He lifted the glass and swallowed. The brandy stung his throat, enlivened him in a way no spirits had ever done before. Surely it was the spirits. Surely it wasn’t the proximity of one indignant woman.
“Do you know what your problem is?” she asked.
“No,” he drawled, “but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
She stalked to the liquor cabinet, pulled a clean goblet from the tray, placed it with a crash that almost broke the delicate stem. “You’re ungracious and ungrateful.”
The scent of oranges tickled his nose, titillated his taste buds, made him hungry—for her. She stood too close. How was he supposed to remain distant when she came so close? “It’s a family failing,” he said.
She poured herself a brandy.
“Rather strong for a lady, isn’t it?”
After checking the level in his goblet, she lifted and poured again.
“How childish.”
The golden liquid swirled as she lifted it. “You think that excuses everything, don’t you?”
Startled, he demanded, “What?”
“Your father was hung as a counterfeiter, so you think it doesn’t matter what you do—society will never approve of you anyway. You think you can buy a bride, and when she proves to be too ugly for your taste, you can trade her in for one of her sisters.”
He meant to sound patient, dignified. Instead his reply came out in a yell. “Now wait a moment. I didn’t just trade you. You ran away.”
Jutting out her chin, widening her eyes, she said, “Humph.”
She made him so angry. Grabbing her bare shoulder to shake her, he found his palm filled with the heat of her. He’d grabbed a hot poker, and he let her go, knowing he’d been burned.
She knew it, too, and juggled the goblet carelessly in her fingers. “Why shouldn’t I run away from a man who’s so intent on correcting the past that he’s incapable of recognizing the quality of the present, the potential of the future?”
“A pretty way of telling me you’ve at last realized the repercussions of my father’s crime will echo forever.”
She finished her brandy in one irritable gulp. “Why should I care what your father was?”
He grabbed her hand and held it still to refill her glass, then filled his own. “You were supposed to marry me. Do you want to take the chance our children will be tainted with such dishonesty?”
“I have an Irish great-grandfather who was hung as a murderer. My mother’s family can be traced back to William the Conqueror, and a right bunch of knightly thieves they were. Do you want to take the chance our children will be tainted with such dishonesty?”
Was she making a joke? Why did she refuse to see how his paternity had stigmatized him? “That’s different,” he shouted.
“How?” she shouted back.
Clenching his jaw so hard he could scarcely speak, he said, “We have talked about this before. I have been marked by my father’s crimes.”
She choked on the rich brandy and in meaningful tones said, “I find that hard to swallow.”
“You can joke about this?” he asked incredulously.
Waving her hands, glass still clenched tight, she ignored the liquor that slopped onto the rug. “Joke about what?”
“I was almost killed for counterfeiting South Sea stock.”
“Judson very skillfully set you up to take the blame.”
Like a mouse on a treadmill, he explained the same thing over and over, changing the words, hoping this time she would understand. “Judson chose to set me up because my father counterfeited good English money. If anyone, anyone else needs a dupe, where will he look? Why, to me.”
“That’s true,” she agreed, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. But why spend your whole life trying to convince the world you’re honest?”
A bitter note tinged his voice. “A situation such as Judson set up must always cast doubt on my character.”
Patiently she asked, “Did you counterfeit South Sea stock?”
“No.”
“Would you ever do anything so deceitful?”
“No.”
Lifting her glass in a toast, she said, “Very well, I support you. Your word is good enough for me.”
In a rage, he threw his glass at the fireplace. It shattered into a thousand shards, brandy spraying the marble. The strong scent of it struck him, pleased him with its statement. “You’re a stupid woman. You shouldn’t trust someone just because he tells you something.”
She threw her glass after his. Its splatter was equally satisfying. “I don’t trust everybody, but I do trust you. Don’t you know why you’re not a popular man? It’s because of your total honesty, your rigid refusal to take bribes or play social games. Oh, when you make the effort, you can be polite, make small talk, pretend to be like the other dilettantes. But you can’t sustain the effort. It becomes too much for you. You revert to being Adam Keane, former seaman, merchant, broker. You’re as steady as a rock, and when you say you haven’t been counterfeiting, I believe you. If you had never spoken of it, I would still believe in you. You have never told me a lie.”
The violence of her action shocked him. The vigor of her words convinced him. His gaze bored into her with all the intensity of the temperament she described. “You don’t believe I’m a counterfeiter?”
“How silly do you think I am?”
“If I told you everyone else in London believes it, what would you say?”
“That they’re fools.” She sighed. “Like someone else I could name. But not everyone in London believes you’re a counterfeiter. If they don’t know you, they may believe it. If they are acquaintances of yours, they may pretend to believe it, to further their own ends. But your friends don’t believe it. Robert Walpole doesn’t believe it. Neither does Northrup, nor Rachelle.”
“You don’t know that,” he said automatically.
“Of course I do. Ask any of them.”
He staggered under the impact of these new ideas. He’d lived his whole life proving his worth, proving his reliability, and knowing all the time it counted for nothing because of his father’s corruption. Now this bit of a woman before him insisted…“Northrup believes in me, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And if you say Madame Rachelle does…well, I’m flattered.”
“Good.”
“Robert is here.” He rubbed his chin with his fingers. “I could ask him.”
“You do that.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe in you,” she answered steadily.
“You never doubted me?” he probed.
“No.”
He pressed his fingers to his face. Inside, he experienced a subtle shift. If Robert believed in him, and Rachelle, and Northrup, why hadn’t he been able to accept it? Not even his mother’s support had convinced him of his worth in others’ eyes. What was the difference? Cautiously he lowered his hands and looked at Bronwyn. Bronwyn, impatient, quick-tempered, impetuous with her affections, yet intelligent enough to attract the admiration of some of London’s best minds. It was Bronwyn’s assurances he’d needed, Bronwyn’s logic that convinced him. “Then what my father did doesn’t matter.”
Briskly she agreed, “That’s correct.”
He reached out his hands, took hers, squeezed them. “No, I mean—I can give him up. All the hurts, all the abandonments, all the careless affections he lavished on us even as he destroyed us.”
Something in his countenance must have alerted her to the changes sweeping over him. Never releasing his hand, she led him to the chairs beside the desk and pressed him down there. Seating herself, she asked, “Did you love him?”
Instinctively he said, “No!”
“Oh. I thought perhaps you did. I know I love my father, despite his failings.” Amusement curved her lips. “Because of his failings.”
Relaxing back on the chair, he thought about his father for the first time in years. “Did I love him? I don’t know. Maybe.
Yes, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if he knew it was too late for him. He bought my naval commission with counterfeit money and put me on my ship before I could even say good-bye to my mother. Years later I found out he was arrested within the week, hung within the month.”
“Did they let you keep your commission?”
“By the time word reached my captain, we’d been around the world twice and I was his right-hand man.” He smiled harshly. “British ships avoid home port when possible. The conscripts leap from the rails.”
She pressed him for revelations. “Did your father know it would be years before his crimes caught up with you?”
“No doubt.”
With delicate good sense she pointed out, “Then perhaps he loved you.”
Why not admit it? The healing Bronwyn had imparted to him provided sanctuary even for his father. “As much as was possible for that shallow man to love, I suppose he did.” Cupping her face, he confessed, “I’ve searched the world over for someone like you.”
Bright and jagged as a bolt of lightning, she said, “Don’t worry. You’re not stuck with me. I may howl a bit, but you can marry Olivia. I’ll even be her bridesmaid. Why not? I’ve been bridesmaid to every one of my sisters.”
Olivia. “My God, I’d forgotten about Olivia.”
“Everyone has,” she said, jerking her hand from his and ducking away from his caress. “That’s why I came in to see you. She’s miserable. Can’t you take the time to reassure her about this marriage?”
“Olivia,” he repeated.
“Yes, Olivia. You know, the beautiful sister? The one you’re going to marry?”
She sounded so flippant. She thought he didn’t want her—because she wasn’t as glamorous as her sisters. How dare she mock him, when she was so pigheaded? With all the cunning of a hunter, he said, “You say I’ve never lied to you.”
“Never.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She made a soft sound of disgust. “I also said you could play the social game if you chose.”
He ignored her. “You’re the only woman I want. All of London knows it.”
Head turned away, she riffled through a pile of papers. She didn’t speak out loud, only mumbled, “Then why have you abandoned me?”
Savoring his incipient victory, he said, “You’ve been behaving oddly.”
“Oddly?” Her voice rose. “You’re a fine one to talk. You’re going to marry my sister.”
“I didn’t think I could have you. Olivia hasn’t your intelligence, and I believed she would never trouble herself about my honesty.” With his index finger, he pressed on her cheek until she faced him. “I told you, I thought you were measuring me against my father.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
He leaned back, crossed his ankles, and smiled. “Almost as ridiculous as measuring yourself against your sisters.”
She lifted his paperweight, hefted it as if she would throw it, too. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Your father is dead. Cruel people keep the myth alive, and only because they know it hurts you,” she insisted. “My sisters are alive, alluring—”
“Vain, simple-minded, and dull,” he finished for her. “However, they are accomplished social butterflies, and what does that win them? They’ll never grow. They have no ambition to be more than they are”—he pulled her into his arms—“and they’ll always be less than you are.”
He sounded so genuine, so honest. He knocked the support of her indignation from beneath her, and without her anger the misery crept in. Feeling bruised, she whispered, “Why are you being so nice to me?”
Knocking his knuckles lightly against her forehead as if he could pound the truth into her, he said with slow, plain emphasis, “Because I love you.”
Adam’s declaration echoed in the night air, but Bronwyn said nothing. Impatient with her reticence, he prodded, “I said I love you. Have you nothing to say in return?”
She started to speak, did not. Said his name, but no more. His darling, the lady who lived to translate documents, to use language with precision, appeared to be inarticulate. He smiled, more charmed by her speechlessness than by any other’s eloquent declaration, and he leaned close to encourage her words with his kisses.
The sharp rap of knuckles on the door had them springing up and apart.
“Come in,” Adam called gruffly.
The door swung wide, and a maid bustled in carrying two candelabras alight with flame. “Got candles fer ye, master.”
“So I see.”
The perky maid stood, awaiting instruction.
“Oh, put one on my desk and another over there somewhere.” He waved vaguely.
“Aye, master. Gettin’ dark earlier an’ earlier, ain’t it?”
“That it is.” With the newfound illumination, he could see the flush bathing Bronwyn. It scarcely seemed possible, but that warm color made her more attractive than ever. Never taking his gaze from Bronwyn, he fished in his desk drawer until he found a coin. He tossed it to the maid. “Close the door behind you.”
The girl observed them, standing so stiff, and she stifled a giggle. “Aye, sir.” She curtsied as she pocketed the coin. “Thank ye, sir.”
As the door clicked shut, Adam and Bronwyn rushed together. As she clutched him around the neck and lifted her face to his kiss, he knew he’d come home. Their lips melded like iron in a forge. Nothing could ever separate them.
“Bronwyn?”
From outside the study door he heard a woman’s voice, but nothing could break through the sensual fire that enveloped him.
“Bronwyn?”
In his arms, Bronwyn began to struggle.
“No,” he moaned.
“It’s my mother.” At the knock, she jerked him back by his hair. “Let go. It’s my mother.”
Her frantic demand penetrated. Reluctantly he loosened his grip and slithered onto a chair. Bronwyn started for the door, and he woke to his situation. He was alone with Bronwyn, he was aroused, and he most definitely didn’t want her mother to see. Scooting the chair beneath the desk, he folded his hands before him and tried to look businesslike and calm.
Bronwyn flung wide the door. “Maman! What a surprise to see you.”
Lady Nora frowned.
“I mean, to see you here.” Bronwyn smiled brightly. “In Adam’s study.”
“Yes, I can see it would be.” Lady Nora watched as Bronwyn licked her lips. “I thought we should have the final fitting on your dress for tomorrow. We have to make sure you’re displayed to your best advantage. There are many eligible men here for the wedding.”
Adam’s knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip.
“The dressmaker did the final fitting today,” Bronwyn said.
“I want to assure myself of her reliability. You know she measured the waist wrong the first time she—”
“Ooh, Maman, you’re absolutely correct,” Bronwyn interrupted. “I’ll be up to my room as soon as Adam and I finish our discussion of the stock situation and its effect on the English treasury.”
Snatching at the bait, Adam invited, “Would you like to stay and debate it with us?”
“No.” Lady Nora took an involuntary step backward. “Bronwyn, I’ll expect to see you in your bedroom on the hour.”
“Yes, Maman.”
Bronwyn waited until Lady Nora was well away, then shut the door once more.
“Come here.” Adam pushed away from the desk and pointed to his lap.
With a light step, she moved to him and pressed her hand to his breeches. “What’s this?” she teased. “A dreaded swelling? Perhaps I can heal it for you.”
The warmth of her seeped through the material and heated him once more. “I suspect you can, and I’d love to suggest—”
One huge thump on the door made them jump. Another followed, then another.
“Damn it!” Adam said.
Walpole yelled, “Adam, I know you’re in there. Come on, man, I’ve prepar
ed a pleasant send-off.”
“A send-off?” Bronwyn murmured, puzzled.
“He wants to—”
“Come on, Adam! Before you join the ranks of leg-shackled men, you must have a proper send-off. All your friends are gathered in the blue room with refreshments.” Walpole’s voice lowered to a confidential roar. “And there are women with the most novel entertainments in mind.”
Adam’s gaze met Bronwyn’s, and without words they understood each other. Silently he rose and tossed his cloak over his shoulders. He offered his hand, she took it, and they tiptoed toward the windows.
“Adam, if you don’t come out peaceably, I’ll bring every man here to get you.”
Adam untied Bronwyn’s panniers, then helped her through the window and lowered her to the ground. He followed as quickly as his leg would allow. He pointed at the stable; Bronwyn nodded. Together they hurried across the grounds and slipped inside the dusky barn.
From the window of Adam’s study, Walpole watched them, looked at the discarded panniers and whispered, “I’ll be damned.”
Rachelle smiled as she descended the stairs to the kitchen, jingling the keys.
Such an annoying sound, and so sweet to her ears.
She had never experienced such satisfaction in her life. Judson remained in her hands, and he was miserable. She’d learned a lot about him since she’d imprisoned him in her pantry. She knew his fears, his hates, his history. He’d told her everything, hoping to sway her to mercy. He had not. He had only planned his own future.
Physical labor made him ill? Wherever she sent him, he would work. He feared to expose himself without makeup, without his wig? He’d show all London his deformities before he left. He despised Adam Keane and the man that he was? Judson would soon discover the realities of Adam’s life.
Through the louvers that fed air into the pantry, she heard the chain move. Good. He was restless, waiting for her evening visit. The key clanged in the lock. Slowly, so slowly, she opened the door, giving him light and a release from the closeness. “Monsieur Judson, I have come to take your dinner dishes away.”
There was no answer from the dark.
“Did you not enjoy the dinner?”
Still no answer, and she stepped through the door. “I have plans for you. Tomorrow morning, a gentleman is coming for you. Do you know who he is?” For the first time, the silence unnerved her. Judson sat so still, so quiet, she leaned closer to see if he still tarried in her prison.