The walls and the ceiling were all painted a lovely sky blue. White bed curtains and bedclothes gave him the impression that he was stepping into the heavens. Even the bedposts and wardrobe were painted white. The only color in the room was provided by a stack of books on her night table.
He remembered her request to let her keep her books. Curious, he walked toward the night table and ran his finger down the spines. Philosophy. History. His sisters’ tastes ran more toward melodrama and romantic novels, whereas Miss Abbott’s apparently coincided with his own.
The book on the top was lying open, face down. Grant read the title: A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. Unfamiliar with the author, Mary Wollstonecraft, he picked the book up and turned it over.
It was obvious that this was a much-read and valued book. The pages were no longer clean and fresh, and their corners were turned down to mark particular passages. Without thinking, Grant flipped through several pages, reading various paragraphs.
He didn’t argue with the author’s opinions. After all, his sisters had railed about the inequalities of men and women under English law for years—and he agreed with much they said. But a treatise urging women to search for true freedom and demand educational equality with men would not help Miss Abbott. She was to be sold to the highest bidder.
For the second time that day he felt a stab of guilt. The men in her life had not taken care of her the way he believed they should have—and now she would be the one to pay.
Next to the stack of books sat a wooden carving of a proud, defiant stallion with its front hooves pawing the air. The carver had been skilled. He’d captured the spirit and beauty of the beast in a piece of golden wood.
Grant picked up the carving and, in his mind, weighed it against the books.
At last he set the book back down on the table, placed the horse in his pocket, and left the room. Outside the door, he ran into one of the estimators. “There are some books on the table,” Grant said. “Sell them.”
Phadra rocketed out of her room at Evans House like Chinese fireworks. After having spent hours being pinned, pulled, and pushed by Lady Evans and her dressmakers, she was sure she had no sanity left.
She was beginning to believe that debtor’s prison would be preferable to enduring another round of fittings.
“You’re late,” she snapped at Mr. Morgan when he finally made his appearance to take them to the Royal Academy.
He stared at her, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Miss Abbott?”
She gave him a small mocking curtsey. “I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me. I barely recognize myself. But then, you are one of the henchmen.”
“Henchmen?”
“Yes,” she replied, her voice sharp with anger. “You are part of the plot to turn me into a pattern copy of every other lady walking through society today, no matter what I think, what I feel, or how I look.”
“You’re upset.”
“Whyever not? Look at me!” Phadra turned in a circle so he would receive the full impact of her outfit. “I look ridiculous in this. It’s all the dressmaker had ready to wear, but Lady Evans ordered three more cut just like it.”
He stepped back and surveyed her critically. “Actually, you look quite…fetching.”
“In a pig’s eye,” Phadra said. She waved her arms wildly. “I look like a dwarf in these fussy ruffles. Plus the cream color makes me look washed out and sickly, but Lady Evans insisted all my clothing be debutante whites and pastels because that is what an unmarried woman wears.” She held out a slippered foot. “I caan’t wear saandaals,” she said, imitating Lady Evans’s tones. “I must wear shoes. Why? Well, not because I find these little leather things comfortable, but because that is what is expected by society. Who is Society, anyway, and why does it care what I have on my feet when there are so many other more important matters to think upon?”
It felt good to vent her frustration, and she sensed her anger ebbing. In fact, it soothed her wounded pride that Mr. Morgan appeared to enjoy her recitation of the trials she had suffered that morning. She raised her hands to either side of the brim of her hat. “This hat’s outrageous. I’m like a horse with blinders and have to turn my head in order to see anything fully. I’ve had this hat on for only five minutes and already I have a crick in my neck. And you should see my hair underneath it.”
“They didn’t cut it?” he asked, sounding genuinely alarmed.
“They tried. But I wouldn’t let them. Every time Lady Evans’s maid came toward me with scissors, I held her off with the fireplace poker.”
“The devil you did,” he said, starting to laugh at her story.
“I most certainly did!” she declared, striking a noble pose. “But still they rolled and pinned it up until I feel almost bald. I tell you, sir, that we should forget sending the army after Napoleon and send society matrons and dressmakers. We’d have him licked in a trice.”
Mr. Morgan burst out in laughter, glorious and rich. The transformation of his features stunned Phadra. If anything, he became more handsome, and she hadn’t thought that possible. She found herself laughing, too, pleased that he enjoyed her humor.
He studied her for a moment with his sparkling gray eyes. “I’m glad they didn’t cut your hair.”
Dear heavens, had he paid her a compliment? The warm regard in his statement brought a sudden rush of heat to her cheeks. Thankful now that the bonnet hid her face, she made a pretense of smoothing the fit of her gloves, feeling light-headed, giddy.
Phadra didn’t know what to do. She said the first coherent thought to cross her mind. “Miranda should be down in a moment. I don’t know what could be keeping her.” She glanced up and away from him, suddenly shy of his silvery gaze.
“Women do take their time preparing to go out, Miss Abbott. It seems to be a cardinal sin of your sex.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her gaze shot up to meet his squarely.
“Please, I mean it not as an insult but rather as a statement of fact.”
“Of fact? Based upon what? Your study of the nature of women? Let me point out that I was here on time. You were not.” She discovered that it felt good to argue with him and push away those disturbing feelings his presence could arouse.
“I have three sisters, Miss Abbott,” he announced with a certain amount of smug satisfaction. “I found it prudent—no, necessary to tell them we were leaving a half hour earlier than the actual time in order to arrive anywhere on time. Experience, not fancy, has taught me the truth of that statement.”
“Perhaps you would have found them ready on time if you’d let them know what you expected rather than play silly games with them.”
He hated the way she talked down to him, as if he were a schoolboy, but held his tongue. His goal that day wasn’t to match wits with Miss Abbott but to spend time with his future wife. His voice sounded a little too stiff, even to his own ears, when he said, “I wasn’t aware that you were accompanying us.”
“Miranda invited me. Is that agreeable to you?” Miss Abbott didn’t look at him, but made a great pretense of pulling at her gloves, as if she found them uncomfortable.
“Yes, of course.” What else could he say?
Grant had to admit that her dress looked to be more to Lady Evans’s tastes than to Miss Abbott’s. For a moment his mind conjured up the proud young woman she had been the day before in that flowing deep purple tunic.
He erased the image from his mind.
Then he remembered the wooden horse in his pocket and pulled it out. “I almost forgot. I picked this up at your home.”
Her eyes lit up at the sight of the horse. She took it from him with both hands and pressed it close to her chest. “Thank you so much.” Her words were filled with genuine emotion. “I can’t tell you how important this small piece is to me. I’ve had it since childhood.”
She held the carving in her hands and studied it for a moment before looking back up at him. Her deep, magnetic blue eyes were luminous with unshed tears as sh
e asked, “Were you able to save any of my books? There was one in particular I would so like to have.”
Grant’s sense of pleasure died. “No. I couldn’t bring the books.” He looked away, unable to face his lie with that startling gaze on him.
The door to the room flew open, and Miranda burst in, radiant in a peach silk dress with a matching leghorn bonnet that suited her features perfectly. “Grant,” she said lazily, pulling on her gloves, “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting overlong.” She stopped in the center of the room and made a silly moue at him as if to beg his forgiveness. He had the feeling she’d practiced that particular expression in the mirror.
Gallantly he replied, “Waiting for you, my lady, is an honor.” He bent over the hand she held out to him.
That was prettily done, Phadra wanted to snap at him, but she held her tongue. She knew she appeared a drab goose next to Miranda, but she didn’t understand why Mr. Morgan’s marked attentions to Miranda irritated her. Not wanting to examine those feelings too closely, she said, “Excuse me for a moment; I need to run this up to my room.”
“What is that?” Miranda asked, noticing the object in her hand.
“It is a wooden horse my father gave me. Mr. Morgan was kind enough to bring it to me from my old home.”
“Grant,” Miranda purred his name in a slightly petulant voice, “did you bring me anything?”
Phadra left the room on that question, half hoping Miranda would give him a dose of her temper—something she’d witnessed again that morning when Miranda demanded that her mother have dresses made for her, too. Let Mr. Morgan talk his way around that!
He must have succeeded in sweetening Miranda’s mood, since the ride to the Royal Academy in the elegant coach he had hired for the occasion was uneventful. Because of the decided chill in the spring air and the threat of rain, the exhibit rooms were more crowded than usual. The Royal Academy was one of Phadra’s favorite places to visit, and she came often. This day, though, she noticed something peculiar. Walking alongside the maid in the couple’s wake, she noticed that heads turned and people stopped to watch the banker and Miranda as they passed.
At first she assumed people stared at them because of Miranda. Miranda must have thought so, too. She started to preen with all of the silent attention.
However, a few minutes later, Phadra changed her opinion. The heads turning as the couple walked by were women’s heads—and they weren’t admiring Miranda but savoring the chiseled good looks of Grant Morgan.
Phadra covered her lips with her fingertips to keep from bursting out into laughter. The banker acted as if he didn’t notice the admiring glances and sly smiles. In fact, he was so extremely solicitous of his fiancée and her silly prattle that Phadra doubted Miranda would be able to free herself from him to keep her meeting with Lord Phipps.
She was wrong.
In a few minutes Miranda announced with the right touch of delicacy that she would have to excuse herself from their party for a few minutes to attend to necessities.
“Do you need me to go with you, Miranda?” Phadra asked, unable to stop herself from toying with her hostess.
“No,” Miranda answered with false sweetness and angry eyes. “My maid will accompany me.”
In a second Phadra and Mr. Morgan stood alone, but Phadra wasn’t laughing anymore. It was unsettling to be standing in public next to a man she, and everyone else in the room, thought more attractive than herself.
He spoke first. “I’ve never been to the Royal Academy or any of its exhibits before. Have you?”
That question brought Phadra out of her shyness immediately. “It was the first place I visited when I reached London. You don’t admire art, Mr. Morgan?”
“It’s not a question of admiration, Miss Abbott. I’ve had little time in my life to walk around looking at pictures.”
At that moment a striking young matron in a very stylish gown accidentally bumped into Mr. Morgan’s arm. She murmured an excuse and moved on, but Phadra caught her coy sidelong glance toward Mr. Morgan. A beat later, he bent and picked up a glove from the floor. He looked directly at the woman. “Excuse me, madam, but I believe you dropped this.”
“Did I?” the woman said in a slow, inviting voice. “Then I thank you for returning it.” Her fingers stroked the banker’s hands as she took the glove from him.
Mr. Morgan gave her a short, cool bow, slipped his hand under Phadra’s elbow, and—was it her imagination?—pulled her closer to his body. He directed the two of them out of the room and into another.
Phadra sensed movement behind them as women started to follow them into the next room. The whole situation was astounding. Every ounce of her experience had taught her that men did the pursuing, not vice versa. She looked over her shoulder and noticed that the forward young woman hadn’t yet given up the pursuit. If Miranda was smart, she would hurry back and protect her territory, Phadra decided irritably. She whispered to him, “Is it always like this for you?”
He looked down at her, his expression tense. “Like what?”
She was caught off guard at how close his face was to hers. Heavens, she could see his whisker line and smell the clean, slightly spicy scent of shaving soap. She heard herself repeat dumbly, “Like what?” Then she blinked as if to break the spell. Perhaps this was the closest she’d ever been to a man—except for Alexei Popov, the poet, who attended her salons, drank all of her champagne, and one time had chased her around the table, managing to kiss her once before Wallace threw him out into the street—but she certainly didn’t have to act as smitten as the other women at the exhibit. “Like these women practically offering themselves to you,” she replied curtly.
Again the set of his jaw tightened. “If I ignore them, they will eventually go away. Besides, I am already escorting a young lady.”
Struck by the absurdity of the situation, Phadra found her sense of humor. “Obviously I don’t intimidate them.”
Mr. Morgan saw no humor in the matter. “Miss Abbott, can we concentrate on the art?”
Phadra looked up in surprise. “You’re embarrassed by all this.”
He frowned, his eyes practically boring holes in the picture before them, which was of a naked shepherdess and two randy satyrs, but Phadra doubted if he saw a thing. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“I’m talking about the fact that there are women staring at you as though you were marzipan and they’d love to gobble you up.”
To her delight, a slow blush stained his cheeks, and she realized that in spite of his extraordinary good looks, the man was actually modest. He tightened his hold on her elbow and pulled her even closer. “Will you stop it? They will go away if we ignore them.”
Phadra almost choked on a bubble of laughter. “You understand that most men would kill to have so much attention paid to them? I tell you, if we could bottle what you have, my money problems would be solved.”
He pulled away as if her words stung him, but she grabbed hold of his arm. “Please, Mr. Morgan, don’t be cross with me. I’m only teasing. However, if you share your father’s looks, I now understand his reputation as the Lord of Love,” she said, inadvertently referring to the information she had learned eavesdropping on Lady Evans the previous day.
His eyes narrowed at her use of the title. “I am not a rake,” he said angrily, his voice so low only she could hear him. “Nor am I unprincipled or unbridled in my passions. I don’t trade on my looks.” He bent down over her until they practically breathed the same air. “I work hard for my living and my rewards, Miss Abbott. I take my position with the bank, my family, and my engagement to Miranda very seriously. Yes, I want a title, but I also want to have a successful marriage. And my purpose in being here today is not to be ogled by a gaggle of females but to have the opportunity to acquaint myself better with my fiancée.”
His vehemence startled Phadra. But she heard something else in his voice, too—the mention of his father caused him pain, made him angry.
She could have cut out her tongue for being so flippant. She would have told him so, too, except that when she looked up at him, he was no longer paying attention to her.
Instead he was staring over her head into the next room. Phadra turned to look in the same direction and saw that he was looking at a mirror that reflected the corners of that room. It also captured Miranda leaning against a door frame in easy nonchalance, basking in the admiration of a short, slightly rotund man who could only be Lord Phipps.
Chapter 4
Phadra’s gaze went from Lord Phipps’s reflection to Mr. Morgan. She didn’t know what to say.
Mr. Morgan straightened his broad shoulders, looking more like a lord than did the man Miranda was flirting with. He forced his attention to the painting on the wall in front of them, his eyes icy, an angry muscle twitching in his jaw.
Phadra felt betrayed for him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?” he asked, his tone offhand, almost bored.
She didn’t answer.
After several long moments of silence, he asked, “You think I should be upset that I saw Miranda talking to Lord Phipps?”
“You know him?” she asked, surprised.
“I know him.”
But do you know Miranda would jilt you if Lord Phipps crooked his finger? she wanted to ask, but held her tongue. He studied the painting in silence.
Phadra sensed that seeing Miranda with Lord Phipps was more upsetting to him than he wanted to admit.
She understood the pride that made him pretend all was well. She just hadn’t expected to find that Grant Morgan, the banker, had an Achilles heel.
At last he spoke. “You are unfamiliar with the ways of the aristocracy, Miss Abbott. Fidelity in marriage is not a necessity. Miranda is free to go her own way as long as she is discreet.”
“You’re lying,” she said softly.
He turned his head to look down at her then, his eyes the deep gray of hard steel. “What I do, what I think, is no business of yours.”
Treasured Vows Page 5
