“I took the design from a carving of a Phoenician girl I saw in the British Museum,” Phadra said proudly.
“Yes, well…” Lady Evans made a face as if she’d just eaten something that didn’t agree with her.
“Oh, Mama, let Phadra set her own style,” Miranda said with sly insolence. “If she wants to dash around as if she has not even so much as stockings on underneath, what is it to us?”
Her words had the desired effect. Two hot spots burned on Phadra’s cheeks, while her mother looked ready to swoon.
“It’s going to be all right,” Lady Evans managed to gasp out. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Besides, there isn’t anything we can do about it now. Phadra, put on your gloves so that we can open our door to guests.”
“I have no gloves, Lady Evans.”
“You what?” the woman asked in a horrified tone.
“I don’t like them,” Phadra said. “The evening is hot, and I chose not to wear them.”
Lady Evans looked to her husband anxiously. “She doesn’t have any gloves? And she’s wearing her hair down. What are we going to do?”
“Let her borrow a pair of Miranda’s,” her husband said.
“Yes, that’s the very thing. Miranda, have a maid fetch a pair of your gloves.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t have another pair of gloves. There was an unfortunate accident and all of my gloves were—” She paused as if savoring the next word, “—ripped.”
Phadra looked away. If she had any pride at all, she’d turn her back on these small-minded, selfish people and walk—
Grant’s voice broke into her thoughts. “She doesn’t need gloves.”
“Doesn’t need them?” Lady Evans asked as if he’d spoken a sacrilege. “They are a necessity!”
“My wife chooses not to wear them,” Grant answered with the arrogance of a duke.
“But every lady—”
“My wife is a lady.”
Phadra didn’t know who was more surprised at his defense of her, Lady Evans or herself.
Sir Cecil decided the matter. “Beatrice, order the doors open and let’s get this affair over with.” The servants did as he commanded. Lady Evans had to scramble to her place beside Phadra in the receiving line.
Phadra leaned close to Grant, who was standing on her right, and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Did you notice that Lady Evans listens to her husband when he speaks?” he asked in an undertone. He obviously didn’t expect an answer, because he immediately went on, “What is going on between you and Lady Miranda?”
That was one of the questions she’d been dreading. “We don’t admire each other.”
“Don’t admire?” He appeared to taste the words before concluding, “On Miranda’s part, hate might be a better description.” Phadra was thankful that at that moment the first guests entered the hallway and claimed his full attention.
Over the next half hour, as if by magic, the foyer filled with elegant guests. Grant treated her with the deference a man uses in introducing his wife to important people. Lady Evans made it her personal cause to draw attention to Phadra’s dress. “Isn’t it different? She’s wearing little bells on her toes. Such an intriguing style, wouldn’t you say?” the woman trilled, until Phadra struggled with the urge to throttle her.
Eventually Lady Miranda grew bored with the receiving line and wandered away, only to appear from time to time close to Phadra and talking loudly to the other guests. Words such as misalliance and bluestocking peppered her conversation. Phadra noted that she apparently was refraining from targeting Grant.
In fact, Grant was well received by all—especially by the women. Standing next to him, Phadra felt gauche and awkward. The sly side glances Miranda’s gossip inspired started to feel like tiny darts. She didn’t have to hear the words to know what they were thinking. They wondered what a man such as he, a man who could have had any woman he wanted, was doing with her. She didn’t fit in. She wasn’t one of them.
Holding her head high, her smile firmly fixed in place and so bright that her facial muscles hurt, Phadra desperately wished she could do it all over again. She wouldn’t have done something so foolish as to tweak Miranda’s nose and incur her wrath. She would have worn the most boring, staid outfit she could find, and good solid shoes.
“Phadra,” Grant said, turning to her, “I’d like you to meet Lady Hollywise, Lady Sudbury, and Lady Fitzgerald. They are the wives of three of the bank’s directors.”
Phadra picked up on his cue and smiled graciously at the women. They returned her smile with doubtful ones of their own. Their gazes swept her person, starting with her wild curly hair and moving down to her belt made of braided gold cord and the skirt that flowed gracefully to her sandaled feet. Phadra caught her breath. If ever there was a trio that could give a “cut direct,” it was this little band, who wore their husbands’ status the way war heroes wore their medals. Phadra forced herself to say, “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
They nodded in unison. Then, to Phadra’s mortification, Lady Sudbury asked in an unusually robust voice, “Excuse me, Mrs. Morgan, but is it true you are wearing bells on your toes?”
“No, they’re on her toe rings,” Lady Fitzgerald corrected, smiling.
Lady Sudbury leaned closer and confided, “Lady Fitzgerald believes her feet are her best feature. She’d love to have a set.”
Phadra felt her cheeks turn hot with embarrassment. To think that her feet were being discussed by the guests…She cast a glance to see if Grant had overheard the question, certain that he would appreciate the opportunity to gloat. However, his attention was being claimed by a lush and lovely brunette who pressed his hand warmly to her bosom.
The surge of jealousy startled her. She watched wide-eyed as Grant attempted to free his hand but the woman held on.
Her first impulse was to slap her husband’s hand away from the woman’s chest, but before she could act, Lady Evans pulled at her arm and said in a voice filled with genuine panic, “It’s Dame Cunnington.”
“Dame Cunnington?” Lady Sudbury squeaked even as everyone in the foyer stepped back to make way for two large footmen in plum and silver livery carrying a leather-and-silk-lined sedan chair through the front door and into the foyer. To Phadra’s surprise, a very winded Alexei Popov, the poet, entered behind the chair and helped a tall, regal woman known as London’s leading patroness of the arts out of the chair.
“She’s one of your guests?” Phadra asked. If the Prince of Wales himself had joined their company, she could not have been more impressed.
“I had to invite her. She’s my aunt,” Lady Evans moaned unhappily. “I didn’t expect her to show up. I haven’t seen her for twenty years, ever since she told my mother I was too stupid to talk to.” She stepped back a little farther behind Phadra as if to hide. “I wonder what she’s doing here. She sent her regrets to our invitation, and, as I remember, the reply was very unpleasant.”
Popov came toward Phadra, his arms outstretched. “Phadra, my wonderful darling, you look radiant,” he declared in his accented English. Brushing a kiss on each of her cheeks, he pulled her over to Dame Cunnington. “Edith, this is Phadra Abbott—”
“Morgan,” Phadra interjected.
“What?” Popov asked. “Ah, yes, your new name. Morgan.” He frowned a moment, as if he didn’t like the sound of it, before continuing, “Phadra, this is Edith, my new patron. She is wonderful, but she makes me run everywhere. I have told Edith about your salons, and she had already heard of you. Think, my darling Phadra—you were famous and then you, poof, disappear. Now you reappear married to a man who is supposed to marry another. You must tell us everything, darling, and did you ever find your father? Edith, you would be touched by this story—”
“Alexei, shut up,” Dame Cunnington said. She looked down her hooked nose at Sir Cecil. “Hello, Cecil, are you still such a fool?”
In response Sir Cecil frowned and began to concentrate furiously on his th
umbnail. Lady Evans stepped forward, her full mouth set in a grimace. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Aunt Edith.”
“No, it ain’t,” the woman replied. “You don’t like me any more than I like you.”
“Aunt Edith,” Lady Evans chastised, blinking as if hoping that if she blinked hard enough, the dowager would disappear, “we have many guests listening.”
“I have eyes. I can see. This affair’s a crush, Beatrice, just what you always dreamed of hosting. Too bad everyone is here to look at the man who jilted your daughter—”
“I was not jilted!” a voice screamed from the crowd. Miranda pushed her way to the front. She stared in open hostility at her great-aunt, her face turning a deeper shade of purple with each passing second. All conversation in the ballroom ceased, and the crowd pushed its way toward the foyer for a better view.
Miranda’s going to throw a tantrum, Phadra thought only a second before Grant stepped between the two women. “You have the wrong of it, Dame Cunnington. Miranda and I had only an informal understanding, and she asked to be released from that because she found me—” He paused, searching for a word, and then finished softly, “—lacking.”
Dame Cunnington flipped out a quizzing glass from her reticule and raised it to one eye. She gave Grant a slow perusal from his crisp dark curls to his polished shoes. “Lacking?” Her lips curled cynically.
In that moment of silence Phadra stepped to his side. If Grant could be generous and come to Miranda’s defense, then so could she.
“I say, what is that noise?” Dame Cunnington raised her quizzing glass again. “That jingling sound.”
Phadra wished the earth would open up and swallow her whole. She could feel the curious stares of dozens of pairs of eyes. “Those are my toe rings,” she answered stiffly.
“Toe rings? You have bells on your toes?” Dame Cunnington demanded.
Phadra lifted her chin. “Yes.”
For long seconds the two women studied each other. Finally Dame Cunnington smiled, a smile free of artifice. Motioning with her free hand at Phadra, she announced in her carrying voice, “I like your dress, dear, and the way you wear your hair down, without all of that fuss and nonsense. Very fresh. Original. I will commend you to my friends.” She turned back to Popov to reach for his arm. “Alexei, I desire a glass of champagne.” They proceeded into the ballroom, the crowd parting to make a path for them.
“Did you hear that?” Lady Evans asked in awe. “She’s never said that before. Ever.” She looked up at her husband. “I’ve never heard her say anything nice to anyone.”
“She didn’t say anything nice to me,” Miranda protested.
Her mother dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “We have to start the dancing. Now that Aunt Edith is here, we must start everything!” She flitted off into the ballroom.
Lady Sudbury leaned close to Phadra and whispered, “Dame Cunnington is very powerful, Mrs. Morgan. Almost as powerful as the Queen or one of the patronesses of Almack’s.”
“Very rich, too,” Lady Hollywise added.
Phadra’s lips formed a silent “Oh,” aware that although many of the guests still watched her closely, here and there a smile was now directed her way. She turned to Grant. He stood alone and silent, his pensive features looking as if they could have been carved from granite. Excusing herself from the three bankers’ wives, she went over to him.
He seemed to sense her approach and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The musicians have finished warming up. Lady Evans tells me that she wants us to start the dancing.”
Phadra placed her hand on his offered arm and leaned close. “Grant, please, is there someplace we can go that is private? We need to talk.”
He didn’t look at her directly but instead casually studied the crowd before asking quietly, “About what?”
“About tonight. This dress. These silly toe bells. Our marriage.” She tightened her hold on his arm. “What you did for Miranda was very gracious.”
He reached out and with the tip of one finger pushed one of her curls away from her face. The gesture was so familiar that she caught her breath. “I did it for you, too,” he answered softly. “Congratulations. You are launched in society.”
“We are launched,” she corrected.
The serious look on his face disappeared, and he seemed to relax. “There is no time to talk now.” His other hand touched her bare arm, a reassurance. “We’ll talk later. Right now, as the guests of honor, we are expected to lead the dancing.”
“Lead the dancing? I’m a terrible dancer.”
“What?” he said in mock surprise. “Something the esteemed Miss Agatha forgot to teach?” His teeth flashed in an easy smile, and Phadra discovered that she could stand rooted in that spot all evening and bask in the glory of his smile.
Lady Evans interrupted the moment. “Please, the maestro is waiting for you to take your places. Hurry, hurry!” She charged off in another direction.
Grant tugged at Phadra’s hand. “Must we?” she asked with a smile, her feet already moving in that direction.
“We must,” he said, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm to lead her into the ballroom.
“But I’ll make a fool of myself,” she whispered, protesting one more time.
“Just do what the woman in front of you is doing and follow my lead. If it’s a slow dance, you’ll have time to copy her steps.” He led her to their place on the dance floor. “After the first few steps, I’ll guide us off the floor. But I warn you, I like to dance, Mrs. Morgan. I may have to give you instruction,” he said, his voice so low, so silky, it gave his words an unspoken meaning—and a promise for the future. “Now put your hand on my arm.”
“What?” she asked, as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue.
“Put your hand on my arm, Phadra.” He grinned at her, a pirate’s smile that stole her heart. “Everyone is waiting for us in order to begin.”
Aware now of the awkward silence from the crowd around them, Phadra quickly copied the lady to her right and placed her arm along his forearm. Grant adjusted her position so that he held her fingertips in his. Embarrassed, she looked up at him and lost herself in his silvery eyes, eyes that she had once thought were hard and uncompromising. Now she discovered warmth and laughter in their bright depths.
She couldn’t wait for them to return home.
The maestro rapped upon his music stand, signaling for the attention of his musicians and the dancers. Grant gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze as, with a dramatic sweep, the maestro’s arms came up, ready for the downbeat—
“Morgan!” a man’s voice bellowed. “Grant Morgan, where are you?”
Phadra didn’t recognize the voice. She looked around in confusion. The crowd buzzed with excitement. Grant obviously recognized the voice. He pulled Phadra to stand behind him while he turned toward the door.
Captain Duroy, dressed in his regiment’s colors, his blond head bare and his hair disheveled, pushed his way through the crowd, flanked by two of his fellow officers. The men did not look prepared to enjoy a ball.
Grant stepped forward. “William, I’m pleased that you could join us.” His voice sounded carefully controlled.
Swaggering onto the dance floor, the handsome young officer’s face broke into an angry grimace. “This isn’t a social call, Morgan.” He advanced with several slow, unsteady steps and then stopped. “You knew I was going to offer for her. I trusted you.”
The guests in the ballroom had fallen into complete silence. The man’s words carried as if he’d shouted them. Grant reached his friend in three long strides and said something in a low voice. Every ear in the ballroom, including Phadra’s, strained to hear what it was.
Suddenly Duroy shoved Grant in the chest, pushing him away. “No, damn you! I demand satisfaction!”
“William—”
“Name your seconds!”
“Listen to reason—”
“Name your seconds!”
&nb
sp; “William—”
“Are you a coward, Morgan?”
Grant’s back slowly straightened. In a voice so cold that Phadra barely recognized it as his, he answered, “Very well. But let us step outside to somewhere more appropriate—and we’ll make the arrangements.”
For one brief moment Captain Duroy’s gaze moved to focus on Phadra. Then he turned his eyes back to Grant and agreed with a curt nod. He turned on his heel and left the room, the crowd backing away to create a path. Without so much as a word or backward glance to Phadra, Grant followed. The two other officers fell in behind him.
Phadra stood rooted to her place on the dance floor in stunned confusion. Slowly the reality of what she’d witnessed came home to her. With a cry of anger, she lifted her skirts and ran after the men, her merry little toe bells jingling with each step.
Miranda stepped in front of her. “Phadra, are you leaving so soon?”
“Get out of my way,” Phadra demanded.
Miranda smiled, malevolence burning brightly in her eyes. “It’s amazing. I didn’t even have to say or do anything. You have a penchant for ruining things all on your own, don’t you?”
Red rage engulfed Phadra. She doubled her fist, ready to swing at Miranda. Suddenly a hand slid under her arm. At the same time the smug expression on Miranda’s face faded and she fell back. Dame Cunnington, her face schooled in careful nonchalance, pulled Phadra closer. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Don’t make a scene?” Phadra practically choked on the words.
“Do you want to help him or hinder him?”
“Help him.”
“Then stay and act as if nothing untoward has happened.”
“I can’t. It’s impossible!”
“By all means, then, fly out the door and let everyone in this room assume the worst,” the dowager answered tartly.
Phadra looked over her shoulder at all the faces watching her avidly. “And how will I help him if I stay?”
“You’ll quell their tongues for the moment and, if your young man is as smart as he is handsome, he’ll manage to talk his way out of this challenge. There will be those here tonight who will think nothing has happened—provided you don’t make a scene.”
Treasured Vows Page 19
