Treasured Vows (7 page)

She didn’t wait for an answer but turned on her heel, left the room, and marched up the stairs, giving her anger free rein. Oh, yes, she had a word or two for Sir Cecil—and Mr. Morgan. Mr. Morgan in particular! To think she had started to believe that he held some regard, some respect, for her. Did he think she would let either of those two potential husbands touch her? Phadra gave a shiver of disgust. She knew she wasn’t a beauty, but she wasn’t a toad, either!

She had just reached the first landing, out of sight to anyone in the hall, when she heard Mr. Morgan’s voice. “What is the meaning of this nonsense, Sir Cecil?”

Phadra froze, straining to hear the answer.

“What nonsense?” Sir Cecil’s voice asked.

“Of trying to palm off those two idiots on Miss Abbott!”

“Beatrice and I are merely trying to find her a husband. Wasn’t that the plan?”

“The plan was,” Mr. Morgan’s voice said heatedly, “to find her a
suitable
husband. Blaney has to be all of seventy, and I don’t think Woodlac is old enough to have seen his majority.”

“He’s young, I’ll admit that fact. But he’s over sixteen.”

“What? He’s seventeen?” Morgan snorted his disbelief.

“Those men are both suitable,” Sir Cecil objected. “True, Blaney’s a miser through and through, but he has more gold in his mattress than most people have in the bank, and that would suit our purpose—”

“
Our
purpose?” Morgan asked archly, as if to distance himself from the crime.

“—and Lawrence Woodlac, Jules’s father, is rich beyond belief, plus he’d pay anything for an heir.” His tone turned confidential. “Actually, Lawrence is a bit worried about his son. I mean, you may have noticed the boy is a bit queer in the head and maybe not all a man should be. However, if Phadra manages to breed a brat by him, Lawrence would make her rich beyond her dreams. He wants an heir.”

“You sound as coarse as that old goat of a squire,” Mr. Morgan answered.

The sound of a closing door warned Phadra that someone might be coming. Silently she hurried up the last few steps as Miranda appeared at the top of the staircase. Miranda smiled like a cat lapping cream as
the two of them passed. “Tearing yourself away from two such earnest suitors so quickly?”

“One of them seems to prefer you,” Phadra said evenly.

“I already have a suitor,” came the smug reply. With a bounce of her curls, Miranda disappeared around the turn in the staircase.

And you’ll make life hell for him,
Phadra thought as she turned the handle of her door and entered her room.

Practically ripping the hat off her head, Phadra threw the thing at the door.

A knock sounded. “Come in,” Phadra called.

In came Annie, the maid Lady Evans had assigned to her. “Miss, is everything all right?”

It was on the tip of Phadra’s tongue to shout, “No, everything is all wrong!” but then she realized that taking out her frustration on Annie wasn’t a solution.

There had to be an answer to her problems. She had to think, to use her wits.

“Here, miss, let me brush out your hair. You’ve lost a few pins. You have to be careful when you remove your bonnet.”

Phadra sat down at the chair in front of her mirror and for five wonderful minutes Annie brushed her hair out. Then she started to pin it back up again.

Phadra raised her hands to stop her. “Do we have to?”

The maid’s gaze met hers in the mirror. “It’s Lady Evans’s orders, miss.”

Lowering her arms, Phadra frowned in the mirror. She hated wearing her hair pinned up. However, the hairstyle was so ugly that maybe it would scare Jules Woodlac and Squire Blaney away. All she had to do
was thwart Lord and Lady Evans until she’d thought of a plan to either extricate herself from debt or find her father.

Her gaze moved from her own image to her bedside table, searching for the wooden horse, which she had left there.

The horse wasn’t there.

Phadra rose to her feet, heedless of Annie, who was just about to stick another pin in her hair, and walked over to the bedside table.

She found the horse, but its front legs no longer pawed the air. They’d been snapped off. The head had been hit against the night table until it had splintered into pieces.

There was only one person Phadra could think of who could have done something this petty, this spiteful, this vicious. She picked up the pieces in her hand and stormed out of her room.

A footman opened the doors to the yellow parlor, so Phadra didn’t have to stop until she stood in front of Miranda, who made a charming picture in blue silk, sitting in a chair opposite Mrs. Woodlac. Phadra dumped the pieces of the horse in her lap.

“What is this?” Miranda asked, her eyes wide, as if seeing the horse for the first time.

For a second Phadra’s conviction wavered, but then she saw the laughter lurking deep in Miranda’s eyes. “You tell me,” Phadra said, her voice low and taut with the force of her anger.

“Was this your little horse?” Miranda tilted her head and slid a sly gaze up at Phadra before asking innocently, “However did it end up in so many pieces? Or was it that cheaply made?”

Phadra wanted to punch her. She forced herself to
keep her arms at her side, her fists clenching handfuls of her skirt in an effort to exert control over her emotions. She’d never hated anyone the way she hated Miranda Evans at that moment.

But she also knew there wasn’t anything she could do to Miranda.

What was worse, Miranda knew it, too. Her eyes glowed with challenge. With slow, deliberate movements, she brushed her hand against her skirt, sweeping the pieces of wood onto the floor. “I don’t like things that are broken,” she said. “Do you?”

Phadra stared at the pieces lying on the India carpet. “It was my only link with my father,” she said, as if she could make Miranda understand the magnitude of her hateful act.

Miranda shrugged and looked away. Phadra fought the urge to shake her, to make her understand. She knew it would be no use. People like Miranda, who had everything they wanted, didn’t understand what it meant to have little.

Slowly, almost as if in a dream, Phadra looked around the room at the people who had witnessed this scene. She saw Lord and Lady Evans, the footman and butler, Jules and his gluttonous mother, and Squire Blaney, who’d cupped a hand to his ear as if to pick up every sound he could. Finally she forced herself to look up at Mr. Morgan. He had come over to pick up the pieces of the horse, and now held them out in his hand. She hated the expression on his face—one of pity for her.

Phadra drew in a deep breath and held her head as high as any duchess. “Throw it away. I don’t want it.” She walked out of the room, refusing to look back.

But her composure didn’t last past the door of her bedroom. Once inside, she collapsed like a wet sugar cake and stayed there until all of her tears were spent. She cried for her mother, for the changes in her life, and for all the opportunities she had to give up. She cried for a father who didn’t care. And for a life that stretched long and bleak ahead of her.

When Annie tapped at the door, wanting to know if she needed help preparing for bed or would like a bowl of soup, Phadra sent her away. She didn’t want anyone to see her that way—not even Henny, whom she also turned away shortly after Annie’s visit.

That night, drained of all emotion, she lay in the middle of her bed listening to the steady sound of rain falling outside her window. Never in her life had she felt so completely lost and alone. She fell asleep to the sound of rain.

Phadra woke the next morning feeling as though she’d been squeezed through a cider press. Henny appeared in her room shortly after Annie had brought a cup of coffee and spent part of the morning trying to cheer her. Phadra didn’t say much. Her will, her energy to tackle life no matter what odds, had disappeared as if it had never existed.

Then the package arrived.

Annie didn’t know who had delivered it. “A boy brought it. Mayhap there’s a card inside that will tell who sent it.”

Phadra turned the package in her hands. She didn’t recognize the bold, slashing handwriting on the outside, nor was there any message on it other than her name.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Henny asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t received many gifts in my life,” Phadra confessed.

“Me neither.” Annie’s eyes were bright with excitement, as if she were the one receiving the present. “That’s what makes them so special. Go on, miss. Open it up.”

Carefully Phadra untied the string and then slowly unfolded the brown paper wrapping. For a moment, when she saw the contents, she forgot to breathe…and then slowly, almost reverently, she ran her fingers over the buttery soft leather of a much-read, much-cherished copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

P
hadra knew that Mr. Morgan had sent the book. She’d eliminated all other possibilities. Henny was with her, Wallace and Jem didn’t read and wouldn’t have been aware of what the book meant to her, and her other acquaintances didn’t know about her abrupt reversal of fortune.

Remembering Miranda’s jealousy, Phadra let four days pass before she attempted to thank him.

He was coming down the hallway from Sir Cecil’s study, looking more handsome than she had remembered when she’d mentally rehearsed this meeting. He’d already finished with his fifteen-minute formal call on Miranda and was heading for the front door.

Feeling a little foolish for setting up a clandestine meeting, and aware that her heart was beating a rather strange tattoo, Phadra called his name softly. She had to repeat it before he checked his long, athletic stride. He stopped and listened.

Placing a hand to her stomach to steady her
nerves, Phadra pulled the dining room door open a little wider so that he could see her. He turned at the sound of creaking hinges.

“Miss Abbott?”

“Mr. Morgan, may I have a moment of your time?” Phadra was relieved her voice didn’t shake. “In private.”

He looked at her uncertainly and then shot a cautious glance up the hall. Phadra could hear the noises of visitors in the yellow parlor—the clink of china and the low hum of gossip. It hadn’t escaped her attention that recently Lady St. George, Sophie, and several of Miranda’s friends had made it a point to present themselves at Evans House at approximately the same hour as Mr. Morgan’s punctual visits.

He appeared to weigh the consequences. His hesitation made her feel brazen, but her pride urged her to continue. “For a moment,” she added, and lifted her chin to let him know that it was of no importance to her if he came or not.

When he reluctantly murmured, “For a moment,” Phadra felt a stab of panic. She held the door open while he slipped through. He shut the door quietly.

Afraid that he could hear the hammering of her heart in the quiet of the dining room, Phadra turned and walked toward the door that led into the smaller dining room the family used regularly. At the doorway she stopped to see if he followed.

The tense expression on his face told her he didn’t think this was a good idea.

What did he think she was going to do, anyway? Irritated, she turned and went into the other room, her kid slippers gliding quietly across the hardwood floor.

A moment later she heard his heavier footsteps follow.

Along the wall overlooking the garden was a long bank of tall French windows, one of them open and leading into the garden. Phadra went through the French window and down the steps into a small, private herb garden.

Grant wondered where she was leading him as she disappeared through the door. He followed her and then stopped, poised on the window steps.

Miss Abbott stood on the gravel path cutting through the garden, waiting for him. Her dress was much the same as the one she had worn to the Royal Academy, except it was a light rose color. With her pale hair, it would have made her appear almost fragile were it not for the vibrant enamel blue of her eyes and the determined set of her chin.

Her lively corkscrew curls had escaped the maid’s attempt at a fashionable coiffure. The spring sun kissed those curling tendrils, creating a gentle halo. She stood waiting for him like a proud young goddess.

He suddenly realized that following her to this private haven was not a wise idea.

“I wanted to thank you.” Phadra had to force herself to speak the words. Seeing him standing on the steps, as imperious and reserved as a lord, intimidated her. She wondered if she had made a mistake by seeking him out to thank him in private.

“For what?” he asked in his cool banker’s voice.

“For the book.” She clasped her hands in front of her, sure that he would notice how nervous she was if she didn’t hold them tightly. “It meant a great deal to me…and came at the time I needed it most.”

“It wasn’t a gift,” Grant said abruptly, intensely aware that somewhere deep inside him his body responded to her low, musical voice—that he’d been listening for it these last four days on his visits to Miranda. “It belongs to you.”

“But you had the power to return it, and you did so. For that I thank you.”

For a moment Grant forgot to breathe. He no longer heard the hum of bees encouraging the lavender to grow or felt the sun on his head and shoulders.

Everything about him was concentrated on the petite, regal figure of Phadra Abbott standing before him—but then she’d rarely been far from his thoughts since she’d defied him at the Royal Academy.

He didn’t want to feel this way. He didn’t want to stand there in the herb-scented spring air and remember the day when she’d broken through his wall of caution and restraint.

He didn’t want to remember that for one mad moment she’d tempted him, as no woman had tempted him before, to lean over and taste her lips. Or that he was alone in the garden with her right at that moment and could easily cross over to her, slip his hand around her trim waist, and draw her to him.

She wouldn’t resist. Whether she knew it or not, every part of her, from her newly shod toes to her full, firm lower lip and shining blue eyes, begged him to do just that.

For a long, painful span of time, the hot, sporting blood of his father warred with the man he wanted to become.

“Think nothing of it,” he said, his voice curt and businesslike, and then he ducked back through the
French window and left the garden, running from her as if the hounds of hell snapped at his heels.

Phadra stood motionless a long time after he’d left. Deep inside her, a sad, wise voice said that it was all for the best.

“Damn it all, Grant. How much longer is it going to take to find a husband for this filly?” Sir Cecil grumbled as he walked into Grant’s private office unannounced. “She’s been under my roof for two weeks.”

“Do you refer to Miss Abbott?” Grant asked without looking up from the reports and advertisements of properties being offered for sale that he had been studying. He planned on purchasing a country estate just as soon as he married and received his knighthood.

However, if the truth were known, he wasn’t enamored of his future wife. There were sheep brighter than Miranda Evans, and, now that he knew her better, her clandestine attempts to throw herself at Lord Phipps inspired apathy in him rather than jealousy.

Sir Cecil brought his hands down on the papers, forcing Grant to look up at him. “Don’t think I don’t know why Blaney cried off. He was interested in the chit until he had a visit from you.”

“Squire Blaney treats his dogs better than he would a wife.”

“He is rich.”

“I’m not going to marry her off to someone I wouldn’t let call on one of my own sisters.”

“The problem with you, Morgan, is that you’ve too much of a conscience.” Sir Cecil emphasized his words by pounding his palm against Grant’s desk. “If you expect to succeed in the bank or in this world,
then you are going to have to think with your head and not rely on emotion.”

“How interesting,” Grant drawled, “I’ll have to inform Gladbury at the Royal Exchange. He told me this morning that I had no heart whatsoever.”

But Sir Cecil wasn’t listening. He pushed away from the desk and started pacing. “I ran into Harry Jenkins on my way in today. He asked how an auction we’d held in the name of a Sir Julius Abbott went. Said he hadn’t heard of the account—well, you know how the man is,” Sir Cecil said with a wave of his hand. “Damn nosy.”

Now he had Grant’s complete attention. “What did you tell him?”

“Fine, I said, fine. What else could I say?” He stopped and looked at Grant. “Did it go off well?”

“Well enough. We managed to take care of her most pressing debts. However, there is still the matter of replacing the ten thousand pounds for the emeralds,” he reminded Sir Cecil.

“We’ve got to marry Phadra Abbott off. I can’t cover it. I’ve been in dun territory for years,” Sir Cecil said in a small, desperate voice.

Yes,
Grant thought,
we have to marry Phadra Abbott off
—or his hell-born agreement to marry Lady Miranda would be for naught.

Phadra sat curled up in a chair in her bedroom. She and Henny had managed a visit to the lending library, and she wanted to do nothing more that afternoon than forget her problems in a good book on Roman history.

Unfortunately Miranda was having another fit in her room. Phadra tried to shut out the whining and
concentrate on the book—then she heard her name mentioned.

Nothing could have stopped her from putting the book aside and rising from the chair. She didn’t have to lean too close to the door to hear Miranda’s plaintive voice. “I have to have more time. I know William will come up to scratch.”

“There is no more time,” Lady Evans said. “Your engagement ball is this Wednesday.”

“One more chance. I demand it.”

“Miranda, child, I don’t see how we can stall Mr. Morgan any longer. He expects the announcement to be in the papers the following morning.”

“I just don’t think I can stand having Sophie out-rank me! I can’t stand it!” Suddenly there came a loud crash. Phadra jumped.

But this time Lady Evans didn’t seem to have patience with Miranda. “Stop it. Stop destroying the furniture now and face reality.”

Miranda broke down into big, gulping sobs that made Phadra wonder if the girl wasn’t a touch mad.

“Miranda, you have to control yourself,” her mother urged. “You can’t go on this way.”

Eventually her heartrending sobs subsided a little. Lady Evans went on in a voice of patient authority, “You will marry Grant Morgan. He’s a good man, certainly an uncommonly handsome one, and your father promises to see him knighted soon after your wedding.”

“A knighthood.” Miranda made a spitting sound. “Dangerfield has a better title than that.”

“Then maybe you should set your cap for Sophie’s lad.”

“You know I don’t stand a chance with him. I lost
my temper at Aunt Elizabeth’s soiree and hit that maid over the head with her tray. Dangerfield is the one who helped the maid up from the floor.” She heaved a sigh and said, “He acted as if I’d whacked some duchess over the head.”

“Oh, I remember,” Lady Evans said, sounding as if she was reliving the horror of that incident.

“Mother, please, I know I can bring in Lord Phipps.”

There was a long silence. Finally Lady Evans said, “Mr. Morgan has two gentlemen he wants to introduce to Phadra and has suggested we host a small dinner party. We could invite Lord Phipps.”

Miranda clapped her hands together. “Yes!”

“Mind you, it will be upright and respectable. I’ll have no more of your flitting around meeting Phipps behind your father’s back. If you can’t bring him up to scratch during the dinner party, then prepare to be a knight’s lady.”

Phadra returned to her chair. She pulled her book onto her lap but didn’t read. Instead she stared off into space, thinking.

So. Mr. Morgan had been searching on her behalf.

She wondered what kind of man he thought suitable for her.

The evening of the dinner party, Grant had to admit that Miranda looked stunning. She wore a dress made of expensive Valenciennes lace and silk, the white elegance making her appear almost regal.

In contrast, Miss Abbott wore one of the ruffly dresses Lady Evans had chosen. It seemed to hide her figure better than sackcloth. Her unruly hair had been pulled back tightly.

He’d rarely had the opportunity to see her these past weeks, but he’d heard her. Almost every day she played the pianoforte in the Evanses’ music room.

Once he’d cracked open the music room door and silently watched her as she bent over the instrument, her concentration so intense that she didn’t appear to notice he was there. Phadra Abbott lacked Miranda’s superior musicianship. Her mistakes had been loud and obvious, but she’d worked at the music with the dedication of a person who enjoyed the endeavor. Every note, even the wrong ones, had conveyed her understanding of the beauty and feeling of the piece.

That day she’d worn her hair down and loosely tied with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. The late-afternoon light streaming through the window next to the piano had touched her hair gently, causing it to gleam. Her long fingers had moved across the keys, stopping after each bad chord while she chastised herself for not playing better.

She wasn’t a classic beauty, not with her upturned nose and that almost unmanageable hair, but there was something special about her. She was like a vibrant star that had its own sense of life. The problem was, women like Phadra Abbott found it difficult to conform; without the benefit of wealth, they would be hard to marry off.

Grant frowned, his mind now in the present. Not only did he not like Miss Abbott’s tightly pinned hairstyle, but also he was not pleased to see Lord Phipps seated right next to her.

Phadra was aware of Grant Morgan the moment he stepped into the room. Even before the other guests moved and shifted in response to his incredible good looks and air of authority, she’d sensed his
presence—just as she had that afternoon in the music room when he’d watched her play.

She looked up slowly and discovered that her senses had not lied. Mr. Morgan’s tall frame filled the door. For the briefest of moments their gazes met. The butler announced him—and the two men accompanying him. It was only then that Phadra noticed his companions.

Thomas Jamison was an attractive man about twenty years older than herself. Captain William Duroy was perhaps the same age as Mr. Morgan and quite dashing in his white and gold uniform.

Her suitors. A soft, nervous fluttering in her stomach warned her that she wasn’t ready for this. These men were nothing like the fops Sir Cecil had attempted to foist off on her. It took all her willpower to stand rooted to her place on the carpet and not make a mad dash for her room.

Lady Evans charged forward. “Mr. Morgan,” she said, drawing out the words. “You’ve arrived at last. Pray introduce me to your guests.”