Priceless (31 page)

Not at all offended, Adam said, “I was a ghastly bore.”

“Exactly. Now it’s as though you’ve become a”—Walpole waved his hands, seeking inspiration—“a real person.”

“Dreadful!”

“You hold real conversations with men about real things, like horses and mistresses. Young women don’t faint when you gaze on them. Of course, they pant a bit
when you gaze on Bronwyn.” Too late, Walpole realized he’d taken the conversation back to the wedding. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll help you marry her.”

Robert Walpole strode through the halls of Boudasea Manor and muttered. What had that girl done to his friend Adam? The man of fire and ice had changed, mellowed. All his fire was directed, controlled, warming rather than scorching. The ice hadn’t melted. It had only become something stronger, less brittle, more enduring.

All cats were gray in the dark, he’d told Adam. Scratch them and they purred. He scrubbed absentmindedly at his stomach. Made a man wonder if he’d missed something.

Adam wanted him to stop the wedding. Risk his reputation as a sane man to stop the wedding. But was it worth his government career to do it? He’d stepped into the devastation left by the South Sea bubble and was even now creating a new government, a stable government, a government in which he assisted the king as his most valued minister. Did Adam think his love was priceless?

No. Walpole shook his head. No, damn it, he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself. Let Adam get himself out of this mess.

“Robert.”

A soft, female, seductive voice beckoned him. He buttoned his waistcoat, lifted his lace handkerchief to his lips, turned around—and straightened so hastily that his back cracked.

“Robert.” Mab, his own personal nemesis, gestured to him through the gap of her workroom door. “Come here.”

He sidled toward Mab, expecting to be blasted for some peccadillo of his that had gotten out of hand. Instead she
smiled on him with charm and warmth, and he knew he was in trouble.

When she had him inside the room, she shut the door, trapping him with no hope of reprieve. Still smiling, she said, “You will stop this wedding.”

The last time. The last time
. The phrase echoed in
Bronwyn’s mind like the chant of some maddened dissenter.

Last night, with the laughter, the tears, the shared dreams and heady revelations, had been the last time. No more would she seek Adam’s arms. No more would she rock with him to celebrate a pleasure so complete, they would never seek it again. No more would she smile when they realized no pleasure was ever complete.

She sat on the bed in Olivia’s room and bit her fist as she listened to Lady Nora alternately command and cajole. “Olivia, dear, it’s time for the ceremony. Stop trembling and stand so we can put this dress on you.”

The next woman to lie in Adam’s bed would be Olivia. Olivia—writhing, damp, groaning. Olivia.

Olivia. Bronwyn shook her head. Olivia wouldn’t appreciate Adam’s skill. She’d be disgusted, using the time of love to pray as assiduously as she prayed right now. Olivia, beautiful sister extraordinaire, would never adore him, would never long for him, would never give him the love he craved.

The sun smiled on the day. Still damp with dew, chrysanthemums decorated every arch and vase. Shrill
with enjoyment, the guests streamed out of the house to the chapel close by. Everything, everything was right for a wedding. But it wasn’t
her
wedding. What should she do? She couldn’t break up her own sister’s wedding. Could she?

The mere thought was ludicrous. Everyone—her mother, her father, Olivia, Adam, herself—everyone would be made a laughingstock. London society would never stop giggling.

But, damn it, Olivia would not move. She kept her eyes fixed on the window, kept her knees planted firmly on the cushion.

“This is not the time to pray,” Lady Nora burst out. “Tonight will be the time to pray.”

Turning her pure, composed face to her mother, Olivia chided, “Any time is the time to pray.”

“Not this time. Not—” Lady Nora caught herself as her voice rose. “Every guest is wearing a rosette, tied in a true love knot and constructed of forest green and silver. Your sisters are dressed and waiting. They look so beautiful, each in a pale green matching gown, beaded with pearls and live roses.”

Bronwyn almost bit off her fingernail but jerked her hand away just in time. Adam had accused her of forcing him to marry Olivia, and perhaps he was right. He couldn’t call off the wedding. To do so would offer Olivia a boorish insult. Only Olivia could refuse—and that would offer Adam an equally offensive insult. Adam and Olivia were locked into a marriage destined to make them both miserable, and only one woman could save them. Only one woman was good enough for Adam, and her name was Bronwyn Edana, translator, lover, knife thrower.

“Even Bronwyn looks gorgeous,” Lady Nora coaxed. “All of society is here. Men of all stations are courting her. Lord Sawbridge—he’s a duke!—claims previous acquaintance, and is positively drooling on her.”

Olivia screwed up her features in disdain, and her gentle voice snapped, “He’s so old, he’s just drooling.”

Lady Nora wrung her hands. “If not Sawbridge, then some other gentleman. Look at her, Olivia. Can you deprive Bronwyn of the chance to make a decent alliance for herself?”

Bronwyn would be miserable, too. She knew it. Three lives sacrificed on the altar of society’s morals? That was too much. She’d advised Olivia that if she wanted something badly enough, she should reach out and take it. Hadn’t that been what Adam had been saying? Her decision made, Bronwyn stood and ordered, “Yes, look at me, Olivia.”

Olivia looked. What she saw in Bronwyn’s eyes brought her to her feet. A communication passed between them, and Olivia’s back straightened. Her fingers intertwined, her face glowed with an inner joy.

“That’s a girl,” Lady Nora crooned, bustling to her side. “Let me call the maids and we’ll put you in your gown.”

“Olivia will allow only me to dress her,” Bronwyn interposed. “Isn’t that right, Olivia?”

Olivia hesitated, then agreed. “That’s right, Maman.” She watched Lady Nora with calm eyes, a serene visage. “Only Bronwyn today.”

“But I’m your mother,” Lady Nora wailed.

“That’s why she wants me.” Smiling an enigmatic smile, Bronwyn moved to Lady Nora’s side and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You’re the mother of the bride, and she knows your presence is required as part of the wedding party.” She nudged Lady Nora toward the door. “Won’t you take this opportunity to manage this wedding in the intoxicating style only you can create?”

“Well, I suppose I should.” Lady Nora fluttered under the influence of such brazen flattery. “That is, I am the only true hostess at this affair. Lady Mab has been positively unhelpful.”

“I know, Maman.”

“I do give the best parties in the best society.”

“That’s true, Maman.”

“But…oh, dear.” Lady Nora looked back at Olivia with real affection, and Bronwyn thought she’d lost. “How can I leave my baby at a time like this?”

Softly Olivia said, “Maman, I insist.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

Hurt sounded in Lady Nora’s voice as she repeated, “Not at
all
?”

“She means she would trust herself in no one else’s hands but mine.” Bronwyn smiled as she held the door wide. “Don’t delay.”

Something about Bronwyn’s smile made Lady Nora look closely, and her eyes narrowed. “Bronwyn…”

“I’m going to put Adam’s bride in the wedding dress you approved for her, and get her down to the chapel on time,” Bronwyn assured her.

Unconvinced, Lady Nora slapped her hand on the closing door. “You don’t have any mischief in mind now, do you?”

“What mischief could I have in mind?” Bronwyn pointed to Olivia, still and peaceful against the frame of the window. “For me to make mischief, I’d have to have the cooperation of my sister, and you know my sister never cooperates with mischief.”

Lady Nora’s expression lightened, but her suspicions still lingered. “She only cooperates with your mischief.”

“I can hardly knock her down and tie her up, can I?” Bronwyn chuckled, indicating the difference in their heights.

Skepticism appeased, Lady Nora nodded. “Very well. I’ll see you as you walk down the aisle, in
front
of your sister.”

Lifting a hand in farewell, Bronwyn shut the door hasti
ly. “Now,” she said, advancing on her sister. “Do I have to knock you down and tie you up?”

Tears rose in Olivia’s eyes, and with mute appeal she shook her head.

“Then you’ll let me take your place?”

“Yes,” Olivia whispered. “It’s the answer to my prayer.”

Bronwyn turned her back to Olivia and ordered, “Unlace me.”

“You are so brave, Bronwyn.” Olivia wrapped her arms around her smaller sister in a tender hug. “You make me brave, too. I can’t do it without you, you know that. I can’t face off Da and Maman and all the ministers they’ll call in to talk to me if you don’t help me.”

Bronwyn returned her hug. “Oh, I’ll help you. The trouble is, even I think you’re meant to be a nun.”

“Yes.” Olivia smiled down at her. “I am. Just as you’re meant to be Lord Rawson’s bride.”

Puckered by the weight of the wedding broach, the silver lace bodice drooped. Constructed for Olivia’s larger head, the traditional garland of myrtle, olive leaf, rosemary, and white-and-purple blossoms slithered from side to side. The forest green skirt tripped Bronwyn until she gathered the front in her arms and carried it along. Her hurry did much to contribute to her clumsiness, but she dared not stop and gather herself together. She wanted no one to note a delay, no one to wonder.

In this, she was unsuccessful. Her mother stood on the step of the church, scanning the horizon as Bronwyn hove into view, and her double take impressed Bronwyn as no comment could. Bronwyn faltered; Lady Nora straightened, tapped her toe, and pointed to the spot directly in front of her. “My forebodings are fulfilled. Come here, young lady.”

Lady Nora seldom spoke in such a manner, and with uncharacteristic meekness Bronwyn complied.

“What do you think you are doing, wearing Olivia’s dress on Olivia’s wedding day?”

“I’m going to get married”—one look at her mother’s uncompromising face, and Bronwyn gulped—“my lady.”

“You can’t do this,” Lady Nora fumed. “What will society think?”

“I don’t care,” Bronwyn declared truculently. “This is more important.”

“More important than our social standing?” Lady Nora sounded and looked exasperated. “You jest, child. What could be more important than our—”

“Maman, I love him.” Bronwyn held out one hand, palm up, pleading for understanding, and the vast creation of the skirt escaped her and slithered to the ground.

“You love
him? You
love him?” Lady Nora tried different inflections to the sentence, quite as if she’d never heard that arrangement of words in the English language. “You
love
him?”

“Yes.”

“Do I understand you? You love the viscount of Rawson?”

Bronwyn nodded, and her mother shook her head dolefully.

“Dear…”

“I love him just as you love Da.”

Lady Nora froze. Her eyes narrowed, she searched Bronwyn’s face. “God help you if that’s true.”

Bronwyn trusted her expression to tell all. It seemed it did, for Lady Nora pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed the tears pooling in the corners of her glorious orbs. “What a disaster. You know how distressing that condition has been to me and to Holly. Couldn’t you learn from our mistakes?”

“I didn’t have a choice, and it sometimes seems you and Holly are more fulfilled with your loves than the other sisters are with their dry and dusty emotions.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lady Nora fretted.

Catching Lady Nora’s hand, Bronwyn beseeched, “Tell me it hasn’t all been miserable between you and Da.”

“No, not miserable.” Lady Nora observed Bronwyn’s pleading face and looked beyond it to her own past. Remembering, she sighed. “Some of it has been quite magnificent.”

“If you had it to do over again?” Bronwyn prompted.

“If I had it to do over again, I would do exactly as I have,” Lady Nora admitted. With a harrumph designed to cover her embarrassment, she lifted the skirt and squinted at its construction. “I wish you’d told me this before. I could have done something with this dress. As it is, you’ll just have to carry it.” Tucking the material into Bronwyn’s waistband, she fussed, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were already wearing your apron strings higher.”

Bronwyn couldn’t mask her flash of pride.

Lady Nora touched a manicured finger to her forehead. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? You are expecting a child.”

“Yes, Maman.”

“Oh, stop smirking. You’re going to make me a grandmother.” Lady Nora moaned delicately. “You’re going to top the biggest scandal of the year with a premature child. How premature will it be?”

“I don’t know a lot about it, but…I believe at least three months.”

Looking, for the first time in Bronwyn’s memory, all of her fifty-three years, Lady Nora pressed a hand on her future grandchild. Then, giving Bronwyn a shove into the chapel, she commanded, “Hurry up and go in. The way you’re loitering out here, I’d think you want to make it four months.”

Lord Gaynor stuck his head out the door. “Nora, for God’s sake, the Sirens of Ireland are lined up at the back of the chapel, awaiting the bride, and their smiles are starting to look practiced. Is that girl ready yet?” His eyes lit on Bronwyn. “Greetings, me colleen. Those are fine feathers
ye’re sporting. Ye’ll catch a man for sure in such—” As he realized whose gown she wore, his frown snapped into place. “What are ye doing in your sister’s wedding garb?”

Bronwyn smiled tentatively. “Now, Da—”

“Don’t ye ‘now, Da’ me!” His Irish accent grew with every syllable. “You can’t fool your ol’ papa. What have ye done with Olivia?”

“Oh, Da.”

He paced across the chapel steps. “I don’t know where you got your fecklessness.”

“From you?” Bronwyn suggested.

“You keep saying that!” Lord Gaynor paced back to her. “Why do ye keep saying that? I’m not feckless.”

“No, Da.”

“Wipe that grin off your face, and tell me”—he braced himself, expecting the worst—“did you knock her down and bind her with a rope?”

“She’s fine,” Bronwyn assured him.

“Ye’ll never convince me Olivia agreed to this!”

She didn’t know what to say. Olivia’s dilemma must wait for another time. “Actually—”

Perhaps he suspected, for he held up one hand. “Don’t tell me. Just answer me question. What are ye doing in your sister’s gown?”

Lady Nora adjusted the garland of flowers that had slid over Bronwyn’s ear. “She’s waiting for her father to give her away.”

Lord Gaynor gaped at his wife. “Are ye telling me ye approve of these shenanigans?”

With great significance Lady Nora said, “Yes, Grandfather, I do.”

Mouth working, Lord Gaynor assimilated the information and let out a whoop. Holding Bronwyn in his arms, he twirled her around. “A babe?”

She nodded while Lady Nora fretted, “Put her down, Rafferty, do. You’re ruining her hair.”

“A babe.” The twirling slowed. He placed Bronwyn on the ground and stalked toward the door. “I knew I should have killed that bastard.”

Lady Nora caught him by the elbow and jerked him around. “If you kill him, he can’t marry Bronwyn.”

“You’re right.” He took a breath. “First he’ll marry her. Then I’ll kill him.”

“Da, there’s no reason to kill him,” Bronwyn pointed out. “He doesn’t know about the babe.”

Astonished, Lord Gaynor said, “He doesn’t know?”

Lady Nora echoed, “He doesn’t know?”

Bronwyn chewed her lip. “Do you think he’ll be angry?”

Her parents exchanged long, meaningful looks.

“Not about the babe, but certainly that you didn’t tell him. I think this day’s work has saved us from the much bigger scandal of marriage and immediate annulment. If Adam had married Olivia, then found you were with child…” Lord Gaynor sighed dolefully.

“I suppose we could have hidden Bronwyn away?” Lady Nora suggested, arranging Bronwyn’s unrestrained locks, tucking the singed ends into her neckline.