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.
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 ca
used 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 Spa
nish. 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!”
About the Author
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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Praise
Bits of Wisdom from Eighteenth-Century England
She drank good ale, good punch and wine
and lived to the age of ninety-nine.
—Tombstone of Rebecca Freeland (d. 1741)
I deplore the unpopularity of the married state, which is scorned by our young girls nowadays, as once by young men. Both sexes have discovered its inconveniences, and many feminine libertines may be found amongst young women of rank. No one is shocked to hear that, “Miss So and So, Maid of Honour, has got nicely over her confinement.”
—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Sir, I mind my belly very well, for I look upon it that he who will not mind his belly will scarcely mind anything else.
—Dr. Samuel Johnson
One night as I came from the play