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obtained for you.”
    “I wouldn’t be surprised if he cried off,” Bronwyn said.
    Laying the back of her hand across her forehead, Lady Nora cried, “Don’t be silly, child. You are betrothed to him. He can’t cry off. It would be an insult to you, and more serious, it would be an insult to our family. Your da would be justified in calling him out, should Lord Rawson dosuch a mad thing.” She shook her head. “No, he won’t cry off.”
    He’s sorely disappointed.”
    Something in Bronwyn’s face must have spoken to Lady Nora, for she said petulantly, “Oh, really, he’s going to be your husband. He’ll look for his pleasure elsewhere. Your function is to bear him two healthy heirs.”
    “One for the heir, one for a spare,” Bronwyn intoned.
    “Exactly. Then you’ll find your own lover. In the meantime, this future husband of yours positively glows with health. There is that distressing limp, of course, but his shoulders strain against his coat. And you know”—Lady Nora tittered behind her fan—“the dandies of London must envy him his thighs and calves. His stockings aren’t stuffed with cotton.”
    “Maman, it sounds as if you’re selling me a horse. Have you checked his teeth?”
    Lady Nora snapped her fan closed. “I want you to realize the advantages of this match.”
    Prodded by the cold analysis of her bridegroom, Bronwyn asked the question she’d always wanted to. “Why don’t I look like the rest of you, Maman? Am I a product of a lover?”
    “A lover?” Lady Nora stopped and stared at her daughter. “How can you ask that, when all of London buzzes with my devotion to your father?”
    “Perhaps I’m the product of Da’s misalliance?”
    Two bright red spots bled through Lady Nora’s rouge. “Not at all,” she said, but she didn’t deny Lord Gaynor’s wanderings. “You are the image of your da’s great-aunt. The wild hair, the height, the dreadfully tanned skin.”
    “I don’t remember her,” Bronwyn said doubtfully.
    “Of course not. She died before you were born. A wizened old maid who spoke her mind without respect to station or relationship.”
    Bronwyn liked Da’s great-aunt already. “You met her?”
    Touching a scented handkerchief to her nose, LadyNora sniffed delicately. “Heavens, yes. Your da had a fondness for her. I remember those great eyes staring, and that frazzled white hair flying. She rattled on about the circle stones of Ireland, and how some magician had set them up.” She strolled down the hall, waving the handkerchief in front of her face.
    Tagging along after her mother, Bronwyn said, “I wonder if she read the Gaelic manuscripts of the monasteries.”
    “Probably.” Lady Nora sighed with indifference.
    “She does sound like me.”
    “Never say so.” The trembling of Lady Nora’s feathers betrayed agitation. “You’re not like that ridiculous spinster.”
    “She doesn’t sound ridiculous to me. Just learned and eccentric.”
    “Learned and eccentric! How much more ridiculous can a woman be?” Lady Nora’s expression was reflected in the endless mirrors as she passed. She seemed puzzled by the child fate had bestowed on her. “You’ve always been a trial to me. Asking odd questions. Reading books. Begging that dreadfully erudite governess to teach you Latin instead of French. French is a civilized language, and you refused to learn it. I never understood you. You aren’t like the other children, but I’ve done my best.”
    In the face of her mother’s distress, Bronwyn conformed once again. “Yes, Maman. No one could ask for more.”
    Lady Nora turned to Bronwyn and fussed with her gown. “I’ve dressed you in the best of clothing. It’s not my fault that your appearance doesn’t lend itself to the fashions of the day.”
    “No, Maman.”
    “Stop ripping at your fan. You shred all your fans with that distressing habit of yours.”
    Stilling the nervous movement of her fingers, Bronwyn agreed, “Yes, Maman.”
    Lady