betrothed. When Adam turned his intense gaze on her, she felt just as giddy as any schoolgirl. She didn’t know why, but she wanted to faint from fright or fling her arms around his neck, and both reactions made her nervous. Avoiding him seemed the best course of action, easily followed, for he’d made no attempt to seek her out in the few weeks she’d been there.
Yet her da, the eternal matchmaker, seemed determined to bring them in contact. Lord Gaynor pinched her cheek with his well-tended hand, then pinched her other cheek to even the color. “There now. Ye look lovely.”
Hopeless as a prisoner on Tyburn Hill, Bronwyn followed him through the doors to the study.
Adam lifted his head from the papers he’d been filling with the scribble of numbers and observed them without emotion. “Yes?”
Lord Gaynor shoved Bronwyn onto a chair in front of the huge expanse of desk. As he strolled to the decanter, she miserably knitted her fingers in her lap. All of her fingernails were stripped, she noted. She risked a glance at Adam. If he’d heard her father’s proclamations on the terrace, he gave no sign. But that meant nothing. He never gave a sign of his sentiments, never gave any of himself away.
Pouring an ample measure of his morning libation, her father said, “Been meaning to ask ye, Adam, about the date for the wedding. Need to set it. Need to start the whirl of parties.”
Bronwyn closed her eyes. Trust her da to attack the situation with a vengeance.
From too close, she heard Adam answer, “The wedding? I assumed we’d take this time to get to know each other, and marry in, say, October?”
“A sensible plan,” she approved, opening her eyes and preparing to rise.
Her father’s heavy hand pushed her back down. “Awretched long wait,” he complained. “Surely a summer wedding would be better?”
“No.”
Adam’s blunt refusal barely fazed Lord Gaynor.
“When the roses are blooming—”
“No,” Adam said again.
“M’wife brought a wedding gown made to Bronwyn’s specifications.”
Adam leaned back in his chair and studied her father. “It occurs to me, Lord Gaynor, that perhaps you’re bored in my home.”
Dismay slid across Lord Gaynor’s face. “No, no! Not at all. Your home is one of the newest and best in Kensington. Convenient to London, yet with the charms of a country estate. There’s a darlin’ country village with a quaint shop…” A rueful Irish smile tilted Lord Gaynor’s mouth as Adam pulled a disbelieving face. “M’wife and I do find it a bit quiet,” he admitted.
“And you can’t leave until the wedding is performed,” Adam speculated.
“Of course not. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“If I could perhaps sweeten the deal with a little loose change.” Having opened the drawer beside him, Adam pulled out a slip of paper and wrote a few words. Presenting it to Lord Gaynor, he instructed, “Give that to Northrup, my secretary. He’ll get you a draft on my bank. Of course you have use of my carriages—they’ll convey you where you wish. My mother is here to act as chaperone, and Olivia will be happy as long as her sister remains, I suspect.”
Bronwyn’s heart plummeted to her toes. He meant to keep her. She’d been hoping he would sink his honor and hers, too, and dismiss the marriage contract. But no, it seemed he would not, and she knew her father too well to think he’d refuse the money. Every penny produced by his Irish estates slipped through his fingers as easily, as relentlessly, as sand through an hourglass. Indeed, the need formoney had been his reason for urging an early wedding, she was sure. He wanted the dowry Adam had agreed to settle on her.
Fingering the paper, Lord Gaynor protested, “I couldn’t take such a loan.”
“Consider it a gift,” Adam urged. “Lady Nora would be glad of a visit to the city, I’m sure.”
As Bronwyn expected, Lord Gaynor pocketed the voucher. Yet he frowned and queried, “Is it true what your friend
Yet her da, the eternal matchmaker, seemed determined to bring them in contact. Lord Gaynor pinched her cheek with his well-tended hand, then pinched her other cheek to even the color. “There now. Ye look lovely.”
Hopeless as a prisoner on Tyburn Hill, Bronwyn followed him through the doors to the study.
Adam lifted his head from the papers he’d been filling with the scribble of numbers and observed them without emotion. “Yes?”
Lord Gaynor shoved Bronwyn onto a chair in front of the huge expanse of desk. As he strolled to the decanter, she miserably knitted her fingers in her lap. All of her fingernails were stripped, she noted. She risked a glance at Adam. If he’d heard her father’s proclamations on the terrace, he gave no sign. But that meant nothing. He never gave a sign of his sentiments, never gave any of himself away.
Pouring an ample measure of his morning libation, her father said, “Been meaning to ask ye, Adam, about the date for the wedding. Need to set it. Need to start the whirl of parties.”
Bronwyn closed her eyes. Trust her da to attack the situation with a vengeance.
From too close, she heard Adam answer, “The wedding? I assumed we’d take this time to get to know each other, and marry in, say, October?”
“A sensible plan,” she approved, opening her eyes and preparing to rise.
Her father’s heavy hand pushed her back down. “Awretched long wait,” he complained. “Surely a summer wedding would be better?”
“No.”
Adam’s blunt refusal barely fazed Lord Gaynor.
“When the roses are blooming—”
“No,” Adam said again.
“M’wife brought a wedding gown made to Bronwyn’s specifications.”
Adam leaned back in his chair and studied her father. “It occurs to me, Lord Gaynor, that perhaps you’re bored in my home.”
Dismay slid across Lord Gaynor’s face. “No, no! Not at all. Your home is one of the newest and best in Kensington. Convenient to London, yet with the charms of a country estate. There’s a darlin’ country village with a quaint shop…” A rueful Irish smile tilted Lord Gaynor’s mouth as Adam pulled a disbelieving face. “M’wife and I do find it a bit quiet,” he admitted.
“And you can’t leave until the wedding is performed,” Adam speculated.
“Of course not. Wouldn’t be proper.”
“If I could perhaps sweeten the deal with a little loose change.” Having opened the drawer beside him, Adam pulled out a slip of paper and wrote a few words. Presenting it to Lord Gaynor, he instructed, “Give that to Northrup, my secretary. He’ll get you a draft on my bank. Of course you have use of my carriages—they’ll convey you where you wish. My mother is here to act as chaperone, and Olivia will be happy as long as her sister remains, I suspect.”
Bronwyn’s heart plummeted to her toes. He meant to keep her. She’d been hoping he would sink his honor and hers, too, and dismiss the marriage contract. But no, it seemed he would not, and she knew her father too well to think he’d refuse the money. Every penny produced by his Irish estates slipped through his fingers as easily, as relentlessly, as sand through an hourglass. Indeed, the need formoney had been his reason for urging an early wedding, she was sure. He wanted the dowry Adam had agreed to settle on her.
Fingering the paper, Lord Gaynor protested, “I couldn’t take such a loan.”
“Consider it a gift,” Adam urged. “Lady Nora would be glad of a visit to the city, I’m sure.”
As Bronwyn expected, Lord Gaynor pocketed the voucher. Yet he frowned and queried, “Is it true what your friend
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