“I don’t know if I can!”
“Yes, you can.” Dame Cunnington’s words were slow and deliberate.
It went against all of her principles, but slowly Phadra straightened her shoulders and turned back toward the crowd in the ballroom.
“That’s a good girl,” the dowager whispered approvingly in her ear before raising her voice and saying, “Maestro, let the dancing begin!”
Chapter 14
Grant did not return to the ball.
After two of the longest hours Phadra had ever spent in her life, one of the Evanses’ footmen approached her with a message on a silver salver. Immediately recognizing the black slashing handwriting as Grant’s, she reached for it.
Dame Cunnington leaned close. “Don’t open it here,” she ordered out of the side of her mouth.
Phadra looked up and realized that she was the center of attention for all the guests standing close to them. She nodded and murmured, “If you’ll excuse me…”
“Not without me!” Dame Cunnington declared, and followed Phadra from the ballroom and into Sir Cecil’s study, haughtily staring down anyone who thought to follow them.
When she tried to break the seal, Phadra discovered her hands were shaking too badly. With a snort of impatience the dowager took it from her and broke the wax. She would have read it as well if Phadra hadn’t quickly grabbed it back.
“So? What does he say?” Dame Cunnington demanded over Phadra’s shoulder.
Phadra refolded the note, feeling no better now than before she’d received it. “He said that he will not be returning. He’s sent the coach back to take me home when I’m ready.”
“That’s it?” Dame Cunnington frowned.
“That’s it.” Phadra closed her eyes and placed a hand to her forehead. Something was wrong. “Well, I’m ready to leave now. I’ll have the coach ordered to the front door.”
The dowager’s hand on her arm stopped her. “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll stay here until midnight and not leave a moment before.”
“I can’t do that! Midnight’s another hour away.”
“You can and you will.” She pulled Phadra closer and dropped her voice. “Obviously he couldn’t talk that young hothead out of the challenge—”
“No!”
“Lower your voice and keep your wits about you,” Dame Cunnington commanded. “Don’t think for a second that any and all of those fine people out there are above putting an ear to the keyhole.”
Phadra lowered her voice but protested, “This is all so ridiculous. I barely know Captain Duroy.”
“There were no promises between you?”
“I can count on one hand the number of words either of us has ever said to the other. This is a complete surprise.”
“Your husband didn’t act surprised.”
That acid observation forced Phadra to think, to remember. “Well, yes,” she said slowly, “Grant did mention once that Captain Duroy wanted to offer for me, but I didn’t give the matter a great deal of weight. I barely know him, and then Grant and I were forced into marriage—”
“Aha! The rumors are true. You were forced to tie the parson’s knot,” Dame Cunnington said triumphantly. “I knew that Evans wouldn’t spring for an affair like this ball for someone else unless his arm was being twisted. What’s the real reason Evans is involved? Knowing that coxcomb, there is something afoot!”
Alarmed, Phadra stepped back.
“Oh, don’t go missish on me, dear. I can’t stand Evans. He’s little better than a crook, but I haven’t ever been able to find out what his methods are, and then lo and behold, the man announces that he’s marrying his daughter off to a man reputed to be the son of Satan—”
“Grant is nothing like his father!”
“He’s not?” The dowager seemed disappointed with the revelation. She frowned. “Well, more’s the pity for you. His father cut quite the figure in his day. I’m almost sorry there aren’t more blackguards like Jason Morgan around. They liven things up.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “I bet your Morgan knows Evans’s secrets.” She raised her eyebrows as another thought struck her. “I only hope he’s around tomorrow after the duel to answer my questions.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Certainly. Pistols at dawn. Matters of honor are always handled expediently. Men don’t diddle around like women. Furthermore, that young cavalry officer appeared anxious to make you a widow.”
Those words sent Phadra reeling toward the door.
“Now where are you running off to?” Dame Cunnington asked.
Phadra turned. “I’m going to find Grant. I’m going to do everything in my power to stop this!”
“You can’t do that,” the dowager said as if Phadra had just been spouting gibberish. “Only the participants can stop an affair of honor.”
“Then I will convince one of the participants to back out of it.”
Dame Cunnington gave Phadra a shrewd look. “You are a green one, aren’t you?”
Phadra was in no mood for sarcasm. “Good evening to you, Dame Cunnington.”
The dowager swiftly moved to the door and placed her palm against the wood to stop Phadra from opening it. “You can’t leave yet.”
“Whyever not?”
“Where have you been all of your life—rusticating in a convent? I told you, the ball’s in your honor. You don’t just walk out the door.”
“Watch me.” Phadra started to pull the door open again, but Dame Cunnington held it closed. Phadra turned to her with a defiant lift of her chin. “Dame Cunnington, I am not about to bow to silly social conventions when Grant’s life is at stake. If that offends you, I beg your pardon, but get out of my way.”
For a long moment the two women took each other’s measure. Then the dowager’s wide, generous mouth curved into a smile. “Damn me if I don’t admire your style.” She took her hand off the door. “You remind me of myself when I was younger. You can leave, but I’m going with you. This ball will turn into a dreadful bore without you!”
Popov was pleased to ride in the fancy hired coach instead of running beside Dame Cunnington’s sedan chair. However, the dowager expected her footmen to run behind the coach carrying the sedan chair.
Popov and his patroness kept up a lively conversation on the way home, although Phadra didn’t hear what they said. She was in her own world.
When the coach pulled up in front of her house, she opened the coach door and hopped out before Popov or the coachman could move. “Don’t you want us to go with you?” Dame Cunnington asked.
“No.”
“Killjoy,” the older woman muttered.
Phadra reached up and gave the dowager’s hand a grateful squeeze. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?” Dame Cunnington asked, sounding truly surprised. “Bringing you home? You did that yourself. If you’d listened to me, we’d all be back at the party at least until midnight to keep vicious tongues from wagging.”
“If I have my way, they’ll have nothing to wag about.”
She started to pull her hand away, but Dame Cunnington held it tight. The gentle humor was gone from her eyes as she said soberly, “You can’t stop a duel. You’re a fool if you even try.”
A coldness gripped Phadra’s heart, and she shook her head. “Good night.”
With a heavy sigh Dame Cunnington sat back in the luxurious coach. “Home, Alexei.” The coach took off with a lurch.
Wallace stood waiting at the door in the lamplight. Racing up the steps, Phadra suddenly realized that she wasn’t even sure if Grant was there or not.
Wallace evidently read her mind, because he said in a quiet voice, “He said he wanted to be alone.”
“Where is he?”
“He went up to the attic.”
“The attic? What would he be doing up there?”
“He goes up there sometimes to practice his fencing…and whenever he wants to be alone.”
Phadra heard the gentle hint. She chose to i
gnore it. “Where are the stairs to the attic?”
For a moment the servant’s loyalties to his master and mistress seemed to war with each other.
Finally he said, “Up the back stairs and all the way up.” As if he’d said too much, Wallace backed away.
The silk sari fell from her head down around her shoulders as she picked up the candle left on the hall table and walked toward the back stairs.
She hadn’t had time yet to investigate and learn all the house’s nooks and crannies, but she did know where the back stairs were located. Lifting her skirt with one hand and holding the candle in the other, she climbed the steep, dark stairs. The jingle of her toe bells sounded eerie in the blackness. As she started up the last flight, the sound of movement told her he was there. She blew out her own candle and set it down on the step.
Her footsteps slowed as she reached the top, and then she came to a complete stop. In the wash of golden candlelight from the attic, Grant appeared like a demon god living on top of the world.
He’d removed his jacket and neckcloth, leaving his shirt open at the throat. A faint breeze from the open attic windows played with the lace of his cuffs and ruffled his hair. His black breeches and stockings made his bottom half seem to disappear in the attic’s darkness. For a moment he stood poised, one arm in the air for balance, another outstretched. In his hand he wielded a sharp, deadly rapier with a swordsman’s grace.
When he moved, his actions were lighter, more elegant, than those of any dancer at the ballet. Candlelight caught and glinted off the rapier as the weapon silently slit the air, obeying its master’s command in a well-practiced move. He lunged, and his shadow stretched across the wall and up the attic’s low ceiling, dancing in ghoulish mimicry.
So complete was his concentration that she thought he wasn’t aware of her presence…and for a moment she allowed herself to believe that everything was fine, that there had been no challenge.
A beat later he proved her wrong. His attention never wavering from his imaginary opponent, he said, “I’ve written out my last wishes. The document is on my desk. If I don’t return tomorrow, then I expect you to deliver it to my solicitor.” The rapier sliced the air and then flashed in salute. “His name is James McGovern. He’s in Kensington, and he will ensure that your affairs are in order.”
His calm acceptance shocked her. Her heart pounding in her throat, she asked, “So, is it going to be with swords, then?”
The touch of sarcasm in her voice was not lost on him. He smiled grimly. “No, pistols.”
“Well, how convenient. The two of you won’t even have to get close to each other to resolve this argument like rational men.”
With a twist of his wrist he made the tip of the rapier whistle through the air. “Duroy won’t accept my apology.”
“Apology for what?”
“Our marriage.”
Phadra raised a hand to her forehead, trying to understand. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“I knew he was going to make an offer for you.” He picked up a rag and wiped off the gleaming blade.
“He doesn’t know whether I would have accepted his offer. I’d laid eyes on the man twice in my life, and we’d shared only a handful of words. This is not grounds for a duel!”
“He demands satisfaction,” Grant answered, as if those words explained everything. He tossed the rag aside and finally faced her. “Phadra, I’m going to delope.”
The solemn tone of his voice caught her attention. She took a step toward him. “I don’t understand.”
“I will not aim at Duroy. I’ll fire my weapon in the air. It’s a way of admitting that I wronged him.”
“And what will he do?”
The corners of his mouth turned up in irony before he answered lightly, “I imagine he’ll probably shoot me. William is known to be a crack shot.”
Shocked, Phadra demanded, “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“I’m deadly serious, Phadra,” he said quietly. “That’s why it is imperative for you to remember my instructions. Financially you should be fine. In the letter you will turn over to McGovern are my last requests. I’ve stated that you are to receive this house and the majority of my holdings except for a small bequest left to my sisters. Right now my holdings don’t count for much because of the debt we paid off for the emeralds, but whatever you do, Phadra, do not sell off any of my investments. They will come back, and if my calculations are correct, within a year you’ll find yourself well provided for—”
“No! I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” she cried, interrupting the flow of calm, rational words. She leaned a hand against one of the painted brick columns that supported the roof. “This is madness. It makes no sense. A man has challenged you for no other reason than because he fancied me—”
“He planned to offer for you.”
Phadra pushed away from the column. “But he didn’t. Nor would I have accepted his suit if he had!”
Grant didn’t answer, but she could tell by the set of his mouth and the resolve in his eyes that her argument bore no weight. She slapped her hand against the column, feeling a need to vent her anger…and her fear. “This is ridicul—”
“It’s an affair of honor.”
“It’s outright stupidity,” she snapped back. “And I’m going to tell Captain Duroy so! Now. This very minute!” She turned on her heel, prepared to charge down the stairs.
In a swift movement he blocked her way by pressing the tip of his sword against the column. The sharp blade stretched across her path.
“You’ll do no such thing.”
She heard the steel in his command and looked from the blade up to his face. “I can’t let you do this,” she whispered.
“And I can’t let you disgrace me.”
“What disgrace is there in making the man see reason?”
He stepped closer to her. “I didn’t make the rules of honor, Phadra. I don’t determine whether they are right or wrong. I merely abide by them.”
“Even if you die?” Her words hung in the air between them.
“Yes,” he answered softly. He lowered the blade and leaned closer to her. “Phadra, if I don’t meet my challenges, if I don’t follow these rules that gentlemen of honor have set, then I don’t have the right to consider myself one of them.”
“This duel isn’t about whether or not you are a gentleman!”
“Yes, it is.” His voice was low and full of passion. “It’s about wanting what my father didn’t have. It’s about honor and dreams. My dreams. I may have ruined my chances for a knighthood, but I will let no one say that I did not have honor.”
That hurt. Phadra leaned her head back against the column. “It was honor that made you marry me,” she whispered.
He’d heard the pain in her voice, and his expression softened. “Oh, Phadra…” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips.
She flinched, as if his touch hurt, and then to her horror realized that she was crying, silent tears that she couldn’t stop. She attempted to twist away from him, but he wouldn’t let her go. “I think what you need is a new dream,” she finally said.
Grant leaned an arm against the column and rested his head against it, so that she was forced to stare up into his serious silver eyes and see as well as hear the truth in his words as he told her, “Some dreams you don’t give up. You wouldn’t give up your dream of finding your father, would you?”
“I already have,” she started to answer, and then caught herself in surprise. In one clear, crystalline flash of realization, Phadra understood to her wonder and amazement that all of her dreams now centered on this one man. Somehow, at some time, in a way she didn’t completely understand, he had become her dream, her reality, her destiny.
Almost as if bewitched by the revelation, Phadra raised her hand to place her palm against his lean cheek, reveling in the feel of his whiskers beneath her fingertips. He stood close enough to her that she could see the race of his pulse beneath the skin at his throat. She
drew her fingers over his skin until she reached that warm pulse point. His heart was racing as fast as hers.
“Phadra?”
Phadra couldn’t move. She couldn’t even breathe.
He leaned close, his lips less than an inch from hers.
Her lips parted in surprise. She had to lean against the column for support.
Slowly he smiled, as if her reaction was everything he could desire and more, before he opened his lips and kissed her fully and completely on the mouth.
And Phadra kissed him back.
His sword clattered to the floor as he threw it aside. He buried his hands in her hair and pulled her closer to him. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry as he kissed her shoulder, her throat, the pulse point beneath her ear…and when he took her in his arms and claimed her lips, she was lost.
Her body sang with its need for him.
His kiss deepened, growing more demanding. She hugged him closer, delighting in the feel of his chest against her breasts, the burn of his whiskers against her cheeks, his ability to turn her world inside out…
Her feet no longer touched the floor. Instead she clung to him for support, feeling the outline of his bandage and the hard, long lines of muscle beneath his shirt. She gave herself over to his guidance completely. He managed to loosen the clasp of the brooch that held her dress at the shoulder. The silk slipped to her waist held only by her golden belt. His finger unfastened the binding of her light linen bodice that served as her corset.
Surprised to find herself half-naked in the candlelight, Phadra pulled away.
“No,” he commanded softly, then lowered his head and kissed one taut nipple. Phadra cried out at the sensation. As if with a will of their own, her arms wrapped themselves around his head, pulling him even closer.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take any more he blazed a trail of kisses to her earlobe. “You’re wonderful,” he said. “I want you, Phadra. Now. Right here.”
Treasured Vows Page 20
