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Nora’s glorious violet eyes met Bronwyn’s for the first time. “I always loved you. Never doubt that.”
    How could Bronwyn question her mother’s fervency? “I know you love me, Maman.”
    Lady Nora placed her cheek against Bronwyn’s in a brief gesture of affection. “There! That’s taken care of.” She drew back and adjusted Bronwyn’s wig with an expert hand. “I don’t want you to get hurt. This is marriage. Lord Rawson gets his entrée into respectable society again, you get the husband you so badly need, and your father and I get money.” Lady Nora took Bronwyn’s arm with more force than was necessary and shook her sharply. “Don’t ask for more.”
    “No, Maman.”
    With a smile and a trill, Lady Nora swept into the drawing room. “Here we are. Have we kept you waiting?”
    Lord Gaynor, Adam, and Adam’s friend abruptly ended their discussion; Olivia stood up from her chair beside the window.
    Adam bowed, his gaze on Bronwyn. “To feast my eyes on such beauty, I’d easily wait twice as long.”
    Her mother’s sharp elbow in her ribs prompted Bronwyn to simper and hide her face behind her fan. A few loose threads waved before her nose. “You flatter me, Lord Rawson.”
    He didn’t deny it. She stuck out her tongue before she lowered the concealing silk. Batting her lashes at Adam, she asked, “Who is this gentleman?”
    He blinked as if her flutter bothered him but introduced her to Robert Walpole. “A member of the House of Commons,” Adam concluded as the gentleman, stout and on the better side of forty, looked her over frankly.
    Bronwyn had been made to feel like a commodity too many times that day. Gritting her teeth, she asked, “Is that a great thing?”
    Walpole’s gaze snapped from her bosom to her face. Too offended to cover her resentment, she stared back at him until he roared with laughter.
    “Not at all, my dear. It’s nothing when placed beside the conversation of a scintillating lady.” Offering his arm, he said, “I’ll take you in to dinner.”
    Adam intervented when she would have accepted. “She’s my fiancée, Robert. I take her in to dinner.” Realizing, perhaps, he’d sounded less than gracious, he added lightly, “It is, after all, my privilege.”
    So, Bronwyn diagnosed, he didn’t want his friend Robert to discover he was disappointed with his betrothed. Her mouth curved. How interesting. Her brief euphoria faded when he continued, “Lady Bronwyn hasn’t met my mother, yet.”
    Her gaze brushed Robert Walpole’s, and his expression revealed a comical horror. He dropped his offered arm, backed away as if she’d been contaminated. “Well, yes, of course. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of the, er, dear lady since I arrived. Go on, go on.” He made shooing gestures. “Meeting Adam’s mother is an experience you should, er, experience.”
    What fear made the statesman blench and retreat? Was Adam’s mother as dreadful as that? Bronwyn wanted to plead for clemency, but there was none. With his walking stick held at a jaunty angle, Adam waited for her to proceed him. Clenching her fan, she did. In an awesome silence, they traversed the mirrored hall to a small door set in the wall.
    The parlor beyond was decorated in crimson and furnished with delicate-looking furniture. Heavy drapes covered the windows, and candles lit the room. Their dancing light found the face of the woman seated on a settee—an immense woman, dressed in a loose, flowing robe. Her chins stair-stepped from her chest to her face with nary a glimpse of her neck. Her tiny, red rosebud mouth stretched in a smile. Her cheeks flowed on for acres. Her nose was an indeterminate blob, but her eyes—
    Enigmatic , Bronwyn thought, her startled gaze fixed onthe immobile lady. When their eyes locked, she realized, And so sad .
    Adam advanced on the woman and kissed her cheek. “Mab, this is the lady who has consented to be my bride. This is Bronwyn.”
    One pudgy hand was extended. Bronwyn