“It’s not,” she conceded. “Except that I understand what it means to lie to yourself. To pretend things are right when they are actually terribly wrong.”
“Miss Abbott, I am not here to argue with you but to enjoy the art.” He spoke the words through clenched teeth.
“And to acquaint yourself better with your fiancée. Aren’t those the words you used with me not more than several minutes ago?”
For a second she realized that she was behaving recklessly, but it had become important to her that he see the folly of marrying Miranda. The words, filled with passion, poured out of her.
“My mother had one of those marriages. You heard Sir Cecil yesterday. My father married her only for her money, and that is the way he treated her, as a piece of property that a landlord stops by and checks on from time to time. I can count on one hand the number of times I saw my father. Mother lived a lonely life, pretending her husband cared when he didn’t. Looking back, I honestly believe that she didn’t die of any disease other than a feeling of uselessness and neglect.”
“And yet you want to lead a search to find this prodigal father?” His lips curled in mocking humor.
“Yes. Because I want to see him. I have to see him, to see the look on his face, to see if he recognizes me. If I don’t, a part of me is always going to be trapped the way my mother was.” She’d stepped close to him as she spoke, the vehemence and truth of her words surprising even her. Suddenly remembering that they were in public, she moved back.
She hadn’t meant to reveal so much of herself to him. Or to anyone.
Feeling self-conscious, she shot a sidelong glance around the room to see if anyone was staring. The other occupants of the room seemed interested only in their own conversations or the paintings displayed on the walls. She relaxed slightly but could not bring herself to look up at Mr. Morgan.
He took her arm and led her away from where Miranda was enjoying her tryst. When he spoke, his voice was low and thoughtful. “I’ve learned, Miss Abbott, through hard and bitter experience, that the child can never escape the sins of the father. He can try…but he will not succeed.”
He led them through a small hallway and into another room. Phadra no longer noticed if women were watching him. Her whole being was centered around listening to his deep, melodic voice.
Mr. Morgan stopped in a secluded corner. “I don’t want my children to live with the sins of my father. I will marry Miranda and I will earn my title. My son will not be ashamed of me.”
His words hung in the air between them.
“Then marry Miranda, if that is what you want,” she answered, choosing her words carefully. “But I want to see my father. I must.”
Phadra looked away for a moment, drawing on every last measure of her composure. Then she turned back to him. “You see, I’ve thought about this long and hard. I think love is important. I think that having someone who loves and cares for you makes a difference. After spending years without love since my mother’s death, I want to find it again.” Her gaze met his squarely. “You may marry to secure your position in the world, but I’ve already witnessed that sort of bartered life, and I don’t want it. I don’t want to be like you.”
“Like me?” He laughed softly, without humor. “You’re naive, Miss Abbott, to think that love between a man and a woman is that important or that it can sustain itself through the eternity promised in a marriage vow.”
His verdict stung. “Perhaps we should change the vow to state ‘until death do us part or three years, whichever comes first,’ ” she replied tartly.
He laughed, the sound carrying no mirth. “You learn quickly, Miss Abbott.”
“You’re a cold man, Mr. Morgan.”
“Yes, but I will get my title,” he drawled cynically.
“And at what cost, Mr. Morgan?”
“I’ll sleep with a clear conscience.”
“Yes, and whom will your wife be sleeping with?” she snapped without thinking. Immediately she regretted her words.
His mouth flattened grimly. He leaned closer to her. “You are too bold, Miss Abbott. Trust me, when Miranda comes to my bed, she’ll never want to leave it.”
No.
Phadra couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to leave his bed. Her mind was filled with the image of this man and what he was boasting of.
Her mouth went dry.
Phadra could see her reflection in his hard, angry eyes. Every fiber of her being suddenly sensed how close he was to her—the long, lean line of his jaw, the outline of his whiskers, the curve of his lower lip. The other exhibit-goers, the room, and the day all seemed to fade away.
Tension hung in the air between them.
But it wasn’t animosity.
His voice sounded as though it came to her from a distance when he said, “I believe we should consider returning to Evans House.” He stepped away from her.
Phadra felt the wild, inexplicable emotion that had coursed through her drain away suddenly.
He hadn’t felt it. He couldn’t have felt what she’d just experienced because he was still in control of his senses. Still reasonable. Still the banker.
And she was the silly goose who, for one forbidden moment, had felt the closest thing to desire that she’d ever felt for a man—a man whom every woman lusted after! Maybe this whole situation of her father’s leaving her penniless and on the marriage block was affecting her mind.
“Yes,” she agreed stiffly. “It is time to return.”
He looked as if he was about to move toward her, but then he held his position. “I realize it may be hard for you to fathom, but I do have your best interests at heart. I would like to think—”
He never got a chance to say what he thought because Miranda’s shrill voice interrupted him. “I found you.” Her face was flushed, and she smiled as if she carried a wonderful secret.
Phadra didn’t dare judge her, because at Miranda’s appearance she felt her own cheeks overheat, as if she’d been standing too close to a fire…or had a guilty secret of her own. She discovered herself staring at the wood flooring and her new kid slippers, which peeked out from under the satin skirt.
Miranda prattled on, describing the people she’d encountered while looking for him and Phadra. She didn’t mention Lord Phipps.
Phadra mustered the courage to slide a glance up at Mr. Morgan. Gone was the raw, open emotion of only moments before, and in its place he wore his banker’s face, a look of tolerant accommodation, as he dutifully listened to Miranda.
That was the expression he would wear the rest of his life, Phadra thought.
The thought depressed her, and as she and the maid followed the couple out of the Royal Academy, she vowed that the same fate would not befall her.
“There you are,” Sir Cecil’s voice boomed at them as they walked through the front door of Evans House. He stepped out of the yellow parlor, a glass of port in one hand, and waved them inside. “Come in, Phadra. Come in. I have someone for you to meet. Morgan, you too. Come in and meet these gentlemen.”
Gentlemen? Phadra slowly untied the ribbons of her bonnet and let the ends hang down. She turned to dart a look of uncertainty at Mr. Morgan. He shrugged slightly and signaled her forward with his eyes.
Sir Cecil had already gone into the yellow parlor. Phadra followed him in cautiously. Her feeling of trepidation grew with each step.
The yellow parlor was so called because of Lady Evans’s choice of colors for the room and for its sunny location on the eastern side of Evans House. Phadra imagined that it could be a lovely golden room. However, that day, with the overcast sky and the threat of rain, the room’s colors appeared muddy and dismal.
Sir Cecil stood in the middle of the room, his face beaming with pride. He was flanked by two men, each looking as different from the other as day is to night. Lady Evans hovered nearby, her expression anxious.
“Miss Abbott, I would like you to meet Squire Blaney of Fowlmere, Cambridgeshire,” Sir Cecil announced, introdu
cing her to the small, wizened man on his right. Squire Blaney’s face, except for a hooked nose, was lost under the moth-eaten bagwig covering his head. He looked as though he’d gotten dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to go to London twenty years before. His velvet knee breeches hung loosely around knobby knees, and his silk stockings were no longer white but a yellowish gray. He smelled of camphor and dogs.
The squire grinned a toothless grin and inclined his head, his eyes devouring her as if she were a sweetmeat. Phadra took a small step backward.
“Blaney runs a string of racing dogs, the best in England,” Sir Cecil said.
The squire looked up at Sir Cecil. “What did you say?” he asked in a loud voice.
Sir Cecil leaned over to place his mouth closer to Squire Blaney’s ear. “I said, you run a string of racing dogs,” he shouted.
“I don’t raise hogs,” the squire practically shouted back, and Phadra realized that this was the man’s normal tone of voice. “I raise dogs.”
“This is Miss Abbott,” Sir Cecil shouted again.
The squire made a courtly bow, almost losing his balance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Babbitt.” He turned to lean close to Sir Cecil and said in a voice that was only slightly softer than his shout, “Actually, I like my women with a little more meat on them. Women are like bitches. With a little fat on them and a good stud, you can breed litter after litter.” He pointed a callused finger past Phadra and at Miranda. “I’d prefer to marry that one.”
Miranda choked with indignation. Sir Cecil hastily interjected that Lady Miranda was already spoken for by Mr. Morgan and physically turned the man so that he could see the size and breadth of the tall banker who stood to the side, a silent witness.
“Oh, well,” Squire Blaney said, and then turned his rheumy eyes to study Phadra a moment. He frowned, as if struggling with disappointment. “I guess I could fatten her up,” he conceded.
Miranda tried to stifle her laughter by covering her mouth with her hand. Unsuccessful, she mumbled an excuse to the guests and practically ran from the room, the sounds of her footsteps and laughter carrying in her wake.
As if to cover for her daughter’s rudeness, Lady Evans came up from behind Sir Cecil and pulled the other man forward. “This is Mr. Jules Woodlac,” she gushed. “And this is his mother, Mrs. Lawrence Woodlac.” She stepped aside so that Phadra could see the huge woman whose presence had been hidden by the three men standing in front of her.
Her bulk took up most of the settee. She didn’t acknowledge Phadra but reached for a small cake on a tray in front of her.
Phadra’s gaze shifted back to the young man. He was passably good-looking, with sweeping dark curls, soulful brown eyes, and an upturned nose, though his dark features and all-black clothing emphasized his pasty complexion.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Woodlac,” Phadra forced herself to say. She held out her hand.
“And you,” he replied as if those two words required a great deal of effort. He took her hand in his long, slender, almost white one and gave hers a limp squeeze.
His hand felt cold and clammy. She pulled hers back.
With a bright smile on her face, Lady Evans said, “Jules’s father owns several mills in Ireland. Someday Jules will inherit all of them.”
The young man’s expression didn’t change, even as he said, “Actually, I prefer to think of myself as a poet.”
“What did he say?” Squire Blaney shouted. “What are you talking about?”
Sir Cecil clapped his hands together and, ignoring the squire, said, “Isn’t that interesting? A poet! Miss Abbott is interested in poetry, aren’t you, my dear?”
“Yes, I’m very fond of good poetry,” Phadra demurred.
“Oh, see, you have something in common!” Lady Evans said. She looked over her shoulder as if searching for Mrs. Woodlac’s approval. The woman didn’t look up but stuffed the last bit of cake into her mouth.
“Tell me, Miss Abbott, do you think about death?” Mr. Woodlac asked in an expressionless tone.
“Breath?” Squire Blaney asked in his carrying voice. “Does Miss Babbitt need a breath? What’s the matter with her?” He turned and looked up expectantly at Sir Cecil as though he’d been about to purchase a prize hunting dog and found that it might have a defect.
Phadra felt ready to explode. Who did Sir Cecil think he was, foisting her off on these two dregs? And Mr. Morgan! What role did he play in this folly? Her temper barely under control, she said to the two would-be suitors, “Would you excuse me? I need a moment to remove my bonnet.” And put distance between myself and Mr. Morgan before I throttle him and the Evanses, she added to herself.
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 brushe
d 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.
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