Priceless Read Free Page A

admonishing finger. “I am Rachelle to my friends.”
    Bronwyn stood silent as the bands holding her hair slipped. She couldn’t call this contemporary of her mother’s by her Christian name. That would indicate disrespect.
    As if anxious to escape their confines, her curls leaped from between her fingers. “My hair is unmanageable without my wig. I would cut it, but my father—”
    “Cut this?” Rachelle pushed Bronwyn’s hands away, pulled off the bands, took one lock in her fingers. “Cut this? It is so fair it is almost silver. It is clair de lune —moonlight.”
    “No, I can’t cut it. My father won’t hear of it.”
    “I would not allow Henriette to cut hers, either, and I spent hours combing it….” Two tears, like twin jewels, brimmed in Rachelle’s large eyes and ran down her faded cheeks. She put her hand over her mouth to contain her sobs. Her bones poked at her flesh and made her appear fragile in her sorrow, and when she spoke again her voice quavered. “Do I know your father?”
    “He’s Lord Rafferty Edana, earl of Gaynor.”
    “No, I do not believe he has ever joined our evenings.” Rachelle used her lacy handkerchief to catch the last tear. “Gaynor? Where is that?”
    “On the wild north coast of Ireland, where the seals play and the seagulls call.”
    “You were raised there,” Rachelle observed. “I hear a faint brogue in your voice.”
    “My father insisted we be brought up on his ancestral estate. We all stayed there until the age of ten. Then we were brought to England.” Bronwyn sighed. “My mother insisted we all be educated on her ancestral estate.”
    “All?”
    “There are eight of us sisters. Linnet, Holly, Lucille, Edith, Duessa, Wallis, Olivia, and me.”
    “Wait. Wait.” Rachelle lifted a finger. “Do you mean you are one of the so-called Sirens of Ireland? Your sister is Linnet, countess of Brookbridge?”
    Bronwyn nodded.
    “Your sister is Holly, viscountess of Sidkirk? Lucille, marchioness of Cumrith?”
    Bronwyn nodded and nodded.
    “Edith, marchioness of Kenilcester? Duessa, duchess of Innsford?”
    “The Duchess Duessa.” Bronwyn grinned. “She’s the first one to capture a duke. Wallis captured only a baron, but his fortune makes up for his lack of consequence. I am next in the matrimonial line, then Olivia.”
    “When will you be wed, then?”
    “My father refused to consider any of my previous offers. Either their titles or their fortunes proved lacking.”
    “But now?”
    “I’m betrothed to the Viscount Rawson.”
    Rachelle tossed aside the hated wig. “Adam Keane?”
    Bronwyn asked, “You know him? Is he good-humored? Obliging?”
    “Good-humored? Obliging? Non! Good-humored is not the word I would put to Adam Keane. He is sombre and…brooding, and too intelligent for his own good. No, definately not…” Rachelle’s words trailed off, and her eyes sharpened. “You have never met him?”
    The intricate pattern of the sofa’s upholstery attracted Bronwyn’s consideration. With a careful finger, she traced each stem and flower. “He took me sight unseen. Isn’t that sweet?”
    “Adam Keane is never sweet,” Rachelle said flatly. “He is a man with a chip on his shoulder. Is he expecting you to look like one of your sisters?”
    “I suspect.”
    “What will you do when he sees you?”
    With a flash of humor Bronwyn said, “My parents will be there. He can’t kill me.”
    Rachelle remained serious. “No, but his sarcasm can be withering.”
    “My father says I’m pleasant enough to look upon,” Bronwyn said defensively.
    Standing, Rachelle fluffed Bronwyn’s hair until the long tresses stood in wild array about her shoulders. “My dear, you are magnifique —”
    Bronwyn snorted.
    “—but in the typical English way, your looks have been ruined.”
    “Maman does the best she can.”
    “Your mother looks like your sisters, I suppose?”
    “My sisters can’t hold a candle to her.” Bronwyn’s affection and pride