Treasured Vows (15 page)

Phadra turned slowly from the window. “A special license?”

Lady Evans smiled without mirth. “You can be married this very evening, here at this inn, as soon as the messenger returns. Mr. Morgan has made all the arrangements.”

“What if the messenger is unable to purchase the license?” Phadra asked.

“Oh, but he will,” Lady Evans assured her. “Mr. Morgan is related to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who, I’m sure, given the family history, will be only too glad to see his nephew do the honorable thing.”

“Aren’t you the least bit concerned about what Miranda will have to say?”

Lady Evans looked at Phadra as if amazed she would even suggest such a concern. “My dear, Miranda will count herself lucky to be rid of such an undesirable match. Furthermore, the engagement was never formally announced. There were no commitments. Of course, the engagement ball is scheduled for tomorrow evening, but I’ll think of a way out of that.” She smiled then, a smile that didn’t reach the avarice in her eyes, before adding, “Sir Cecil feels this is the best thing that could happen to us. After all, Grant Morgan is a very clever young man. With his help, no one will discover my husband’s small indiscretion. He may even be of future help to us, if he wants to ensure our silence in this affair.”

Phadra slid Lady Evans a suspicious look. “What do you mean by that?”

All the pretense in Lady Evans’s manner disappeared. “Grant values his position with the bank. He’ll be only too happy to see the debts paid in full and keep his own neck out of debtor’s prison.”

“But that’s not right. Sir Cecil helped plan the emeralds’ theft. He should pay his share!”

With malicious satisfaction Lady Evans responded, “My dear, life is rarely fair.” The pile of clothing on the chair then caught her attention. “Oh, gracious, these things will be hopelessly wrinkled, and I do so love this ruffled muslin dress on you. We’ll have to see that it is aired and pressed. We can’t have you looking anything less than your best for your bridegroom, can we?” She gave Phadra her sweetest smile.

The messenger sent to London didn’t return until well past midnight. Phadra sat still and tense on a hard high-backed chair, her hands tightly clasped in front of her. She prayed that something had happened to prevent the man from purchasing the license.

A knock sounded at the door a brief second before Lady Evans and Mrs. Allen entered the room. “Arise, Phadra. Your moment has come,” Lady Evans announced.

“I love weddings,” Mrs. Allen confided, her mobcap bobbing in excitement.

Phadra was tempted to offer Mrs. Allen her place in the event but decided that it was not the time for sarcasm.

She’d thought long and hard over the past hours. Her childhood dreams had been spent fantasizing about her reunion with her father. Marriage had always been something distant and not quite attainable. Even over the past weeks, when she’d been presented with suitors, it had never seemed a reality.

Now she was marrying a man she barely knew. A man who was marrying her out of honor only, with none of the other, finer emotions. A man who could now be blackmailed because of her.

Phadra fought an almost overwhelming sense of panic. Her knees buckled, and she sat back down in the chair.

“Miss Abbott, are you all right?” Mrs. Allen asked.

“Of course she’s all right,” Lady Evans snapped.

“Yes, I’m fine, aren’t I?” Phadra said, directing her statement to Lady Evans and letting the force of her anger at being bullied into this marriage show in her eyes.

Her irritation had no impact on Lady Evans, who smiled benignly. “Phadra, dear, I thought you were going to pin up your hair. It is more proper to do so.”

“I like it down.”

“Your husband will expect you to do what is proper and fitting in a wife,” Lady Evans lectured. “He will want you to wear it up so you do not attract attention to yourself by being different.”

“It would look more formal, dear,” Mrs. Allen said. “I’ll have Toby run out and cut some flowers in my garden. We can put a few in your hair, and it will make everything all the more special.”

She was so earnest, so anxious for all to go off well, that Phadra couldn’t turn her down. Fifteen minutes later, with Mrs. Allen’s help, Phadra had her hair pinned on top of her head in a fashionable style that looked better on her with the cornflowers tucked between her curls. They even brightened the fussy muslin walking dress.

Mrs. Allen also fashioned a small nosegay of cornflowers and roses for Phadra to carry. Opening the door for Phadra, she whispered, “You look beautiful.”

Phadra doubted that. She’d seen her reflection in the mirror, and her features appeared strained and
pale. Still, she appreciated the kindness the woman showed her by saying so.

Lady Evans was already downstairs in the inn’s private room, standing next to her husband and a man wearing the somber garb of a vicar. Off to one side, his head almost touching the low ceiling, the candlelight casting his long shadow against the walls, stood Grant Morgan, looking more handsome than she could have possibly imagined.

He wore the same clothes, but his appearance didn’t seem wrinkled or soiled, as she felt hers did. The doeskin breeches hugged the long, lean lines of his thighs, and his boots were freshly polished. His coat appeared to be molded to his broad shoulders yet still managed to hide the bulk of his bandage.

Mrs. Allen nudged Phadra to take her place next to him. Phadra was conscious of the clean scent of his shaving soap and the snowy white of his neckcloth, which emphasized the squareness of his jaw.

She felt perfectly dowdy standing next to him.

“Phadra,” he said, her name sounding perfectly right and natural on his lips, “this is the Reverend Rawls-Hicks.”

She nodded, not able to trust her voice.

Mr. Rawls-Hicks smiled and readjusted the gold-framed reading lenses that perched on the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t be anxious, Miss Abbott. These circumstances are unusual, but I’ve seen many a fine marriage evolve out of less-than-auspicious beginnings.”

He didn’t wait for a response but opened his prayer book and in the voice of command asked Grant to take her hand in his. “It’s a nice touch,” he explained.

Grant did as he asked, conscious that her hand was cold, her motions stiff and formal. She looked like a child bride, with her unruly curls in that tight hairstyle and the dress’s oversized ruffles concealing her figure. He wished she’d worn her hair down.

For a brief moment he remembered exactly the feel of his fingers in her hair, the touch of his lips possessing hers, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

The warm reassurance of his hand around hers steadied her resolve. As the vicar said the opening words of the marriage ceremony, Phadra raised her gaze to him. He looked so handsome, so strong and invincible, standing beside her.

For a second she forgot the angry words between them. She wanted to let herself believe, even for just a moment, that a man like this could love her.

The vicar said, “Grant Morgan, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Phadra watched, almost as if witnessing a miracle, as Grant replied in a steady voice, “I will.”

“Phadra Abbott, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, obey him, honor and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Her first impulse was to throw the nosegay in the air and run from the room, to run so hard and so fast that no one would ever catch her or find her.

But she couldn’t. Not with Grant Morgan holding her hand so tightly that she could swear he’d read her mind. Her mouth went dry. He squeezed her hand, a silent command to answer. She forced herself to swallow and whispered, “I will.”

She sensed a collective sigh in the room. Her gaze darted up to Grant. His expression remained formally impassive—until the time came for him to pledge his troth.

Then he looked at her, the expression in his gray eyes somber and enigmatic. His deep masculine voice was firm and resolute as he promised to cherish her “until death us do part.”

Phadra repeated her part, but she didn’t look at him as she said it. Even as she whispered the words “to love and to cherish,” she couldn’t believe this was happening. Any second now she expected him to change his mind, to deny that they had shared more than a kiss—and yet she finished her piece without interruption.

The wonder of it shocked her.

The Reverend Rawls-Hicks said, “And now it’s time for the ring.” He looked over his spectacles at them. “Do you have a ring, or should I pass over that part?”

Grant surprised Phadra by announcing, “I have a ring.” Releasing her hand, he reached inside his pocket, pulled out a cloth, and offered it to the vicar. Inside the folds of the cloth were the emerald earrings and ring she’d sold to the goldsmith. Mr. Rawls-Hicks took the ring, and Grant refolded the earrings in their cloth and put them back in his pocket.

“Lovely,” the vicar murmured, holding the emerald up to the candlelight. Phadra watched, still in
shock at the turn of events, as the clergyman blessed the ring and then passed it to Grant, who held it out for her left hand. She knew it would fit. It had been her mother’s wedding ring.

That had been the last of her father’s betrayals—he’d even sold the emeralds from his wife’s wedding ring.

Slowly, respectfully, Grant slipped the ring down over the third finger of her left hand. Silent tears escaped Phadra’s defenses and rolled down her cheeks, tears for herself, tears for her mother. She didn’t realize they were there until Grant lifted his hand and with the back of his fingers brushed them away.

The vicar still spoke the words of the ceremony, but Phadra no longer listened. Instead she focused on the planes and hollows of her husband’s face in the dancing candlelight and the grim set of his mouth.

She felt ashamed. True, she had no desire to live a mockery of a marriage like her mother’s, and yet this man had shown her more openness and honesty in the short time she’d known him than her father had over a lifetime.

She had to explain, to make him understand the tears. “The emerald’s fake,” she whispered. The words came out even deeper and hoarser than her natural huskiness.

“I know,” he replied. “But the gold is good—”

At that moment the Reverend Rawls-Hicks announced, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

“—and solid.”

T
he Reverend Rawls-Hicks pronounced them man and wife.

With the words still hanging in the air, Lady Evans chimed in briskly, “Well, I’m glad that’s over. Now we can all head back to London.” She pulled on her gloves as she turned to Phadra. “Sir Cecil and I have discussed the matter with Grant, Phadra, and we think it best that we go ahead and hold the ball tomorrow evening—no, wait. It’ll be held
this
evening.” She placed a hand to her head as if overwhelmed by the thought. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, she finished, “Well, we must simply do what we must do. Grant agrees with us that we should use this occasion to announce your marriage.”

“Announce my marriage at Miranda’s ball?” Phadra asked blankly. Certainly she would discover all of this was an elaborate hoax.

Lady Evans dismissed the concern with a wave of her gloved hand. “Miranda won’t give it a second
thought.” For a moment her attention was diverted by the bellowing of her husband, who had turned on his heel and headed for his carriage the minute the ceremony was finished. The wide-eyed innkeeper and his wife scurried to obey the summons. When Sir Cecil called for his wife the second time, she winced at the sound of his voice but did not hurry to comply with his command. Instead she turned to Phadra and picked up the threads of the conversation. “We’ll have it put out that Sir Cecil and I discovered that we just couldn’t give our approval to such a poor match. Everyone will understand.” She frowned in mock concern before leaning closer to Phadra and confiding, “After all,
no one
wants their bloodlines tainted by the Morgans.”

Phadra glanced at Grant to see if he’d heard Lady Evans. He was handing several pound notes to the vicar, who slipped them discreetly into his pocket. As if feeling her eyes upon him, Grant looked up. The expression on his face betrayed no emotion, but she sensed he’d heard.

A sudden, fierce loyalty welled up inside her. She had just been united with Grant Morgan before God. She vowed he’d never be sorry for this forced union.

Tilting her chin with pride, Phadra answered in a perfect imitation of the frostiest of society matrons, “Lady Evans, I’d advise you to say no such thing.”

Her ladyship turned to her with a look of surprise, then, her eyes narrowed with interest and her voice silky with challenge, she asked, “Or you will do what?”

“Nothing,” came Grant’s firm reply.

Lady Evans looked from Grant to Phadra, who was standing in stunned silence, and gloated. Placing
her hat upon her head and tying the ribbons, she said, “Then I suppose I will see you this evening, Phadra. Around seven.” With a swish of her skirts she left the room.

Slowly Phadra turned to Grant. He met her gaze squarely, his expression stern.

“I give you my best wishes,” Mr. Rawls-Hicks said awkwardly, as if wanting to fill the silence. He reached out and gave Phadra’s hand, tightly clenched around the bridal nosegay, a shake. Then he wasted no more time removing himself from the room.

They were alone.

Grant knew he’d blundered. He shouldn’t have corrected her in front of that vicious harpy Lady Evans, but he said, “I will not have you say anything to discredit her.”

The flash of challenge in his wife’s blue eyes warned him that he’d gone at it the wrong way. “Even if she runs around town discrediting you?”

“Yes.”

Phadra pulled back from him, her expressive eyes rebellious. He sighed exasperatedly and ran a hand through his hair. He should have known better. His sisters would never have accepted his orders blindly, either. Why had he assumed a wife would be different?

“You can’t let her say whatever she wishes and not counter with the truth,” she said.

Grant hated having to explain himself—especially when he sensed that the truth would diminish his stature in her eyes.
Well, she might as well learn now,
he thought. “I can and I will,” he said curtly. “Furthermore, I expect you to do the same.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because she’s the wife of one of my employers.” He took a step away from her, irritated that she’d made him voice those words, before turning and asking, “What is the matter with you? Why do you always demand explanations? Isn’t it enough that I tell you not to do something?”

Phadra didn’t bat an eye. “No.”

He stared at her as if not sure he’d heard her correctly. Phadra shifted nervously, conscious that she wasn’t getting their marriage off to the best possible start, but believing passionately in her right to express her opinion.

She attempted to diffuse the situation. “I don’t believe that just because you and Sir Cecil work at the same bank, it gives Lady Evans license to trample over the truth, let alone other people’s feelings.”

“And what truth is she trampling?”

“That they rejected your suit for Miranda. Trust me, Sir Cecil was overjoyed that you or anyone would take Miranda off his hands. And our marriage had nothing to do with your family!”

His brows came together. “Oh, that’s right,” he said sarcastically. “Let’s have the
truth
bandied about—that you ran away from your guardians and that I, in my attempt to return you to them, seduced you, thereby jilting my fiancée. Yes, that sounds much better!”

“That’s not the truth and you know it!” Phadra said, coming toward him.

“Oh? Don’t tell me that you seduced me!”

Phadra narrowed her eyes at him. “I think we’ve had this argument already.”

“The point is, the truth is just as unsavory as whatever story Lady Evans puts out. Believe me,
Phadra, you didn’t get a bargain out of this marriage. There will be gossip. My goal is to keep it from becoming a scandal, and in order to do that I need Sir Cecil’s goodwill. Furthermore, I see no need to drag Miranda’s name down with us. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you will be at the Evanses’ mercy. That they can say or do anything they please,” she answered tartly, angry at having to swallow this injustice.

“That’s your pride talking. After you’ve been a Morgan for a while, you’ll learn to ignore the barbs from the society matrons,” he answered stiffly. As if the matter between them was resolved, he picked up her cloak and, taking her arm, led her out of the room.

Phadra allowed herself to be led. Something about his solemn reserve disturbed her. “Does your shoulder hurt?”

“Like the very devil,” he answered without looking at her. He guided them through the inn’s hall toward the front door. “I’m anxious to get into our coach and catch a few hours of sleep before we reach London.”

She pulled up short. Through the inn’s open front door, torchlight revealed a post chaise and team waiting for them. “We’re going back tonight? Do you think it wise? You tell me your shoulder bothers you.” And she wanted nothing more right then than to return to their little room, shut the door on the world…and have him hold her, kiss her, hug her as he’d done the previous night.

The need for his touch shocked her. She took a step back.

Grant spoke with the patience a parent would reserve
for a child. “Phadra, I have to be at the bank on the morrow. I need to announce our marriage to the directors before the ball….” He allowed his voice to trail off, but Phadra caught the unspoken meaning.

“Before the gossip reaches them first, you mean,” she finished. The realization of how deeply he must regret their marriage sobered her. She had to force herself to take each step toward the waiting coach…and her destiny.

Grant heard the disappointment in her voice. He opened the door to the chaise and helped her in. Phadra slid across the seat, away from him. He could feel her pulling away. He climbed into the chaise and sat beside her, the confines too close for them to sit very far apart. After rapping on the roof to signal the postboy to start the journey, he attempted to explain. “Phadra, this will be a difficult time.” The post chaise took off with a jerk that threw her against him. He clenched his teeth against the pain as she jostled his wounded shoulder.

She quickly pushed herself away and asked coldly, “And if they do hear the gossip before you can talk to them?”

Grant didn’t answer immediately. He felt the shift of the coach as it rolled out of the inn yard and onto the road to London. Finally he said, “I could lose my position with the bank—”

“I see.”

“Do you?” he asked, irritated by her interruption. “There will be people who will put the worst possible cast on the matter. Junior men who covet my position—”

She interrupted him again. “What are you warning
me about?” He could feel her staring at him in the dark.

Grant ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not warning you—,” he began, then stopped himself. “Yes, I am warning you. People can be cruel, but I think we can weather the storm if we present a respectable picture, if we stand together. The gossip will die down.”

The gossip. He knew how hard it was to live down gossip. He knew the shame of having everyone know your secrets. Instead he said, “After all, this isn’t the worst scandal London has witnessed. It’ll be a momentary diversion.”

Phadra was thankful that he couldn’t see her face in the dark, for her cheeks burned with embarrassment. He hadn’t wanted this marriage…any more than her father had wanted a child. Only Grant wouldn’t desert her as her father had—even if the marriage ruined him.

She didn’t know if she would be able to speak, but she forced herself. “I shouldn’t have run away.” Her voice came out as little more than a whisper. “Here. Take what is left of the five hundred pounds.”

Grant heard in her voice what she didn’t want him to know—how much saying those words aloud cost her pride. “Keep it.” He almost reached over to her in the dark, but something held him back. It wouldn’t do any good. He’d already made a muddle of everything. Why couldn’t he have left her alone the night before? Even now, hearing her voice in the dark, his body responded. The image of taking her right there in the close confines of the rolling post chaise almost robbed him of breath.

His father would have done so, had he been in the same position.

Instead Grant moved closer to the door and concentrated on the dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder. She wouldn’t be sorry she married him, he vowed. And he would protect her. He knew what to avoid. He’d steer them through this scandal.

All he had to do was stay in control.

Phadra woke in stages. She no longer felt the roll and sway of the carriage; slowly, as she became aware of her surroundings, she realized that she was in a bedroom.

She sat up on the large, comfortable mattress of a four-poster bed. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn in the post chaise, except that her shoes had been removed. Peering over the edge of the mattress, she saw them sitting in perfect alignment by the side of the bed.

Phadra slid off the high four-poster, using the steps set at the side of the bed to climb down. Something about the room seemed vaguely familiar. Almost as if in a dream, she crossed to the window, her feet soundless on the thick carpet, and pulled open the drapes. Daylight flooded the room. Phadra blinked and looked out onto the street.

She didn’t recognize the neighborhood, with its neat brick row houses lining the streets. There was much of London she hadn’t explored yet, but she knew by the genteel appointments and wrought-iron fences that she was in one of the better neighborhoods.

She turned and looked around the room. It was not overlarge. The bed dominated it. The colors were deep, evergreen with hints of brown. A masculine room. The lines of the bed, the washstand, and the dresser were plainly styled, but Phadra found them
exceptionally tasteful. In fact, the whole room was pleasing to her in spite of its outward masculinity.

Suddenly she realized what seemed so familiar to her. The air smelled of the shaving soap used by Grant Morgan.

Phadra looked down at her left hand. The fake emerald on her wedding ring winked back at her in the summer morning sun.

She walked over to the dresser. On top sat three miniatures of women who she assumed must be his sisters since they bore a striking resemblance to her husband.

Her husband…

She looked around the room, seeing it with new eyes now that she realized that it was the intimate domain of her husband. It fit Grant’s personality. Tasteful, understated, not an item in the room that didn’t serve a useful purpose.

She didn’t feel uncomfortable in it.

She turned her gaze to the bed. The feather pillow on the other side of the bed was indented as if someone had rested there. Hot color flooded her cheeks as she realized that she hadn’t been the only one in the bed that night. Could he have—

A discreet knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. For a moment Phadra panicked. Catching sight of herself in the mirror over the washstand, she decided she didn’t want anyone to see her. The dress was wrinkled almost beyond repair; her hair hung in a mass of tangles and curls. The knock sounded again, this time more insistent. “Who’s there?” Phadra called.

“Wallace, madam,” came the crisp answer.

“Wallace?” she repeated in disbelief.

The door opened.

“Wallace!” Phadra cried in glad recognition. She stopped herself just short of throwing a big hug around his neck. “What are you doing here?”

The burly butler, now dressed in somber black and white livery instead of the more flamboyant style she had chosen and carrying a small silver tray, smiled. “I’m in Mr. Morgan’s service. Jem and I both have been since Mr. Morgan closed up your house in Soho Square.”

“He never said a word to me.”

A knowing smile stretched across Wallace’s face. “Mayhap he’d planned on bringing home a different bride.”

Hot color flooded her cheeks.

“Here now, Miss Abbott—I mean, Mrs. Morgan, don’t be that way about it. Jem and I are proud as punch to be back in your employ.” He lowered his voice to a confidential level. “Better than that
other
one, I can tell you.”

“Who, Miranda? What do you know of her?”

Wallace stood to his full height. “When your employer is about to marry a new mistress, a smart servant finds out everything he can about her.” He didn’t have to say anything further. What he’d discovered was etched in the frown lines of his face. He indicated the small silver tray he held and the single card on it bearing Miranda’s name. “She’s waiting in the parlor and demands a word with you. And the master left this message for you.” With his other hand he offered a heavy bond envelope.