Priceless (12 page)

He shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t contain his curiosity. “Why would you say such a thing to me?”

“The passionate boy you were could not be destroyed. He was only hiding, and I think Bronwyn found him. I think that mask you wear so well crumbles when Bronwyn assaults it, and I think”—she chuckled—“I think Bronwyn doesn’t even know what she does.”

Adam could no longer refrain from asking the question haunting him. “Has it ever occurred to you, Mab, that perhaps I’m not the man you believe I am?”

“What man is that?”

“You seem to believe that beneath this hard exterior beats a heart filled with compassion. Have you never thought you might be wrong?”

Her lips trembled as if he’d hurt her, and she set a few stitches before she answered. “I only know there’s a heart, Adam. I know nothing has killed the passions that drove you as a child. Those passions are redirected, yes, but your eyes still burn with fervor when you discuss a profitable stock transaction, or our family honor”—she looked up and caught him staring—“or Bronwyn. That’s why I honor her above all other women. She has shaken you from that arrogance, that coldness you wear so well.”

“Mab, if Bronwyn had actually assaulted this mask you say I wear—I’m not saying she did—” His mother appeared unconvinced, and he hastened to finish. “Surely you understand her betrayal has strengthened my determination to be untouched?”

He had admitted to his mother his childish passions still endured. That his soul wasn’t frozen. He knew it, she knew it, but she kindly refrained from pointing it out to him. “The question is, will you be able to tamp down these newly discovered affections?” She posed the question, then competently changed the subject. “I’m interested in seeing how you deal with this complication. How will you fetch Bronwyn back?”

“I’ll take her from Madame Rachelle’s quickly.”

She held her needle poised above her canvas. “Is this salon not a respectable place?”

“It is…and it isn’t. The best minds in Europe can be found there, expounding on science, literature, music. Yet Madame Rachelle herself…”

“Is a mystery, I hear.” Mab selected another silk and threaded it through her needle. “Is she a courtesan?”

He should never be surprised at his mother’s far-reaching connections, he supposed. She knew of the salon, she knew of Bronwyn’s lodging there, why wouldn’t she know of the mystery surrounding Rachelle? “Not at all. The French nobility seem fond of presenting their daughters to English society through her.”

“Their legitimate daughters?”

“No”—a smile hovered—“but they’re charming women nevertheless. Several have made brilliant marriages with Madame Rachelle’s help.”

“Then what is your objection?”

“There are rumors about Madame Rachelle. Unsavory rumors from her past. It is said she’s a member of the nobility, was popular at Versailles, yet she left France suddenly. No one knows why.” Mab seemed unimpressed, and he continued, “When young women come to her for help, she gives it. She’s supported several well-bred English girls who were in desperate straits. Madame Rachelle is kind to a fault. You’d like her, Mab.”

“Then why are you worried that Bronwyn is living with her?”

“Because Rachelle is a
salonière
, a free thinker.” He turned to look out the window. “If Bronwyn becomes painted with that brush, she loses much of her value to me as an opener of society’s doors. Also, Rachelle doesn’t live under a man’s protection, and regardless of my respect for her, her morals are suspect. So, therefore, would Bronwyn’s be.”

Mab tucked her lips together in annoyance. “
I
am not a snob, but it would seem my son is.”

“A snob?” Adam considered her. “No, I’m not a snob. But I would prefer to know the first child to bear my name is my own.”

“Are you questioning Bronwyn’s virtue?” In the space between each word, Mab inserted disbelief. She tossed down her needlework and rose, fire in her eye. “I tell you, Adam, I have never been ashamed of you before, but I am now. You want this girl. God willing, you will marry her, if you can get Olivia to end this betrothal, and you whine about Bronwyn’s virginity! Stop worrying about your precious reputation and start planning how to capture your Bronwyn.”

With dignity, she turned, gathered her handiwork, and went to the door. There she fired her final salvo. “I doubt your own virginity bears looking into too closely!”

With that, Mab snapped the door closed, leaving Adam stunned at her vehemence and wondering about the truth.

Was he fooling himself about his feelings toward Bronwyn? It seemed unlikely. On the day his father had taken him, bought him his naval commission, and put him on a ship at the age of twelve, he’d sworn to face life without sentiment or tenderness. Through the years that followed, he’d grown to accept the flawlessness of such a course. True, as the scion of a disgraced English family, he shouldn’t marry the black sheep of the Edanas family. But she
was
an Edana, and infinitely better suited to his nature than the fragile Olivia. He believed he could curb Bronwyn’s propensity to impetuous action, if in no other manner than with the lessons of the bedchamber.

In fact, Bronwyn Edana stirred him. Even now, he visualized that finely structured face and slender body beneath him in his bed. His fingertips tingled as he recalled the texture of the rosy nipple he had caressed. Suddenly, he came to a decision. Rubbing his chin, he limped to the door and called, “Send my valet up to my room. I need to be shaved.”

The charming, fascinating, exotic Cherie entered the
large salon. Her silver hair was threaded with ribbons and tiny flowers, her vivid pink silk dress hugged her tiny waist and billowed around her feet, she carried her signature fan—and the men crowded around her. Cherie was the toast of Madame Rachelle’s. Here she was in her element.

A student of the Royal Academy of Music knew of her fondness for opera, and the notes of Handel’s newest,
Radamisto
, drifted from the harpsichord. Waving like a princess on parade, she indicated her pleasure, and he beamed. She smiled an enigmatic smile as she heard her name called in tones of reverence and desire.

“Mademoiselle Cherie! Please, I have composed an ode to the goddess of my heart.”

She turned to the fledgling poet who thrust his way forward. “We’ll be enchanted to hear it when Madame Rachelle arrives.”

The poet stammered under the spell of her sherry-colored eyes, but young Humphrey Webster elbowed him aside. “Mademoiselle Cherie isn’t interested in the babblings of a word pusher. Everyone knows she shows a superior interest in scientific experiments. Mademoiselle Cherie, I have brought the one we discussed.”

Cherie tapped the pompous youth with her fan. “Mr. Webster, you’re being rude. A true scholar is interested in every branch of education.”

Webster flushed. “Are you saying you’re a scholar?”

“Not at all,” she said seriously. “I’m saying you are.”

Glancing at the slight poet beside him, Webster chewed his lip. “Of course. But I read only the classics.”

“I think Mademoiselle Cherie would tell you that even the classics were new once.” With a bow that made his corsets creak, the elderly Lord Sawbridge added, “When I was a boy.” He laughed at his own joke, and Cherie joined him. Encouraged, he continued in the ringing tones of the slightly deaf, “Remember Plato, I do. I advised Will Shakespeare on his plays.”

“And was the model for Polonius,” Webster muttered.

“Heh? What’s that?” Lord Sawbridge put his hand to his ear.

“He commented on your wisdom.” Cherie stepped away from Sawbridge’s wandering fingers with an ease born of weeks of practice.

Sawbridge smirked, presenting a long, thin package. “For you, mademoiselle.”

“
Merci, Monsieur le Duc
. You are most kind.” Tearing away the tissue, Cherie spread the ivory fan wide and held it aloft. “
Ah, c’ est très beau, non?
”

Blushing like a boy, Sawbridge said, “I saw it and thought of you….”

“A fitting addition to my collection,” she assured him. He turned his cheek as if expecting a more concrete form of thanks, but she pretended she hadn’t seen. Instead, she smiled on the three young blades who crowded forward. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“No, mademoiselle,” they chorused.

The most extravagantly dressed of the three stepped forward. “We’ve heard tales of your charm and beauty and came to see if it was the truth.” All three bowed. “We are in awe.”

“Awe will not earn you a place at Madame Rachelle’s salon,” she reproved. “You must be ready to learn, and to share your knowledge with others.” She linked arms with two of the gentlemen and strolled forward, her admirers following like a train behind her. “Our function here is to encourage the arts and sciences.”

She would have continued, but a circle of men and women crowded the center of the large salon, and from the depths of the group she could hear Daphne’s voice. She shut her fan with a snap. What was the girl up to now? Daphne had a reputation for saying what she liked.

The evening was young, and Cherie functioned as unofficial hostess until Rachelle arrived. Having excused herself from her devotees, she insinuated herself between two gentlemen, and using her elbows, she edged forward to hear Daphne pronounce, “Male body parts are the converse of female body parts, facilitating the mating procedure.”

Before Cherie could stagger under the shock, the man she feared most asked, “Where did you learn that?”

Adam.

In an instant transformation, the scintillating Cherie became plain Bronwyn. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart functioned haphazardly, beating in bursts of speed and sudden cessations. She touched her forehead and found it beaded with sweat.

He was here, just as Rachelle had predicted four weeks ago, and she still wasn’t ready to face him. She’d never be ready to face him.

Yet when Daphne answered proudly, “Out of a book,” Bronwyn knew she must move, but she couldn’t seem to tear her feet from the rug.

A murmur rippled through the assembly, and Bronwyn remembered how kind Rachelle had been to her. She couldn’t allow this to continue, but before she could act, Adam spoke again. “Did they explain what happens when the male is aroused?”

Propelled by horror, Bronwyn squeezed forward. Catching Daphne’s wrist, she squeezed.

“Cherie!” Daphne said. “I’ve been having a fascinating discussion with
Monsieur le Vicomte
.”

Out of patience, out of breath, Bronwyn snapped, “I heard you. So did half of London. The other half will know before the evening grows older.”

Glancing around, Daphne saw the censure of the crowd. “But…the study of the human body is of interest to everyone.”

Praying for patience, Bronwyn answered, “In England, anatomy is discussed discreetly, if at all, and never in public.”

Again Daphne looked around her. The offended ladies raised a breeze as they fanned their hot cheeks and waited to hear more. The titillated gentlemen smirked boldly. For the first time, Daphne thought better of her discussion. She glared at Bronwyn as if it were all her fault, and Bronwyn realized how much Daphne resented her. She braced herself, not surprised when Daphne lashed out, “Look, Cherie blushes. She’s so embarrassed, her chest is red and mottled.”

Bronwyn resisted the temptation to cover her bosom with her hands. Quietly she asked, “Is this how you repay Rachelle’s kindness?”

Daphne couldn’t back down. To Adam she said, “Cherie is older than I, yet I suppose this
poulette petite
knew not how animals mate.”

Bronwyn could taste her dismay, but she retained her composure enough to say, “It’s not the subject that embarrasses me as much as your behavior.”

From the doorway Rachelle said, “Daphne, if we could speak?”

The girl tossed her head as she curtised to Adam, nodded at Bronwyn. The gathering broke into gossiping groups as she left, but Bronwyn beheld none of it. She could see only Adam, austerely handsome, dark and haughty. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping he would disappear.

When she opened them, he still stood before her, but she’d never seen him dressed like this. Gone was the country squire he had been. In his place stood a gentleman dressed in the height of fashion. Gold braid trimmed his dark blue velvet coat. Dark blue breeches and blue stockings hugged nicely formed legs. He posed with one foot extended, his tall walking cane at an angle.

He showed no respect, no interest, only an insulting curiosity in her décolletage. “Charmed,” he drawled. “How do you get your hair that color?”

In her mortification, Bronwyn thought about how she had blushed before. Now fury washed over her, and she replied hotly, “I’m sorry you don’t like it, but I’ll not don that wig again, not even for you.” She swiveled on her heel to stalk away, but his walking stick snagged her elbow and turned her back.

“I can’t imagine why you would.” He only smiled, untouched by anything but a distant amusement. “Are you a new stray Madame Rachelle has picked up?”

Speechless, Bronwyn stared with her lips parted.

“Catching flies, mademoiselle?” he mocked.

Didn’t he know her?

Here in the salon, she was Cherie, the intriguing woman with no background. Freed of the burden of her family’s expectations, she had discovered in herself a female who could flirt, discourse, tempt.

Noblemen who’d ignored her in previous encounters now stared at her without recognition and complimented her on her exotic appearance. She had learned to smile and lower her lids over the eyes they described as enormous, cinnamon-colored, inscrutable. To move aside when they rubbed her hair between their fingers, trying to make the color come off.

With an irony unappreciated by others, she carried an ivory fan at all times. Almost without volition, she had cultivated a French accent, wondering all the time what
she would do if a visitor from France should address her in the language. She played a part, the part of a siren, and discovered her own acting talent. Perhaps, just perhaps…Cautiously, testing Adam, using her new accent, she said, “We haven’t been introduced.”

“Since when do the French rely on the courtesies?” He turned and limped to a settee.

She followed him, consumed with curiosity. He lowered himself onto the cushion. Appalled, Bronwyn watched as he examined her, every inch from top to bottom, then leaned back, his wrist limp. It shocked her to find his vitality replaced with indifference.

What had changed him so?

She glanced at the mirror over the fireplace. Nothing had changed him, it was she who had changed. Changed out of recognition, it seemed. Groping for a semblance of dignity, doubting his sincerity with every step, she advanced on the lounging Adam. “Should you be here if you think so little of the French? Your hostess is French.”

He placed broad hands one atop the other on his malacca cane. “Madame Rachelle has gained my respect.”

Delving into the deep pockets of his coat, he removed a carved, painted, ornate box and opened it. With outstretched hand he asked, “Would you care for a mint pastille?”

She shook her head, and he popped one in his mouth. “One of the few useful French inventions,” he assured her. He scooted closer to the arm of the narrow settee to make room and then patted the place.

She lowered herself to his side. She laid her hand on his arm, felt the caress of velvet on her fingertips, and swiftly removed it. Regardless of her role, regardless of her confidence, she couldn’t touch him without a jolt of memory, a jolt of pleasure. “I am Cherie.”

“Which is not your true name.” She didn’t deny it, and he mocked, “A mystery. How I love them. I must warn you, I will do my best to solve yours.”

She had heard that before from the endless, infatuated visitors to the salon and replied smoothly, “You may try.”

“I’m not familiar with your accent. Where are you from?”

The falsehood came easily to her. “From the north of France, in Picardy.”

“You just arrived from Picardy?”

“
Oui
.”

“Yet you speak English amazingly well.”

She looked him right in the eye. “My governess insisted I learn the language of Norman and Anglo-Saxon. Do you speak French?”

“Touché.” He touched his forehead in a salute. “My French is inadequate.” She relaxed until he added, “When I speak French, I’m fluent in only the language of love.”

Thoughtlessly she chewed on her index finger.

He rescued the abused hand, drew it from her mouth to examine the ragged nails. “You mustn’t bite yourself so,” he chided. “Save that for a lover.”

She blushed. Although she’d been fielding such intimacies with ease from other men, when Adam spoke she could think of no riposte. Jerking her hands out of his, she asked, “What brings you to London, monsieur?”

“I allow you to divert me”—he contemplated her hands as they twined together—“for the moment. I’ve been neglecting Change Alley, and she’s a fickle mistress. I’ll be there tomorrow, circulating among the coffeehouses.”

“You speak of Change Alley as a woman?”

“An exaggeration, of course. A woman is twice as fascinating”—he touched her cheek with one finger—“and twice as fickle.”

“What good does it do you to come to the Alley now? The South Sea Company closed their books at the end of June, and Sir John Blunt took his family to Tunbridge Wells for a rest.”

“
Sir
John?”

“Haven’t you heard? The profit he made so delighted the king, he rewarded his faithful servant with a baronetcy.” She chuckled as she spoke of the head of the South Sea Company, for Adam cradled the sweep of his forehead in his palm in mock despair.

“Fools, all of them. Where stands the South Sea stock now?”

Forgetting her role, she told him, “Over a thousand, and Change Alley still mad with investors.”

A small smile molded his lips. “You’re knowledgeable.”

Slipping back into the persona of Cherie, she said, “La, how could I help it? Madame Rachelle tries to keep the conversation to the arts and sciences, but one and all want to discuss their profits on Change Alley.” Daring, she added, “I’ve discovered an inexplicable distaste for monetary matters.”

“Have you?” He sounded dangerously neutral. “As I’ve always said, a woman should never muck up her pretty head with such matters.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. She’d almost begged him to say that; she couldn’t blame him for giving in to such temptation. Seeking a diversion, she cast her gaze around the room and found a remarkable gentleman peering at them through silver eyeglasses. He dressed well, his wig designed in the newest style, his cravat tied in a French twist. His face was smooth, the color of his complexion even. Like a portrait, he looked perfect—and contrived.

“Who is that man?” she asked. “The man who stares at us?”

He lifted his attention from her with flattering reluctance. “I see no one staring.”

Contemptuously she said, “I can best describe him as the marvel of the paint box.”

“Ah.” He chuckled, and the sound sent thrills up her spine. “You must mean Carroll Judson. He comes to speak to us. Look closely at him, Cherie, and tell me what you see.”

Judson minced up on high heels and bowed to the couple on the settee. “What a pleasant surprise, Lord Rawson.”

“A surprise, anyway.”

Amazed by his rudeness, Bronwyn glanced at Adam and observed the tense muscle of his jaw. It was the return of the old Adam, the man who’d met Bronwyn and found her lacking. He found Carroll Judson lacking, also, and displayed it with no finesse. Did Adam have any measure of tact in his bones?