Phadra moved toward her. “Miranda, if you want to blame someone, blame me! It was my foolishness that led us to this pass. It’s all my fault. Not Grant’s. He’s only tried to do what is right and honorable in this mess.”
“He shouldn’t have married you!”
The words hurt—especially because Phadra feared Grant agreed with her. “What would you have had him do? He had to marry me.” The words tasted bitter when said out loud. “He had no choice.”
“It’s your fault.” Miranda’s lip protruded peevishly, but the anger in her features softened slightly.
Phadra agreed readily, “That’s right. It’s my fault. Not Grant’s.”
“But it doesn’t matter,” Miranda snapped. “I’ll see you both turned out—”
Dear God, Phadra thought as the other young woman spoke, could Miranda not know about the emerald fiasco? Was she mad enough to destroy her own father in order to wreak revenge on Grant? But Miranda’s next words commanded Phadra’s complete attention.
“—just like Mama turned out that vulgar woman who pretended to be your chaperone.”
“Henny?” Phadra’s alarm turned to quiet, deadly anger. “What have you done to Henny?”
Miranda’s lip curled into a sneer. “She’s out on the streets. I hope the dogs get her.” She turned the handle on the door and opened it. “Good day to you, Mrs. Morgan. I pray you find something suitable to wear this evening.” She turned to make her exit.
“Stop right there,” Phadra ordered in a cold, hard voice.
Miranda looked back over her shoulder. Raising a scornful eyebrow as if to ask who dared to speak to her in such a manner, she turned to face Phadra.
Phadra lifted her chin. “Normally, Miranda, you have the good sense to save your tantrums for servants and people you think you can bully. Well, you’ve missed your mark this time. I’m not afraid of you. Do your worst, Miranda Evans.”
Miranda’s lips parted in surprise. Then her mouth tightened into a thin, hard smile. “So be it. I look forward to seeing you at the ball.” With a swish of her skirts she turned on her heel and left the house.
Phadra waited until she heard the door slam behind the she-devil before stepping out in the hallway, where her servants stared with wide eyes at the door. “Wallace, Henny has been turned out by the Evanses. I know you two are close. Do you think you could find her?”
“Aye,” Wallace conceded. “I know a place or two she’d turn to if she was in trouble.”
“Then find her. Immediately,” Phadra ordered calmly, “and bring her here. As for you, Jem—”
The footman stepped forward, pulling his forelock. “Yes, madam?”
“Follow me upstairs. I need you to break into my old trunk.”
“Yes, madam.” He pulled his forelock again.
She continued issuing orders as she started up the stairs. “And contact your milliner’s assistant. Tell her I do find myself in need of a lady’s maid. I want her now, today, as soon as possible. Her wages are not an issue.”
Jem shot a look back over his shoulder at Wallace, who shrugged a silent answer.
“Is something wrong, Jem?” She stopped, surprised that he wasn’t behind her.
The servant shot a guilty look at Wallace before saying, “No, madam. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?” she prodded.
Jem gave another glance back at Wallace before saying boldly, “I just wanted to know if everything is all right.”
Phadra gifted them with a radiant smile. She leaned over the banister. “Everything is wonderful. In fact, for the first time since I entered Sir Cecil’s office and discovered my financial affairs completely in shambles, I feel like myself again. I feel strong. I feel powerful.” She finished triumphantly, “I feel like going to a ball!”
Chapter 13
Grant walked out of the bank and stood for a moment on the steps, finally able to give rein to the anger that had been building slowly and steadily all day. The scowl he allowed himself was so fierce, two gentlemen walking down Threadneedle Street took one look at his face and crossed the road as if anxious to avoid his path.
He had just had the most frustrating day of his career at the bank. It was almost as if the moment he’d become a married man, his carefully constructed world had immediately started to collapse. No, he amended, that had happened the first moment he’d laid eyes on Phadra Abbott in Sir Cecil’s office.
Tongues all over town were already wagging about his mysterious absence and sudden marriage. Before he’d been able to contact all the bank’s directors discreetly, most had heard the news while visiting their various clubs and had already passed judgment. His supporters admitted openly that it would have been a better move for his career for him to have married Miranda Evans. His enemies, with their own protégés to promote, congratulated him with such cheerful goodwill that Grant knew his marriage to Phadra had already been declared by consensus a disaster.
His fist tightened around his walking stick. Unwilling to wait for a hack, he started walking home. He needed to stretch his legs and work off his anger. It felt good to be moving even in the close heat of the summer evening.
But it wasn’t the lukewarm reception of his marriage that made him so angry. That very afternoon Lord Phipps had come to him seeking help from the bank. The government needed more money to fight Napoleon. Once, in the past, Grant had suggested to Phipps that the government should obtain its funds through the Bank of England. Now Whitehall was interested—and Grant couldn’t get anyone at the bank to think about anything except his ill-conceived marriage.
A crier announced the hour. Half past six. He was going to be late. He hated to be late. He walked faster, his mind working furiously while his legs ate up stretches of the pavement.
Not for the first time did he feel frustrated by his position with the bank. World events placed the bank on the threshold of a new age, a new economy, but the Court of Directors didn’t seem to understand how rapidly changes were taking place in the world. They clung to tenets that were dead and best buried, dismissing most of his ideas as too radical.
Coming to an abrupt halt, he discovered his mental tirade had carried him to the steps of his home. For a moment he closed his eyes. What else could go wrong?
And then he thought of Phadra.
No matter what he’d done that day, she was never far from his thoughts—especially when he’d quietly transferred the necessary funds from his accounts to the Abbott account and then closed it. With a few simple pen strokes, the debt was paid. In full. And his modest fortune had suffered a severe setback.
He bounded up the steps. Wallace opened the door.
“I’m late, Wallace,” Grant growled.
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
He handed the butler his curly-brim beaver. “Better have Jem run over to Evans House with a message that we are running behind. Also, I hired a rig from Tilbury. It should be right on my heels, since I ordered it for half past the hour. If I’d been thinking, I would have had them pick me up at the bank, but hindsight is always clearer, isn’t it?”
“That’s often the case, sir.” Wallace passed the hat to Jem, the action making Grant realize that he didn’t need two servants, and now he couldn’t afford them. Still, he’d grown very fond of this pair of characters.
He pushed his financial worries aside and started toward the stairs to change into evening dress when a movement inside the parlor caught his attention. He moved toward the door.
Waiting in the parlor, her hands clasped in front of her, her head bowed in the picture of wifely submission, stood Phadra. Yards and yards of sapphire silk shot through with threads of gold and wrapped in the Eastern style of a sari covered her hair, shoulders, and arms. Layers of the same silk flowed down to her feet and swept the ground.
When she raised her magnificent eyes—which were the clear blue of stained glass—his breath caught in his throat. “You’re beautiful.” His words came out in a whisper.
&nb
sp; The compliment brought a soft rose tinge to her cheeks, which made her seem even more like a beautiful, devoted houri. She answered him with a shy smile, as though uncertain whether or not she’d heard him correctly, and his mouth went dry. For the first time in his life Grant understood why a man would want to keep a harem, a way to keep a woman all to himself and not share her with another.
Someone pounded the knocker on the front door, startling him out of his reverie. Surprised to discover that he was leaning against the door frame, he straightened.
“It’s the coachman from Tilbury,” Wallace said a second later. “Your rig is outside, sir.”
“My rig?” Grant repeated blankly, and then came to his senses. He turned to Phadra. “I ordered a coach to take us to Evans House.”
“That’s good,” she said. For a second, hearing her low, husky voice, his mind conjured an image of her lying beside him, answering his kisses with a passion that rivaled his own…
He shook his head. Now was not the time. But later? He was suddenly anxious to rush over to Evans House, dance twice around the room, and return with his wife to his hearth—and his bed.
“I need to change.” His voice came out a bit higher than he’d intended. He cleared his throat and added, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
He started up the stairs, but she stopped him. “Grant, there’s something I should tell you.”
He turned around. “Phadra, is something wrong?”
She took a deep breath and said in a rush of words, “The Evanses threw Henny out into the street and I sent Wallace to rescue her and I’ve told her that she may make her home with us for however long she wants to and I hope you agree.”
Her torrent of words both surprised and delighted him. Little did she know that the sight of her standing there looking so lovely in the soft candlelight made it difficult for him to refuse her anything. “Of course, Phadra. We’ll make room for her. We may not be able to pay her a wage—”
“You’ve paid off the emeralds.” Her words came out in a whisper, her eyes growing wider as the magnitude of what he’d done hit her.
When she looked at him that way, he felt absurdly gallant, as if he’d slain the dragon and rescued the damsel. He forced himself to return to reality once again. “I’d better change. It’s almost seven and we’re late enough as it is.” He turned and climbed the stairs.
The second he left, Phadra wanted to collapse in relief. That had been almost too easy—and she was immediately struck by guilt. The amount he’d had to pay to meet her debts had to have been staggering. She should have told him about the lady’s maid.
She should have told him about the fight with Miranda.
She wrapped the sari closer around her, feeling a chill in spite of the evening’s warmth. She should let him see her dress before they left the house. But he’d make her change, and she wasn’t going to give in to Miranda. Not now. Not ever. But…he might be very upset.
Fifteen minutes later Grant came down the stairs, and the sight of him in his elegant evening wear of black coat and tails struck any idea of confession from her mind. So well did the tailored black coat emphasize his broad shoulders and masculine good looks that Phadra was certain no one would even notice if she was in the room, let alone what she was wearing. For one wild, almost painful moment, the memory of her body nestled next to his assaulted her senses.
Grant placed her hand on his arm. “We’ll be home early, Wallace,” he said, leading her out the door.
On the top step Phadra stopped and drew in a gasp. “Where did that come from?” Before her in the evening twilight sat an elegant black and gold coach drawn by a perfectly matched team of grays.
Grant laughed as if happy that he’d surprised her. She stared at him, smitten by the sound of his laughter, until he pulled on her hand eagerly, urging her to hurry down the steps. “I felt that as long as we were going to be the talk of the evening, we might as well make a good show of it. It’s a beauty, isn’t it? I’ve always dreamed of owning one like this.”
He helped her into the coach, and she sat back in the cushioned seat, reveling in the soft butternut-colored leather upholstery. “I feel like a queen.”
He climbed in beside her, his thigh brushing against her leg. “Only a queen could afford to own one of these.”
“Can we afford it?” The words popped out of her mouth without thinking.
“Yes. Tonight.” He rapped on the roof, signaling for the coachman to start, before turning to her. “Phadra, don’t worry. I’m not a pauper yet.”
“I feel guilty. You had plans, other things that you wanted to do with that money.” She looked out the coach window and made a pretense of studying the passing street scene before adding quietly, “Such as buying a coach like this.”
He reached over and took her hand in his, and Phadra discovered she had to struggle to regulate her breathing. The confines of the coach suddenly seemed impossibly close. She turned toward him and discovered that his face was close to hers, closer than she had thought. She had never realized how deep and inviting his silver-gray eyes could be.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. His thumb stroked her palm, and Phadra wondered how she could even think, let alone worry. “I think if we practice economies, we’ll be fine.”
“Fine,” she repeated blankly. He smelled of spicy shaving soap, a scent Phadra had enjoyed all afternoon while she’d prepared for him in…their…bedroom. She couldn’t have moved away even if she’d wanted to—which she didn’t.
His lips moved. “When I first saw you this evening, I recalled the first time we’d met. You were wearing purple, the deep, rich color of royalty, and your hair curled down around your shoulders.” He raised her hand to his lips and lightly kissed the tips of her fingers. “In fact, so vividly could I recall our first meeting, I almost thought that when we walked out to the coach I could hear the sound of those silly little toe bells you wore.”
Phadra opened her eyes wide and pulled back slightly. “Silly?”
Grant frowned. “Well, unconventional.” He leaned toward her.
Phadra scooted a little away from him and self-consciously tucked her sandaled feet beneath her skirts. The movement sent the damning soft tinkling of tiny bells into the air.
Grant stopped moving. It was as though he’d been turned to stone.
At that moment the coach pulled up in front of Evans House. A footman stationed at the end of the walkway to the house opened the door for Phadra, and she quickly climbed out. Without waiting for Grant, she walked toward the door, her toe bells jingling with every step.
She didn’t get very far before Grant’s hand caught her elbow and turned her around to face him. “You’re wearing them!”
She lifted her chin. “What if I am?”
“I specifically ordered you to don appropriate attire.”
“And what exactly does that mean?”
“It means that a lady doesn’t wear toe bells.”
Phadra straightened her shoulders, announcing, “A lady wears anything she wishes.”
“Not if her husband commands her not to!”
“Did you say husband, sir, or jailer?”
“Phadra,” he warned, and took a step away in complete exasperation before exploding, “I wish I had a dungeon to throw you in. A deep, dark place where I could keep you until you started to develop some common sense!”
Phadra felt her temper bubble to the surface. “How archaic! How ridiculous!” She stomped up the steps, glad that the bells rang with every step. “If that is your attitude, we should never have married!”
“Now there you may have a point,” he answered, his long legs enabling him to pass her on the steps. “I thought that I was marrying a woman of class and distinction, not some termagant who wouldn’t have enough sense to follow her husband’s orders!”
Phadra wasn’t about to let him reach the front door before her. She did not trail behind a man like chattel! The sari slid off her head and down past one bare shoulder,
but she made it to the top step at the same second he reached it. She stared up at him with defiance.
Grant looked over, his eyes hard and angry—and then his mouth dropped open. “Your shoulder is bare!”
Phadra had the satisfaction of looking at him as if he’d turned into the village idiot. “Yes.”
He leaned down toward her. “You’re half-naked!”
“Not hardly,” she flashed back.
“The devil, you say—” The Evanses’ butler opened the door. Grant’s anger appeared to evaporate and was immediately replaced with what Phadra could only describe as a supercilious toadeating attitude. “Hello, Lady Evans, Sir Cecil. Thank you for hosting this affair tonight.”
“You’re late,” Lady Evans snapped, the salt-and-pepper curls on top of her head seeming to bristle with indignation.
“My sincerest regrets, my lady,” he said, giving Phadra a push forward through the doorway. “It’s my fault. I was unavoidably detained at the bank.”
“Sir Cecil has been with the bank for thirty years and has never been detained when he had a social engagement.” She snorted her disapproval before announcing, “Come, Sir Cecil, Miranda! We must form a receiving line now. There isn’t a moment to waste. I can see guests starting to line up in the drive. Here, Phadra, hand Alexander your shawl.”
“I thought I might like to keep it,” Phadra started, and then felt the full force of Grant’s stare upon her. His smile was pleasant, but his eyes burned bright with anger.
Well, he’d better learn now that he’d married her, not purchased her. Her head high, she slipped the sari down and unwrapped it from around her shoulders. Grant’s eyes darkened, and his jaw tightened dangerously.
But the gasp of outrage didn’t come from him but from Lady Evans. “Phadra! Why are you wearing that outrageous costume? And your hair’s down. That is not the style. Not at all!”
“I set my own style, Lady Evans,” she announced, her attention on her husband and the stern set of his face. If only her knees weren’t shaking so!
“Obviously,” her ladyship answered. She walked around Phadra as if viewing a museum piece. “The material is pretty, but leaving this one shoulder bare is, ah…very daring.”
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