Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  And yet even now his traitorous body responded to her. He damned his bad blood.

  Bluntly he said, “I need to see Sir Cecil.”

  She didn’t acknowledge him, but continued staring as if dazed by the turn of events. For the first time he wondered if she too had regrets. Had she long held dreams about the man she would choose to marry, dreams that must now be let go?

  Hardening his resolve, he crossed to the door and turned the handle, not surprised to catch the innkeepers and Lady Evans scrambling away from the door. With one last look over his shoulder at the silent woman inside the room, he left, closing the door behind him.

  Lady Evans gave Phadra only a half hour to brood before she burst into the room, trying to act like a ray of sunshine. “Well,” she announced, rolling the l’s, as was her habit, “you can’t continue to be a slugabed. We need to get you dressed. Did you hear that rider take off from the inn yard? He’s on his way to London to procure a special license.”

  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.”

  Chapter 12

  The 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.