Phadra allowed herself to be led. Something about his solemn reserve disturbed her. “Does your shoulder hurt?”
“Like the very devil,” he answered without looking at her. He guided them through the inn’s hall toward the front door. “I’m anxious to get into our coach and catch a few hours of sleep before we reach London.”
She pulled up short. Through the inn’s open front door, torchlight revealed a post chaise and team waiting for them. “We’re going back tonight? Do you think it wise? You tell me your shoulder bothers you.” And she wanted nothing more right then than to return to their little room, shut the door on the world…and have him hold her, kiss her, hug her as he’d done the previous night.
The need for his touch shocked her. She took a step back.
Grant spoke with the patience a parent would reserve for a child. “Phadra, I have to be at the bank on the morrow. I need to announce our marriage to the directors before the ball….” He allowed his voice to trail off, but Phadra caught the unspoken meaning.
“Before the gossip reaches them first, you mean,” she finished. The realization of how deeply he must regret their marriage sobered her. She had to force herself to take each step toward the waiting coach…and her destiny.
Grant heard the disappointment in her voice. He opened the door to the chaise and helped her in. Phadra slid across the seat, away from him. He could feel her pulling away. He climbed into the chaise and sat beside her, the confines too close for them to sit very far apart. After rapping on the roof to signal the postboy to start the journey, he attempted to explain. “Phadra, this will be a difficult time.” The post chaise took off with a jerk that threw her against him. He clenched his teeth against the pain as she jostled his wounded shoulder.
She quickly pushed herself away and asked coldly, “And if they do hear the gossip before you can talk to them?”
Grant didn’t answer immediately. He felt the shift of the coach as it rolled out of the inn yard and onto the road to London. Finally he said, “I could lose my position with the bank—”
“I see.”
“Do you?” he asked, irritated by her interruption. “There will be people who will put the worst possible cast on the matter. Junior men who covet my position—”
She interrupted him again. “What are you warning me about?” He could feel her staring at him in the dark.
Grant ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not warning you—,” he began, then stopped himself. “Yes, I am warning you. People can be cruel, but I think we can weather the storm if we present a respectable picture, if we stand together. The gossip will die down.”
The gossip. He knew how hard it was to live down gossip. He knew the shame of having everyone know your secrets. Instead he said, “After all, this isn’t the worst scandal London has witnessed. It’ll be a momentary diversion.”
Phadra was thankful that he couldn’t see her face in the dark, for her cheeks burned with embarrassment. He hadn’t wanted this marriage…any more than her father had wanted a child. Only Grant wouldn’t desert her as her father had—even if the marriage ruined him.
She didn’t know if she would be able to speak, but she forced herself. “I shouldn’t have run away.” Her voice came out as little more than a whisper. “Here. Take what is left of the five hundred pounds.”
Grant heard in her voice what she didn’t want him to know—how much saying those words aloud cost her pride. “Keep it.” He almost reached over to her in the dark, but something held him back. It wouldn’t do any good. He’d already made a muddle of everything. Why couldn’t he have left her alone the night before? Even now, hearing her voice in the dark, his body responded. The image of taking her right there in the close confines of the rolling post chaise almost robbed him of breath.
His father would have done so, had he been in the same position.
Instead Grant moved closer to the door and concentrated on the dull, throbbing pain in his shoulder. She wouldn’t be sorry she married him, he vowed. And he would protect her. He knew what to avoid. He’d steer them through this scandal.
All he had to do was stay in control.
Phadra woke in stages. She no longer felt the roll and sway of the carriage; slowly, as she became aware of her surroundings, she realized that she was in a bedroom.
She sat up on the large, comfortable mattress of a four-poster bed. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn in the post chaise, except that her shoes had been removed. Peering over the edge of the mattress, she saw them sitting in perfect alignment by the side of the bed.
Phadra slid off the high four-poster, using the steps set at the side of the bed to climb down. Something about the room seemed vaguely familiar. Almost as if in a dream, she crossed to the window, her feet soundless on the thick carpet, and pulled open the drapes. Daylight flooded the room. Phadra blinked and looked out onto the street.
She didn’t recognize the neighborhood, with its neat brick row houses lining the streets. There was much of London she hadn’t explored yet, but she knew by the genteel appointments and wrought-iron fences that she was in one of the better neighborhoods.
She turned and looked around the room. It was not overlarge. The bed dominated it. The colors were deep, evergreen with hints of brown. A masculine room. The lines of the bed, the washstand, and the dresser were plainly styled, but Phadra found them exceptionally tasteful. In fact, the whole room was pleasing to her in spite of its outward masculinity.
Suddenly she realized what seemed so familiar to her. The air smelled of the shaving soap used by Grant Morgan.
Phadra looked down at her left hand. The fake emerald on her wedding ring winked back at her in the summer morning sun.
She walked over to the dresser. On top sat three miniatures of women who she assumed must be his sisters since they bore a striking resemblance to her husband.
Her husband…
She looked around the room, seeing it with new eyes now that she realized that it was the intimate domain of her husband. It fit Grant’s personality. Tasteful, understated, not an item in the room that didn’t serve a useful purpose.
She didn’t feel uncomfortable in it.
She turned her gaze to the bed. The feather pillow on the other side of the bed was indented as if someone had rested there. Hot color flooded her cheeks as she realized that she hadn’t been the only one in the bed that night. Could he have—
A discreet knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. For a moment Phadra panicked. Catching sight of herself in the mirror over the washstand, she decided she didn’t want anyone to see her. The dress was wrinkled almost beyond repair; her hair hung in a mass of tangles and curls. The knock sounded again, this time more insistent. “Who’s there?” Phadra called.
“Wallace, madam,” came the crisp answer.
“Wallace?” she repeated in disbelief.
The door opened.
“Wallace!” Phadra cried in glad recognition. She stopped herself just short of throwing a big hug around his neck. “What are you doing here?”
The burly butler, now dressed in somber black and white livery instead of the more flamboyant style she had chosen and carrying a small silver tray, smiled. “I’m in Mr. Morgan’s service. Jem and I both have been since Mr. Morgan closed up your house in Soho Square.”
“He never said a word to me.”
A knowing smile stretched across Wallace’s face. “Mayhap he’d planned on bringing home a different bride.”
Hot color flooded her cheeks.
“Here now, Miss Abbott—I mean, Mrs. Morgan, don’t be that way about it. Jem and I are proud as punch to be back in your employ.” He lowered his voice to a confidential level. “Better than that other one, I can tell you.”
“Who, Miranda? What do you know of her?”
Wallace stood to his full height. “When your employer is about to marry a new mistress, a smart servant finds out everything he can about her.” He didn’t have to say anything further. What
he’d discovered was etched in the frown lines of his face. He indicated the small silver tray he held and the single card on it bearing Miranda’s name. “She’s waiting in the parlor and demands a word with you. And the master left this message for you.” With his other hand he offered a heavy bond envelope.
Phadra stared at Miranda’s calling card on the silver salver as if it were a live thing. She shook the fanciful idea from her head, but reached instead for the envelope. The letter was addressed to her in Grant’s bold handwriting. She broke the seal.
Phadra,
Wanted to let you sleep. Will return this evening and escort you to the ball. Lady Evans expects us at seven. Have sent for your clothing from Evans House. Will expect you to be ready and appropriately attired at half past six.
G. Morgan
Phadra reread the note and blinked. At first she’d been pleasantly surprised by the sight of her name written in his strong script, but the curtness of the note took her aback…and what did he mean by “appropriately attired”? She frowned.
“Is everything all right, madam?”
Phadra looked up at Wallace’s concerned face and answered in a distracted manner, “Yes, everything’s fine. I’m just overtired,” and then realized it was true.
“You did come in late last night. Mr. Morgan carried you in from the coach and said you didn’t stir.”
She gave him a sharp glance, “He carried me in? With his shoulder wound?”
Wallace shrugged. “That’s what he told me this morning when he informed me of your marriage. He should have woken me. I would have helped, but he said he hadn’t had a problem. He’s a strong man. He should have been in the military instead of wasting away in a bank.” He gave a meaningful look at the card on the silver dish. “She insists that she is going to wait for you.”
Phadra pushed aside the distracting idea of Grant’s carrying her to his bed and turned her thoughts to Miranda. What in the world could she want? “What time is it?”
“A quarter past ten.”
“I didn’t think she rose before noon,” Phadra muttered, and then made a decision. “Wallace,” she said grandly, “please convey to her my sincere apologies, but I am not ready to receive guests. I don’t have anything to wear other than this, and it is hopelessly wrinkled.”
“Lady Miranda ordered me to convey her express apologies for the early hour, but she feels she must see you this morning. She has also delivered trunks with your clothing from Evans House. Jem is out in the hall with her footman, waiting for your permission to bring the trunks in.”
Phadra looked around Grant’s orderly but relatively small room. As if reading her mind, Wallace answered, “Mr. Morgan did say for you to be in this room. There’s three other bedrooms, but they lack furnishings, since he gave each of his sisters the furniture upon their marriages. He hasn’t replaced it because he was planning to move to the country after the wedding and thought she’d like to choose the furniture.” Immediately he realized his possible blunder. He added almost apologetically, “He’s a frugal one. Keeps a tight rein on the expenses. Doesn’t spend unless he has to.”
Remembering that Grant was now responsible for her debts, Phadra couldn’t stop herself from murmuring under her breath, “And he is about to become more frugal.”
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“It’s nothing, Wallace,” she demurred with a wave of her hand.
Wallace looked over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to be eavesdropping on their conversation, and then whispered, “You’ve done right by this marriage, Miss Abbott—I mean, Mrs. Morgan. He’s a man with big plans.”
“Really?” Phadra was intensely curious about anything that had to do with Grant Morgan.
The butler needed no more encouragement to continue. “He doesn’t spend money unless he has to. Puts it to better use. In the funds.” Wallace winked. “He’s a smart one. He’s given me a tip or two, and already it has borne fruit. I’ve made more than a couple of quid listening to him.”
Phadra blinked. She wasn’t so much surprised that Grant knew how to invest money as she was that he and the earthy Wallace seemed to be on such close terms.
His manner changed abruptly as he turned into the butler again. “Shall I tell Lady Miranda you will be down presently?”
Phadra grimaced. She didn’t look forward to the interview. “Yes.” She raised a hand to her hair. “Once I straighten this out. If I’m lucky, it may take an hour or two.”
Wallace gave her a big smile. “It’s good to be working for you again, Miss Abbott. Mr. Morgan keeps his brush in his top drawer.” He nodded toward the dresser.
She was to use Grant’s brush? She shot a guilty glance at the dresser drawer. Nothing made her feel more like a wife than the manservant’s easy acceptance that she and her husband should share toiletries.
Wallace opened the bedroom door and ordered the men with her trunks to enter. Jem, hale and hearty, brought in a trunk packed with her clothes from the days before her move to Evans House; Lady Evans had insisted that it be banished to the attic. The Evanses’ footman brought in another trunk, which she assumed must contain the ruffled cottons and satins Lady Evans had chosen for her. She knew the servant, but when she nodded a greeting, he looked away, his ruddy complexion turning a shade redder.
Jem was busy talking to her about the milliner’s assistant he wanted to marry, who he thought would make an excellent lady’s maid for Phadra. Phadra’s attention, however, was on the Evanses’ footman and the almost sheepish way he handed over the key to the newest trunk to her. It was then that she remembered that the key to her old trunk, the one full of the clothing she’d designed herself, was in the portmanteau that had gone off to Portsmouth with the mail coach. It didn’t matter. Grant wouldn’t consider any of the clothes in that trunk “appropriate.”
She interrupted Jem’s prattle. “Wallace, tell Lady Miranda that I will present myself as soon as I have had a chance to dress.”
With a snap of his fingers, Wallace motioned Jem and the footman out of the room before he bowed and followed.
Phadra crossed to the trunk with her clothes from Evans House—her “appropriate” attire—and unlocked it. On top of the neatly folded clothing, like an old reliable friend, lay her copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s book. Phadra picked it up, letting her fingers run across the leather binding lovingly. She put it on top of the dresser next to the pictures of Grant’s sisters. It looked right there, and suddenly Phadra felt a sense of security that she’d never known before.
She wanted to stay here, to belong here and have her portrait sitting on the dresser beside those of his sisters—and, perhaps, to build a marriage based upon mutual respect.
But first she had to suffer through the interview with Miranda. She turned her attention back to the trunk and pulled out the first dress her fingers touched, a white muslin day dress that completely washed out her features. Lady Evans had insisted she have it in her wardrobe. Phadra hated the dress but decided to wear it so that Miranda would not be left waiting any longer than necessary.
She shook the dress out and then realized something was wrong. The skirt separated in long shreds. She looked at the bodice. It too had long gashes, making it completely unwearable.
Quickly Phadra drew out the other clothing in the trunk. Dress after dress had been treated in this manner. Even her undergarments had been sliced and shredded, making them virtually unwearable. The outrage of it filled her with fury.
She had nothing to wear—and at that very moment Miranda Evans was probably standing in the parlor smiling at this one last dirty trick.
Without a care for her hair or wrinkled dress, Phadra marched out of the bedroom in a blind rage and stomped down the stairs to the lower floor. The Evanses’ footman and Miranda’s maid saw her first and huddled against the wall closest to the front door. Wallace took one look at the expression on her face and her tightly clenched fists and indicated with a nod which closed door led to the parlor. Then he
motioned for Jem to open the door for her—but Phadra reached it first.
She turned the door handle and shoved the door open, pleased that it hit the wall with a resounding bang. Miranda stood in the middle of the room. Phadra slammed the door shut and then slowly approached the woman.
Miranda smiled pleasantly. “Phadra, you look absolutely horrible. Couldn’t you have taken a moment to change? You look as though you slept in those clothes.”
“You piece of baggage,” Phadra said, her voice vibrating with anger. “What possessed you to pull this trick?”
Miranda’s eyes glinted with malice. “You took him from me.”
“Took him from you?” Phadra asked, dumbfounded. “You didn’t even want him. If Lord Phipps had made an offer, you would have jilted Grant Morgan without a second’s hesitation. You let one and all know you thought he was beneath you.”
Miranda stepped toward her, the anger of her mania burning bright in her eyes. “He was mine! He was promised to me, and he was mine to do with as I wished.”
Phadra stood her ground. “Yours? You make him sound like a pet. Well, he’s not. The circumstances of our marriage might have been unusual—which I’m sure your mother has explained to you—but they were unavoidable, and right now I’m glad! Marriage to you would have been a living hell, and no man, certainly not Grant Morgan, deserves that!”
Miranda’s face turned an unnatural shade of red, and her body began to shake. For a brief moment Phadra wondered if she had gone too far.
“I hate you.” Miranda’s voice seemed to come from deep inside her. It rolled out with hideous resonance. “Ever since you came into my life, everything has gone wrong. But it is going to end here!” Her lovely face contorted with rage, Miranda shouldered Phadra aside and crossed to the door. “I’ll destroy both of you. I can do it and I will. Tonight all the ton will know Grant Morgan for the pretender he is. By the time I am through with him, no one will receive him!”
Treasured Vows Page 17