Priceless (32 page)

They considered it. Lord Gaynor shook his head, followed by Lady Nora. “No,” Lord Gaynor decided. “The truth would have come out. I’m no coward, m’dear, but I blench at the thought of facing Adam at that juncture.”

Lady Nora shuddered. “Indeed.”

“How will I tell him, then?” Bronwyn wondered.

“In bed tonight,” Lady Nora instructed. “Men are notoriously indulgent on their wedding night.”

“Yes.” Bronwyn thought, then asked, “What’s the French word for pregnant?”

“
Enceinte
.” Lady Nora stared. “Why?”

From the door of the chapel, Bronwyn heard, “Move!”

“You move!”

“Me first, I’m the oldest.”

Turning, she saw Holly and Linnet, identical sisters
dressed in identical pale green gowns, struggling to exit the church. Neither would give up first place, and at last they popped out onto the porch, their panniers crushed.

“Da, everyone’s getting restless,” Linnet began. “Where’s—Oh God, it’s Bronwyn.”

“I told you Bronwyn caused the delay,” Holly told her sister smugly. “Adam looks ill, Da. Now that the bride is here, shouldn’t we begin the wedding?”

“Yes, begin at once,” Lady Nora ordered. “Oh, wait! Wait until I’m seated.” She glared at Bronwyn as though her daughter were responsible for her own heedlessness. “Six weddings I’ve put on, Bronwyn, and I’ve never had these snags occur before.”

With absolute certainty Bronwyn answered, “You won’t again, Maman, I promise you.”

Lady Nora sniffed as she entered the chapel. Linnet and Holly began their struggle to enter once more, and Bronwyn heard two shrieks as her father pushed them in.

“There.” He straightened his collar. “How does your ol’ da look?”

Standing on tiptoe, Bronwyn kissed his cheek. “Dashing as ever. No one will even look at Adam when you’re there.”

“Humph.” He offered his arm and led her through the door to the vestibule. “Ye’ve got the gift of blarney. I suppose ye’ll try and blame that on me, too.”

“No, Da.” Faced with the prospect of hundreds of staring, twittering, gossiping faces just beyond the arches, Bronwyn stiffened with nerves.

Impervious to Bronwyn’s stage fright, Lord Gaynor asked, “Why didn’t ye tell the man?”

Her sisters started down the aisle. Each trying to outdo the other, they scattered flower petals in great, dramatic sweeps of their lily white hands. “Tell who what?”

“Tell Adam about the babe.” He waited until his daughters had cleared the aisle and clustered about the altar.
Then, beaming like the proud father he was, he guided Bronwyn into the chapel.

Speculation swept the church at her appearance in the bridal gown, and her fear turned to terror. Repeated in loud whispers, her name assaulted her as she stumbled forward.

Never breaking his stately stride, her father nudged her. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

She gathered her composure enough to offer an answer she hoped would satisfy her father. “He thought I was ugly.”

Lord Gaynor’s practiced smile dipped. “Adam? Adam said you were ugly?”

As she saw the matrons with sharp-toothed grins, her teeth chattered. “No, he never said it. I just thought—”

“Look at him and tell me he thinks ye’re ugly.”

For the first time, Bronwyn looked to the altar where Adam stood. Smooth white satin couldn’t compare to the magnificence of his rugged, tanned face and strong hands. His dark hair, combed and left to wave around his shoulders, couldn’t compare to the fire in his eyes when he looked at her. And look at her he did, with such pride and passion that her tension fell from her. His hand pressed to the place above his heart. In his smile mixed equal parts of incredulity, relief, joy.

He thought she was beautiful. How could she have forgotten?

He watched her stumble along in a skirt too long for her, in a bodice so low and large that she was in danger of exposing herself, and he saw only her face. Piquant, expressive, adoring him as if he were someone special. She thought he was wonderful. How could he have doubted her?

“Adam.” She formed his name with her lips, and he took a step forward. He heard the sigh as romantic delight caught the congregation, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from
Bronwyn to look at them. He could only reach out his hand; she laid hers within it.

The Anglican minister, who owed his position to the good grace of Lord Rawson, knew better than to question this unorthodox switch of brides. Gracefully he inserted Bronwyn’s name into the ceremony. Bronwyn repeated her vows in a whisper. Adam repeated his too loudly. The minister asked if any had objections and paused with a smile. It faded as someone cleared his throat.

A sinking feeling assailed Adam. Not now. Fate couldn’t be so cruel as to stop them now. Slowly he turned to face the congregation and found his friend Robert Walpole standing, finger in the air, wearing a brazen grin. “Oh, no,” Adam whispered. Then aloud, “Robert.” Adam said no more, but even Walpole’s name was a threat.

Robert ignored it, and him. “I have the right to speak, I believe.”

The minister nodded sickly.

“It’s a shame such a charming lady is marrying such a curmudgeon. Does Lady Bronwyn realize what she’s getting in this fellow?” Bronwyn nodded in reply to his question, but Walpole ignored her. “I’ve known Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson, for years, and I tell you the fellow is a stiff-necked, ethical bore. He refuses every bribe I offer him. He insists on total honesty in his business dealings. I ask you, what kind of man would offer assistance to the people cheated by the sale of false South Sea Company stock?” He pointed an accusing finger at Adam. “Only Lord Rawson.”

Not pleased with Robert’s revelations, Adam ordered, “Robert, sit down.”

Walpole pointed instead at Bronwyn. “Lady Bronwyn is going to have to put up with this kind of relentless do-gooding for all the years of their wedded life. The woman is young, beautiful, and, dare I say it?”

Emboldened by the spirits he’d consumed, one of the gentlemen beside him called, “Say it. Say it!”

“Intelligent,” Walpole said with a flourish. “Yes, she’s intelligent, and instead of dancing the night away with some light-footed, heavy-handed dandy, she’ll be forced to listen to Lord Rawson’s plans to make ever more and more money until their family is the wealthiest in England.”

Another gentleman gasped in simulated astonishment.

“The wealthiest in England,” Walpole repeated. “Imagine, if you will, Lady Bronwyn’s life, surrounded by luxury, overwhelmed by riches, worshiped by her husband. Why, she’ll be forced to spend her time vetting offers of marriage for their children from the finest families in the British Isles.”

“Sit down, Mr. Walpole,” Bronwyn said.

“And look at them.” Walpole waved a beefy hand toward the almost married couple. “They blatantly adore each other. Can we as English aristocrats allow such a marriage to take place? What would be the results of such fidelity within our class?”

“Sit down, Robert,” Mab said.

Robert sat so hard, the pew shook. Hunching his shoulders, he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and whistled softly.

The minister looked over his glasses at the sniggering congregation. “Does anyone else feel the desire to object to this marriage for any
justifiable
reason?”

A few gentlemen cleared their throats, but none could face Adam’s menace, all the more powerful for being unspoken.

Rapidly the minister intoned, “Thus two lives become one. May God’s blessing follow you all your years as man and wife.” He took a breath. “You, Lord Rawson, may kiss the bride.”

Adam pulled Bronwyn toward him until he could see down the gaping neckline. He wanted to look there, and
at her legs, at her waist, at her back, but he wanted to touch everywhere. Low and deep, he said, “I’m honored that such an intelligent, charming lady has consented to marry such a curmudgeon. I had moments when I doubted she would.”

“You aren’t a curmudgeon.” She cradled his cheek in her hand as gently as she would cradle a bird’s egg. “You’re just as kind, and generous, clever and honorable as Walpole said.”

Kissing her wrist, he breathed in the scent of oranges and said, “I don’t give a damn what the rest of society thinks. I only care what my bride thinks.”

She blushed. “You’re lucky she came to her senses, or
she
would have had to object in the midst of the ceremony.”

“It would have never come to that.” Adam lifted his head and glared briefly at Robert Walpole. “Fool that I am, I instructed Robert to interrupt at that point in the ceremony. I just didn’t give him alternate instructions, and there’s nothing Robert loves more than a jest.”

Her mouth curled in a smile. “It was funny.”

“You have an odd sense of humor, Cherie.
Mais je t’ adore
.”

“Oh, I adore you, too.” The fragrant wreath on her head slipped down until it rested on her ear. “Will you teach me French?”

He gathered her closer. “And Spanish. And Italian. And Arabic.”

Impatient at last, Walpole shouted, “Kiss her!”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she promised, “And I’ll teach you Gaelic.”

Adam smiled at her. As she smiled back, he saw the reflection of his fire in her.

“Walpole’s right. Kiss her!” Mab yelled.

From the far back of the church, Olivia’s voice chimed, “Kiss her!”

“Kiss her! Kiss her!” The demand came from all sides.

“You’ll be mine?” Adam whispered.

“All my life,” she vowed.

“All my love,” he answered, lowering his mouth to hers.

As their lips mated in the first kiss of their married life, Walpole had the last word. “
Ah, vive l’ amour!
”

Christina Dodd’s novels have been translated into ten languages, won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart and RITA
^®
Awards, and been called the year’s best by
Library Journal.
Dodd is a regular on the
USA Today, Publishers Weekly
, and
New York Times
bestseller lists.
The Barefoot Princess
is the second book in her classic new series, The Lost Princesses, following her enormously popular novel,
Some Enchanted Evening.

Christina loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.christinadodd.com.

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