Priceless (19 page)

Inside the room, Lord Gaynor leaned against the wall, his hands in his coat pockets, clearly impatient. Lady Nora and Lady Holly sat on either side of Rachelle, identical bookends around one courageous lady, while Daphne hovered behind. The noblewomen sipped tea, creating civilized chatter as they waited.

Her father spotted her first. “Bronwyn?” Lord Gaynor straightened up. He gaped. With love and pride in his eyes, he cried, “Ah, Bronwyn, how beautiful ye are!”

“Da.” Bronwyn opened her arms, and they rushed together in a mighty hug. “Da! I didn’t realize how much I missed you.”

“Me lass. Me Bronwyn.” He held her face up so he could examine it. “What happened to ye here? The London air must agree with ye.”

Bronwyn laughed and gulped. “So it does.”

“Let her go, Rafferty, and let me look at her,” Lady Nora’s soft voice commanded.

Lord Gaynor held Bronwyn at arm’s length, twirled her around in one light dance step. “Can you see what someone has done to our brown little elf? She’s become a fairy.”

Lady Nora trained her educated eye on Bronwyn. Setting down her tea cup, she rose to circle her daughter while Bronwyn held her breath. Her finger on her lips, Lady Nora examined Bronwyn’s gown, her hair, her new-
grown fingernails…and broke into a smile. “Quite marvelous. What a transformation.” She enfolded Bronwyn carefully into her arms and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

“I told you, Maman.” Holly leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “I barely recognized her myself.”

Lady Nora laughed indulgently. “I am her mother. I would recognize her regardless of her circumstances, but this is a splendid surprise.” To Bronwyn she said, “And you wondered if you were our daughter. Surely your visage proves it now.”

Blushing, Bronwyn glanced at Rachelle. “I couldn’t have done it without Rachelle.”

“A Frenchwoman’s touch,” Lady Nora agreed without a trace of malice. “I should have sent you to France years ago. No one knows more about accenting a woman’s beauty.” She shook her head. “When I think of all the years wasted…”

“Not wasted,” Rachelle said. “Our Cherie is intelligent enough to have done this for herself. She did not care enough.”

“Not care enough?” Lady Nora laughed a chiming laugh. “Of course she cared. Many a time I remember her unhappiness when the Sirens of Ireland lined up and she was so different.”

Rachelle corrected firmly, “She cared because you cared. She did not care for herself—at least, not enough. Not until she had a reason to care.”

Lady Nora whisked that away with a flutter of her well-manicured fingers. “Whatever the reason, it’s pleasure to welcome Bronwyn into the fold. And a relief, a real relief——she dabbed at an imminent tear—“to know she is safe.”

Bronwyn’s tears refused to be restricted as her mother’s were. She loved her parents, for all they were shallow and selfish. They were hers, and she adored them for their gaiety, their pleasure in living. “I’m so glad to see you again,” she sobbed.

Lord Gaynor replied promptly, “And glad I will be to take ye with us.”

Bronwyn jerked her head out of her handkerchief, tears drying on her hot cheeks. “No, Da, I won’t go.”

Looks were exchanged over her head; strategies were implemented on the moment. “How did you meet Madame Rachelle?” Lord Gaynor asked, suspicion tense in his every word.

Innocent as the dew on the rose, Bronwyn tapped his chest with her finger. “Remember, Da, when we were on our way to Lord Rawson’s and Olivia and I left the inn? We told you we came to Rachelle’s salon, and you didn’t believe us.”

Dumbfounded, Lord Gaynor rocked back on his heels. He checked with Rachelle, and Rachelle nodded without words. “Saints preserve us, ye really meant it!” He stared at Bronwyn, then burst into laughter. “Fooling me with the truth. Well, aren’t ye the sly one?”

Bronwyn grinned at him, and while she was unwary, he asked, “And just what kind of place is this salon? I can scarcely believe it’s respectable.”

“It is respectable, Da,” Bronwyn burst out. “Rachelle allows no hint of notoriety to taint her salon.”

“Not even these rumors of murder?” he insisted.

Her da had come better prepared than she suspected, Bronwyn thought glumly. “The rumors are a lie. I know that better than anyone.”

Something about her, or about Rachelle, or a simple disbelief that anyone could kill her own child, convinced Lord and Lady Gaynor.

Attacking from a different angle, Lady Nora said, “Your reputation will be in ruins.”

“How? Holly hardly recognized me when she first entered the salon. My dear sister Holly”—Bronwyn glared—“who vowed not to tell Maman and Da where I was.”

The front door slammed, and footsteps echoed in the
entry. The new footman spoke. A deep, resonant voice replied, and Bronwyn cringed as she recognized it.

Holly leaned forward and grasped the arms of her chair in earnest goodwill. “I wasn’t going to, but when Da told me—”

Lord Gaynor waved her to silence as he stared toward the entrance, and Bronwyn was very much afraid he, too, recognized the masculine voice. The footsteps moved toward the study. Bronwyn tensed.

Trying to divert the pending explosion, Rachelle said, “Lord and Lady Gaynor, my home is most respectable. No one has ever taken advantage of one of the girls while they lived under my room. All are chaste.”

With an eerie sense of doom, Bronwyn saw Adam framed in the door. His brooding eyes took in the whole seen, and her heart plunged when Daphne pronounced trumphantly, “Lord Rawson is living here.”

Rachelle turned on her young boarder. “Betrayal is ugly, Daphne, and unforgivable.”

The color washed from Daphne’s cheeks, and she shrank back. Extending her hands, she pleaded silently for understanding, but Rachelle turned from her.

“He’s living here?” Lord Gaynor asked with a dangerous calm.

No one spoke.

It was up to her, Bronwyn realized. Adam wouldn’t disgrace her by declaring she was his paramour, and she dared not tell her da. He looked dangerous, with narrowed eyes that examined Adam and found him wanting. Bronwyn cleared her throat and lied, “It’s not what you think.”

Lord Gaynor turned his head and looked at her. “What do I think?”

He sounded genial, but she wasn’t fooled. He was as furious as only a father could be—a father whose favorite daughter had come to disgrace. She lifted her hand. “He lives in this house, but—”

With a roar like a cannon, Lord Gaynor turned on Adam. “I hold ye responsible. Ye have ruined me daughter, me babe. To think I admired ye, thought ye the best of my sons-in-law, and ye’ve brought the Edana family low.”

Adam held up his hands. “I’ll make amends as you require.”

“Ye’ll marry her!” Lord Gaynor bellowed. “Never think ye’ll get off without giving her reputation back on one of those golden platters your servants wave about.”

“Lord Gaynor, I’d be glad to marry—”

“Da, you can’t make me marry—”

Lady Nora’s chiming voice ordered, “Quiet!” She spoke so emphatically, all obeyed. All eyes turned to her as she sat straight on her chair. “Lord Rawson can’t marry Bronwyn.”

Lord Gaynor turned a distinct shade of mauve. “What?”

“What do you mean?” Bronwyn asked.

“Oh, hush, Maman,” Holly begged.

“Lord Rawson can’t marry Bronwyn,” Lady Nora insisted. “He’s betrothed to marry Olivia.”

Bronwyn hadn’t heard correctly. She knew she hadn’t heard correctly. Adam would never do such a thing. With her gaze, she sought her mother’s face. This must be humor from a singularly humorless lady.

Yet Lady Nora was gazing earnestly at Lord Gaynor and saying, “We can’t have this kind of scandal. First we announce Lord Rawson is marrying our daughter Bronwyn, then that there’s been a mistake and he’s marrying our daughter Olivia. He’s been betrothed to Olivia ever since Bronwyn ran away. Can you imagine the talk if we said we were wrong once more?”

Adam would never become betrothed to Olivia. Bronwyn knew it. Her da revenged himself on her for her defection, nothing more. She turned to Da, expecting him to be watching her with a sly twinkle in his eye.

He was not. He answered, “Don’t ye think our conse
quence is large enough that we could pretend we’d never made the second announcement?”

“La, there’s a fond father.” Lady Nora shook her finger at Lord Gaynor and called to Bronwyn, “Did you hear what your father wants to do? Isn’t it absurd?”

Bronwyn nodded numbly. Her parents spoke, to Rachelle, to her, but she couldn’t understand the language. They stood. They kissed her cheeks, preparing to take their leave, so she supposed an arrangement for her care had been worked out. Still, she didn’t understand anything. With Holly, her parents walked to the door.

Bronwyn looked to Holly. She moved her lips: “Please.”

Holly’s big blue eyes teared in sympathy, and she shook her head sadly.

It was true.

Bronwyn caught a chair and held it, fighting to maintain her balance against the wave of pain sweeping over her. When she opened her eyes, she found intense gray eyes anchored on her. Adam still stood in the doorway, still armored in his indifference.

Her heart had been torn out, and
he
was indifferent.

Eyes locked with his, she pulled out the scarf that, at his request, shielded her bosom, and ripped it across with the hiss of tearing silk. She threw the shredded cloth to the floor. She wasn’t restrained. She wasn’t adult. She lifted her foot and stomped on it. She ground it into the floor. She jumped on it, and then she stalked to the stairs, where she looked Adam up and down. She sniffed in contempt. She snapped her fingers under his nose, then with one hand on his chest she shoved him aside. She would go to her room and pack. No, she would go to her room and never leave. She’d lock herself in and they could pass food under the door.

No, she’d go to her room and dress for the salon, and come down and charm everyone and Adam would be sorry—

Adam let her set her foot to the first step before he called, “Please remember, you don’t want to marry me.”

Bronwyn didn’t throw her patch box on purpose; it simply flew out of her hand at high speed. Adam dodged, and she shouted, “Damn you!”

Skirts gathered well above her knees, she raced up the stairs. She didn’t know if he followed her, but she hoped he did. She hoped he did, for when next an item flew out of her hand, it would hit him. She swore it would hit him.

Bursting into her room, she found the maid picking up her clothes. “Get out!” she yelled, holding the door open. The stunned girl ran past her, and Bronwyn shoved the door just as Adam’s palm slammed against it. She put her shoulder against it. He pushed it open without effort.

Her fan burst from her grip and made contact with his forehead.

A spot of blood appeared, and he touched it with his finger. He stared at it in amazement, then slammed the door shut behind him. “You little termagant.”

Awash in grief and fury, she shouted, “How could you do this to me?”

“Be logical, Bronwyn.” He grinned, baring his teeth. “You don’t want to marry me.”

“I don’t have to be logical.” Arms crossed over her chest, she turned her back on him. “You came to Rachelle’s knowing who I was, knowing you were betrothed to my sister—my sister!—and you still seduced me—”

“
You
seduced
me
,” he corrected, infuriatingly calm.

“And I liked it.”

“Of course.”

His acknowledgment did nothing to restore her temper. She swung around to face him again. “Do you feel no shame?”

“None.” He twisted the key in the lock and lifted it to show her.

She sucked in the stifling air. “If you believe you can debauch me any time you wish, you’re due for a sad awakening.”

His tones were heavy with surprise. “Debauch? That’s not what you called it before.”

She tossed her head.

Weighing the key in his hand, he came to a decision. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the key onto the chest of drawers. “I
can
debauch you any time I wish. It’s what you’ve been wanting these last three weeks, is it not?”

“You!” Taking deep breaths did nothing to alleviate her fury. Indeed, it only made her sorry for tearing the scarf, for her breasts strained against her low neckline, and he didn’t fail to notice. Nor did he try to hide his appreciation. “Two and a half weeks! And I only wanted you when I believed you free of entanglements.”

With his gaze still on her bosom, he removed his waistcoat. “I told you I would do anything to get you to marry me, and a lively night life seemed an ostensible persuasion.”

“You’d do anything but end your betrothal to my beautiful sister.”

“Did you want me to cry off?” He moved toward her, stalking her, discarding his cravat as he came. “Such conduct is impossible for a gentleman.”

She wanted to scorch him with her disdain. “When did you ever worry about your reputation as a gentleman?”

Grinning offensively, he said, “I doubt your sister will appreciate being the center of such a tidbit of gossip.”

“Oh, I see.” Too angry to be cautious, she stood her ground until he stood so close, she had to tilt her head to look into his face. “You were being considerate of Olivia. It couldn’t have been that you hoped to land in her bed, too?”

His hands, reaching out for her, stopped, dropped to his side. “I have no interest in Olivia. You of all people should know that.”

“Olivia is one of the Sirens of Ireland. Olivia is as lovely as the rising sun. I’ve seen men fall and worship at her feet with their first glance.” Her lip curled. “Do you expect me to believe you don’t want her?”

“Foolish woman, I fell and worshiped at her feet with my first glance, and stood up on my second.” He laughed, brief and bitter. “Don’t think you can fool me. You use this betrothal as a way to tell me you want me to leave you alone.”

“Leave me alone?”

“Believe me, I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I always knew you would be horrified when you discovered my family history. I tried to keep the stain of it away from you. I failed. Why would any woman stay with the son of a criminal?”

“Your father?” She began to understand his babblings. “Are you talking about the story ol’ Sawbones and Daphne told me? That you’re counterfeiting South Sea stock?”