quoted price of three hundred pounds.”

“Each?”

“Each. On April thirtieth, he bought shares for four hundred pounds.” He paused. “Each.”

Was that humor? Spying the twinkle in his eye, she smiled timidly. Understated and rusty, perhaps, but it
was
humor. “Have you sold that stock?”

“No. In fact, I’ve bought more.”

She smiled more widely, hoping to coax another of those heart-stopping grins from him. “How do you know when to sell?”

“The coffeehouses on Change Alley are a lively place for information, if a man knows what to listen for. There are informants, some reliable and some not, who’ll sell their knowledge for the right price. There are rumors to sift through.”

Her glow broke through to him, and his teeth gleamed in another evidence of his pleasure. His smile sapped the strength from her spine, and she slid against the chair back.

He continued, “An astute man knows what to listen for, and I’ll sell when it’s time. Are you worried about your father’s investments?”

Intent on the arm he wrapped around her shoulders, on the pressure of his knees against hers, she said, “I didn’t even realize he’d made investments. It’s so unlike him to be wise.”

“The stock-buying madness has struck the whole country. I would have been surprised if he were exempt.”

He watched her closely, and she wished she hadn’t revealed so much about her father. She tugged at a loose seam along the ruffle.

Abruptly changing the subject, Adam asked, “Why were you so startled that I noticed you are attractive?”

“Attractive?” She mulled over his choice of adjectives. “I think I have reason to be startled that you now think I’m attractive.”

His half smile acknowledged his guilt. “Haven’t your other admirers been as observant?”

“No,” she faltered. Should she tell him she’d had no other admirers? Should she ask if he were an admirer? She watched him as he picked up his quill and turned back to her. “No,” she decided. He ran his finger along the edge of the feather as if testing its sharpness, and she gripped the apron in a stranglehold. The small sound of tearing silk dismayed her, and to cover it she asked, “Is the whole world gaining wealth?”

“Did you wish to speculate?” He touched the tip of the quill to her neck.

That tiny contact seemed to burn her. As he trailed it along her collarbone, she lost her will to speak, to move, even to breathe.

“If you wish to trade stocks”—the feather meandered down to the cleft of her bosom—“you’ll find my help most valuable.”

She swallowed audibly.

“But of course there is a fee.” His free hand grasped her bare shoulder. “To be paid on demand.” Tossing the quill aside, he leaned closer. “How large your eyes are,” he marveled. “How you stare at me.”

“I don’t understand half of what you say,” she whispered.

“Too late to gammon me. You’ve proved you have an unusual intelligence for a woman.” Now both callused palms cupped her shoulders. “I want a kiss.”

Incredulous, she said, “But you think I’m ugly.”

“Do I?”

“You, uh…”

“Your eyelashes are so long, they must tangle together.” He brushed her lashes in a butterfly touch.

She closed her eyes and let him embrace her. As he massaged her shoulder blades with his hands, the knots in her muscles eased. He kissed the corners of her mouth, tasting her as if she were a delicacy. “You’re uneasy with me,” he murmured. “I’ve noticed that before.”

His lips brushed hers with each word before they settled over hers. The contact made her giddy, made her seek air where there was only his. Yet when she opened her mouth, he was there, sliding his tongue in to explore hers. That was odd. She tensed, but his fingers on her chin kept her in place. Was he mocking her?

No, he seemed to be encouraging her. Shyly she reached out with her tongue and engaged in a miniature struggle. When she lost, she was glad, glad to have him so intimate with her, glad to have him gather her close.

Yet when his nimble fingers found her breast, caressed it through the silk of her bodice, her eyes sprang open and she pushed at him.

His face was too close: his eyes were unreadable, his heavy brows a single line across his forehead. His mouth was too close: an instrument of torture and enchantment. She could still taste him, savor the roughness of his perfect teeth. She could still inhale his breath, still tingle with the brush of his hand to her body, still bathe in the warmth of his flame.

Reality arrived in a rush.

She dragged air into her lungs and clamped her fingers around his wrist. “Let me go.”

That man was smiling again, and never had she seen a charm to melt her resistance. He cupped her breast for one last moment, just to prove he could, and then dropped his hand. “Your eyes are shining.”

More insistent, she said, “Let me go.”

“Ye heard her, ye cad.” Lord Gaynor posed in the doorway, looking all the world like an outraged English aristocrat. “Let me daughter go!”

Mortified, Bronwyn tried to stand, but her knees were crammed too tightly beneath the desk. She couldn’t move the chair back on the carpet. And Adam blocked her retreat. Not the genial Adam who’d been her companion this last half hour, but the austere lord who had frightened her before.

Unperturbed, he queried, “Lord Gaynor, did you forget something?”

Lord Gaynor strode forward. “Yes, I forgot to remove me daughter from your lascivious clutches.”

Adam lolled back in his chair. “We’re to be married.”

“Ye go beyond the bounds of what’s proper,” Lord Gaynor insisted.

“Oh, come.” Adam dusted an imaginary mote from his sleeve. “Bronwyn can’t just say ‘How de do?’ on our wedding night, can she? It’s not decorous.”

Bronwyn moaned as Adam repeated Lord Gaynor’s own words. The sweetheart who’d kissed and caressed her so delicately had heard every word out there on the veranda. He hadn’t kissed her out of desire or kindness or mutual pleasure. He was angry. Angry at her father for his clumsy attempt at matchmaking, angry at her for plotting against him.

And she’d fallen into his revenge like the love-starved creature she was. Embarrassment, like a great wave, lifted her from her chair. She shoved it out from under the desk. When Adam reached out for her, her elbow struck his chest smartly. He fell back as she drew herself up. With her hand gripping her apron, she said, “Nothing happened, Da.”

Lord Gaynor stopped his dramatic performance and became her concerned Irish father. “Don’t lie to your old da, me darlin’. That man was kissing ye.”

“Not at all. I had something in my eye.” Stepping out from behind the desk, she swept past Lord Gaynor. At the door she turned. In her hands the apron ripped loose from the waistband as she glared at Adam. “But it turned out to be nothing.”

Lord Gaynor stared at the spot where his daughter disappeared, then at Adam, who sat rubbing his chest. Like a hound on the scent, he thrust his head out and crept toward Adam, his gaze fixed on his future son-in-law’s face. He leaped forward, his hand outstretched to Adam’s lip. Adam flinched back, but too late. Lord Gaynor said, “Ah-ha!”

“Ah-ha?” Adam drawled.

Lord Gaynor turned over his hand, and there on his outstretched index finger was the heart-shaped patch Bronwyn wore above her mouth.

“My lord, London has gone mad.” Fresh from Change
Alley, Northrup discarded his overcoat with a flourish.

Adam closed his hand over the beauty patch, hiding it from view. Lord Gaynor had pressed it into his palm with an admonition not to move so quickly with his “darlin’ Bronwyn,” then swept from the study, the portrait of the offended parent. Except for the smirk on his handsome face.

Adam wondered about the Irishman. He couldn’t help but like the spendthrift, yet why would he barter his daughter—his favorite daughter, it appeared—to a man whose family name was synonymous with corruption? Robert Walpole insisted Adam’s integrity was unblemished, but Adam knew better. His father had stained the family honor, and nothing could cleanse it.

Northrup continued as if he didn’t notice Adam’s distraction, “It’s as if a great midsummer madness has swept the city.”

“How so?” Adam pulled out a trash container to toss the bit of velvet, then hesitated and placed it in the desk drawer instead. What about this woman he was betrothed to? She’d been so nervous when first they met, he’d believed she would try to cry off. Indeed, he’d heard her beg Lord
Gaynor not to make her speak to him, seen her look of desperation when Lord Gaynor pressed to set a wedding date.

Setting his new hat gently atop the overcoat, Northrup turned back to Adam. “The South Sea Company has offered fifty thousand shares to be put on the market for one thousand pounds apiece.”

Adam stared into the desk drawer. Yet her appearance wasn’t so dreadful, he thought. A discerning eye revealed a wide and merry mouth, given to smiles and ripe for kisses. Life, her gaze told him, was a serious business, but still she found humor in her father’s posturing and his own too serious manner. And regardless of the fashion, he liked the golden tone of her skin. So she had no reason to be nervous with him.

“Lord Rawson?” Northrup said.

Maybe she was nervous because he’d been less than gracious when presented with her. Maybe she was nervous because she feared the marriage bed. Maybe she didn’t know about his father and the disgrace.

“Lord Rawson?”

“What? Oh.” Adam leaned back in his chair. “One thousand pounds apiece? That’s over the current market price.”

“Twenty-five percent over the market price,” Northrup said. “But the terms are attractive. All they’re demanding is a down payment of ten percent, and the rest is to be paid in installments.”

“No more than I expected.” Adam templed his fingers at his lips, and their sensitivity reminded him of the kiss he’d shared just a few moments ago. Bronwyn stirred the fires of his passion, if not his sentiment. His mother complained he armored himself against emotion, and indeed he did. It was safer, cleaner, less painful, and he’d had enough pain to last a lifetime. “Have they sold it out?”

Northrup’s boyish face lit. “Not yet, but they soon will.”

His enthusiasm at last focused Adam’s attention on the business at hand. “Did you buy any?”

“No, sir,” Northrup said earnestly. “I followed your instructions and didn’t buy you any.”

Adam’s mouth tightened. “I meant, did you buy some for yourself?”

Northrup flushed.

“That’s a new overcoat, is it not?”

“I needed a replacement for my cloak.” Northrup’s hauteur came tardy and with too little conviction.

Adam regarded his secretary thoughtfully. “It’s been a hard comedown, working for me, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Northrup hastened to reassure him. “It’s been a…a learning process.”

Not believing it, Adam snapped, “Perhaps you should remember you’re no longer the prospective marquess of Tyne-Kelmport.”

“I never forget it,” Northrup said, stiff with dignity. “Nor do I complain.”

“That’s one thing in your favor.” Wielding his knife, Adam trimmed the tip of his quill. “I suppose I understand your eagerness to invest in the South Sea Company. Just sell your stock when I tell you, and you’ll stand to make a profit.”

“I’ve worked for you for two years now, my lord. I’ve picked up on your methods, and I believe I’d best handle my stock by myself.”

Adam studied the young man. Hands on waist, Northrup tried to look mature and brave, but he betrayed his agitation when he licked his lips. “A bit independent, aren’t we, Northrup?”

Something in Adam’s gaze seemed to remind Northrup of his place. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“I took no offense.” And he hadn’t. His secretary was a useful young man, no more, no less. If he wished to wreck himself on the rocks of finance, Adam felt no responsibility, only a vast irritation. Northrup worked hard, understood the system, and anticipated Adam’s needs. To
replace him would be almost impossible. Pointing to the pile of paperwork on his desk, Adam said, “If you’re ready, let’s go to work.”

Northrup looked around for his chair and saw it beside Adam. He frowned, puzzled, until he retrieved it. Then, with a smile, he said, “Ah, Lady Bronwyn was here.”

Adam jumped guiltily. “How did you know that?”

Northrup dusted a pile of silk threads from the seat. “Was she dismantling one of her fans again?”

“No, I believe it was…an apron of some kind. One of those little garnishes women hang on themselves.” Adam contemplated Northrup. How much did he know about the dauntless Bronwyn? An odd curiosity gripped him, a need to know about his fiancée. Yet should he discuss her with this young man? What protocol governed such a conversation? Northrup no doubt knew, but Adam had never learned the refinements of proper society gossip. Tentatively he asked, “Does she do that often? Dismantle her fans?”

Northrup laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? When she’s nervous—and that’s almost always in company—she picks at her fan.”

Precise, scrupulous, Adam insisted, “She wasn’t carrying a fan.”

“If nothing else, she chews her fingernails. She told me her mother scolds her.”

“She told you?” Adam asked in astonishment.

“She’s such a friendly young lady, and we’ve chatted.” Northrup seated himself and uncorked his ink. “Do you have letters you want sent, sir?”

“I have some figures I want copied and checked.” While searching through the papers before him, Adam asked, “That’s right, you’d seen her at court, hadn’t you?”

“Lady Bronwyn? Briefly, sir.” Northrup picked up his quill and held it in readiness.

Something stirred in Adam. “You’re about the same age, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Adam stared at the paper in his hand until the numbers made sense. “Here it is.”

Northrup accepted the figures.

“She’s not as plain as she looks.”

Northrup looked up in surprise. “Sir?”

Realizing how silly that sounded, Adam said, “What I mean is, Lady Bronwyn has pretty eyes.”

“I quite agree.” When Adam said nothing else, Northrup went back to work.

Adam gazed out the window at the sculptured gardens until Northrup’s words sank in. “You agree, do you?”

The quill scratched across the sheet. “Yes, sir. And I like her smile. She has dimples.”

“A dimple,” Adam corrected. “In her left cheek.”

“Ah, of course…. These columns are correct.” Northrup passed the paper back.

“Add these, if you would.” Adam pushed another sheet across the wide desktop. Tapping his fingers, he said worriedly, “If she’s not careful, she’ll get the reputation of a learned woman.”

“A dreadful thought.” Northrup shuddered with genuine revulsion. “Is there anything worse than a learned woman?”

“It’s not so dreadful,” Adam objected quickly, then blinked. How odd. He wanted to defend Bronwyn, the woman he had been treating so rudely. Northrup’s incredulous stare made him add, “At least a man can talk to her.”

Northrup gave up any pretense of working. “Lady Bronwyn? Yes, I’ve always been able to talk to her. She’s one of the kindest women I’ve ever met.”

“Kind? I don’t know about kind.”

“You’ve been avoiding her. How could you know?” Northrup asked.

“Getting daring, aren’t you?” Northrup refused to apologize, and Adam smiled with grim appreciation. “You’re right, of course. I’ve been sulking like a man unable to make the best of a situation, when that quality is one I’ve always prided myself on. Well, that will change. From now on, I’ll court Lady Bronwyn with all the finesse a young woman could wish for.”

“Good for you, sir,” Northrup said warmly. “Lady Bronwyn deserves a little of the admiration her sisters drown in.”

“Precisely.”

“She’s worth more than all seven of her sisters.”

“Even Olivia?” Adam teased, aware his secretary had been stricken with Cupid’s arrow with his first glance at Olivia’s perfect features.

Northrup grimaced. “Olivia’s beautiful. Probably the most beautiful of the Irish Sirens.”

“I’ve noticed you watching her.”

“It was never more than admiration,” Northrup said defensively. “She inhabits a dream world, removed from day-to-day life.”

“She’s like a precious glass,” Adam said. “Too fragile to use.”

“Exactly. Olivia’s so heavenly minded, she’s no earthly good, if you know what I mean.”

“Um-hum.” Adam’s mind drifting back to Bronwyn. He tickled the palm of his hand with his quill. She had liked it when he’d trailed it over her skin. She had enjoyed the touch of his hand. When he kissed her, her eyes had blurred, softened, gone sweet and warm—yet she reacted as if she’d never been kissed before. He glared at Northrup. Surely some young buck had cornered her sometime to press his attentions on her. After all, she was twenty-two. “What was her reputation at court?” he snapped.

“Olivia’s?”

“Bronwyn’s!”

Northrup shook his head as if he were dizzy. “Lady Bronwyn lived at court only a few days for her sister’s wedding. She had no reputation. Few even recognized who she was.”

Cheered, Adam queried, “Did she look similar to the way she does now?”

“She was gawky, like an overgrown child. She tripped on her train during the wedding procession. She dropped her sister’s ring.” Northrup winced at the memory. “She insisted on speaking some kind of broken German to King George, and he adored it.”

Adam covered his eyes. “Did he pinch her?”

“Worse. He introduced her to the Maypole.”

“His mistress?”

“Everyone has forgotten, I’m sure,” Northrup comforted. “Just as they’ve forgotten her excitement about that medieval Irish manuscript displayed at the cathedral.”

“Excitement? You exaggerate,” Adam scoffed.

Northrup looked grim. “She could
read
it, sir.”

Adam laid down his quill. “Read it? Wasn’t it in Latin?”

“In Latin and that other”—Northrup pulled a face—“that other language they speak over there.”

“Gaelic? Where did she learn Gaelic?” Adam could hardly believe it. “In Ireland, only the peasants speak Gaelic. Why, she’s the daughter of one of our noblemen.”

“She said the nuns taught her Gaelic.”

“The nuns?” Adam asked, alarmed. “Is she a closet Papist?”

“No, sir. No, no, I would have warned you. I owe you that much loyalty,” Northrup said. “She claimed she was sent to the convent on a regular basis to learn needlework.”

“A tricky business, that.” Adam shook his head. “She could have been imbued with all sorts of disloyal teachings.”

“Rest assured she was not, at least not by the nuns. However, she also claimed her governess taught her Latin.”

Alarmed all over again, Adam barked, “Her governess? What was the woman thinking of, teaching another woman Latin?”

“You’ll have to ask Lady Bronwyn,” Northrup said meaningfully. “During one of your private, tender conversations.”

Adam didn’t care for the insinuation that he needed to be instructed in matters of love. “Other men court women. I’m sure I’m capable of it.”

“Flowers,” Northrup suggested. “Little gifts. Watch her with appreciation. Touch her waist as you guide her into dinner.”

“I know what to do,” Adam said with irritation. “I’ll show her my desire in subtle ways.”

“I’m sorry.” Bronwyn said it even before the wine, like a great red tide, spread across the lace draped over the end table. She grabbed for the glass as it rolled, but it fell and broke with the refined shatter of leaded crystal. The wine stained the exquisite Chinese rug in the middle of the drawing room, and she said again, “I’m sorry.”

As the footman rushed to clean it up, Mab assured her, “It’s of no consequence. The gentlemen Adam calls his friends break more glasses in one evening than you’ve broken since you’ve been here.”

But not by much. Bronwyn could almost hear Adam thinking it. She avoided his gaze and found herself nailed to her chair by her mother’s glare. With a fix from those fine violet eyes, Lady Nora made it clear that Bronwyn should purge herself of such reprehensible clumsiness.

The problem was, Bronwyn couldn’t seem to help it. Ever since that afternoon in his study, Adam had treated her to an intense regard that shattered her composure as absolutely as the glass was shattered.

She thought she was angry with him. Such cavalier
treatment deserved anger. To toy with her emotions so coldly boded ill for their marriage. Boded ill for her.

But his kiss hadn’t tasted vindictive, and his later attentions hadn’t been scornful. He acted like a man courting a maid, but his courting wasn’t of the fashionable variety. He knew nothing of teasing, of a lighthearted pursuit. When he kissed her hand, his mouth lingered. When he took her in to dinner, his palm burned through the cloth at her waist. When he presented her with a flower, he placed it intimately and with such ardor that it wilted in her hand.

She didn’t know which frightened her more—the idea that he was seeking some kind of revenge or the idea that he wasn’t. Even now, she thought her wig would ignite spontaneously as he considered her.

“I’ve been invited to attend the St. John’s Eve celebration in the village.” The words of the invitation were polite; Adam’s tone betrayed a passionate objective. “I hope Bronwyn will attend with me.”

Apparently Lord Gaynor read Adam’s intentions, for he asked, “Isn’t St. John’s Day also Midsummer Day?”

Adam caressed the slope of his brandy glass with his fingers. “I believe so.”