Priceless by Christina Dodd Page B

Northrup said warmly. “Lady Bronwyn deserves a little of the admiration her sisters drown in.”
    “Precisely.”
    “She’s worth more than all seven of her sisters.”
    “Even Olivia?” Adam teased, aware his secretary had been stricken with Cupid’s arrow with his first glance at Olivia’s perfect features.
    Northrup grimaced. “Olivia’s beautiful. Probably the most beautiful of the Irish Sirens.”
    “I’ve noticed you watching her.”
    “It was never more than admiration,” Northrup said defensively. “She inhabits a dream world, removed from day-to-day life.”
    “She’s like a precious glass,” Adam said. “Too fragile to use.”
    “Exactly. Olivia’s so heavenly minded, she’s no earthly good, if you know what I mean.”
    “Um-hum.” Adam’s mind drifting back to Bronwyn. He tickled the palm of his hand with his quill. She had liked it when he’d trailed it over her skin. She had enjoyed the touch of his hand. When he kissed her, her eyes had blurred, softened, gone sweet and warm—yet she reacted as if she’d never been kissed before. He glared at Northrup. Surely some young buck had cornered her sometime to press his attentions on her. After all, she was twenty-two. “What was her reputation at court?” he snapped.
    “Olivia’s?”
    “Bronwyn’s!”
    Northrup shook his head as if he were dizzy. “Lady Bronwyn lived at court only a few days for her sister’s wedding. She had no reputation. Few even recognized who she was.”
    Cheered, Adam queried, “Did she look similar to the way she does now?”
    “She was gawky, like an overgrown child. She tripped on her train during the wedding procession. She dropped her sister’s ring.” Northrup winced at the memory. “She insisted on speaking some kind of broken German to King George, and he adored it.”
    Adam covered his eyes. “Did he pinch her?”
    “Worse. He introduced her to the Maypole.”
    “His mistress?”
    “Everyone has forgotten, I’m sure,” Northrup comforted. “Just as they’ve forgotten her excitement about that medieval Irish manuscript displayed at the cathedral.”
    “Excitement? You exaggerate,” Adam scoffed.
    Northrup looked grim. “She could read it, sir.”
    Adam laid down his quill. “Read it? Wasn’t it in Latin?”
    “In Latin and that other”—Northrup pulled a face—“that other language they speak over there.”
    “Gaelic? Where did she learn Gaelic?” Adam could hardly believe it. “In Ireland, only the peasants speak Gaelic. Why, she’s the daughter of one of our noblemen.”
    “She said the nuns taught her Gaelic.”
    “The nuns?” Adam asked, alarmed. “Is she a closet Papist?”
    “No, sir. No, no, I would have warned you. I owe you that much loyalty,” Northrup said. “She claimed she was sent to the convent on a regular basis to learn needlework.”
    “A tricky business, that.” Adam shook his head. “She could have been imbued with all sorts of disloyal teachings.”
    “Rest assured she was not, at least not by the nuns. However, she also claimed her governess taught her Latin.”
    Alarmed all over again, Adam barked, “Her governess? What was the woman thinking of, teaching another woman Latin?”
    “You’ll have to ask Lady Bronwyn,” Northrup said meaningfully. “During one of your private, tender conversations.”
    Adam didn’t care for the insinuation that he needed to be instructed in matters of love. “Other men court women. I’m sure I’m capable of it.”
    “Flowers,” Northrup suggested. “Little gifts. Watch her with appreciation. Touch her waist as you guide her into dinner.”
    “I know what to do,” Adam said with irritation. “I’ll show her my desire in subtle ways.”
     
    “I’m sorry.” Bronwyn said it even before the wine, like a great red tide, spread across the lace draped over the end table. She grabbed for the glass as it rolled, but it fell and broke with the refined shatter of leaded crystal. The wine stained the