“And you think I’m one of those?”
“I know you are one of those.” She crossed her arms against her chest. “You should hear yourself, sir. You’ve ordered, berated, and growled. You’ve done everything but say what a woman wants to hear, and I think the only reason you haven’t done that is because you don’t know how.”
“How to what?”
“Woo her. Win her.”
Grant studied her a moment, as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Woo her?”
The plumes on Mrs. Shaunessy’s bonnet bobbed and bounced in the wind. “Court her,” she said with some exasperation, and then took the basket from his hands. “Mr. Morgan, I can’t tell you how it’s done. You have to think of that for yourself. But so far, in spite of being miserably clumsy about the business, you’ve been surprisingly successful.”
“Successful?”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Can’t you see? Are you that blind? The child is half in love with you already.”
“She is?” This information astounded him, and then he discovered that he quite liked the thought of it.
“Yes,” Mrs. Shaunessy said, then added darkly, “and I don’t know how you did it. But love is a fragile thing, sir. It can be killed as quickly as it can be planted. If you take my advice, you’ll treat her love as a very precious gift. Because it is.”
Grant didn’t answer. Already his analytical mind was weighing the possibilities. Phadra…in love with him. Could love make her bend to his will?
Mrs. Shaunessy shot him a suspicious look and, almost as if she could read his mind, frowned. “I’m beginning to regret I ever said anything. A woman could make better use of her time talking to a stone wall than trying to make her point with a man,” she muttered. “Have it your way, then, but in the end, don’t forget that Henrietta Shaunessy warned you!” She turned sharply on her heel and walked toward home.
Grant barely listened to her. Instead he stood under the oak, thinking. The more he thought, the more the challenge of winning Phadra intrigued him. After several minutes of concentrated mental activity, he smiled slowly and then walked down the street, back toward the market.
Outside the parlor windows, the rain began to fall, a dismal sprinkling at first, which grew steadily stronger as the minutes passed until it felt like the very heavens had opened up to rain down on London town.
Wearing her oldest dress, a serge uniform from her days at Miss Agatha’s, Phadra sat on the floor of the parlor and watched the rain. Her hands absently twisted the bottle of scented vinegar that Henny had given her—“to improve your spirits,” Henny had said. The cluster of grapes sat on a plate on a sofa table, untouched.
She’d already cleaned every square inch of the parlor, throwing herself into the household chore to escape the decision she felt she had to make, must make…and felt no closer to knowing her own mind than when she had woken late that morning with red-rimmed eyes and a dry throat.
She was a wife who wasn’t a wife. A daughter without a father. A woman who’d lost her identity before she could gain it.
And in the middle of all the questions was Grant. Her chest tightened.
She’d come to London wanting something more from her life. Now she felt trapped. Trapped in a marriage to a man who didn’t want her, just as her mother had been.
Squeezing her hands together around the cool bottle of vinegar, she wished Anne and Jane hadn’t left that morning. Each had kissed her like a sister when they said their good-byes and had promised that everything would be all right. They’d even repeated the sentiment.
With sudden decision she came up on her knees and set the bottle of vinegar on the table, her fingers still loosely around it. Enough! She took a deep, slow breath and reached deep inside her, searching for strength. Tears welled up again, but she fought them back.
Yes, he was handsome, strong, noble, and a hundred other things that made him almost Sir Galahad reincarnated. He was also cold, dictatorial, stubborn, handsome—she decided his good looks weighed for and against him!—self-centered, arrogant…
A sound at the door interrupted her list of faults. “Henny, I asked you to leave me alone.” She shot a look over her shoulder, bracing herself for another of Henny’s well-meaning lectures, and froze.
Grant stood in the doorway, looking more devilishly handsome than she’d ever seen him. He’d removed his coat and neckcloth. His hair was wet; apparently he’d been caught in the storm. The thought struck her that he looked more casual than she’d ever seen him—except, of course, for that night in the inn.
Unbidden memories brought heat to her cheeks. She rose to her feet and made a pretense of centering the bottle of vinegar on the table. Had he noticed her blush? Could he see how just his presence seemed to throw all of her emotions in turmoil?
She drew another deep breath. “Grant, we have to talk—”
“I want to show you something—”
They both spoke at the same time, their words tumbling over one another, and then stopped.
For a second the only sound in the room was that of the falling rain outside. He broke the silence first, his silver-gray eyes solemn. “Come with me, and we can talk.” He held his hand out to her.
Phadra didn’t know if it would be such a wise idea right then to touch him. She pushed her hands into the folds of her skirt. “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking about us.”
“So have I.”
“You have?”
He smiled, an easy, heart-stopping smile that set off strange fluttery yearnings inside her. “Why does that surprise you?” he asked, pushing away from the doorway. He crossed the room toward her, his steps slow and deliberate.
“Perhaps because I’ve never imagined you giving me a second’s thought,” she answered candidly, taking a shy, skittish step away from him before she forced herself to stand still.
Grant stopped, leaving the width of the sofa between them. “That’s certainly not true.”
“It’s not?” she asked. Her throat tightened on the words, and she looked down at her hands, tightly clasped in front of her.
He came closer until he stood so near that his feet brushed the hem of her dress. That was when she realized that he was moving in his stockinged feet. The sight of the lines of his long toes through the thin stocking material seemed too intimate. It was the sort of thing that a wife, a true wife, one who shared her husband’s bed, would accept as a matter of course. The lump started to form in her throat again. She looked away, staring hard at the colored bottle of vinegar instead.
“Phadra, look at me.”
She didn’t; she couldn’t. Instead she squeezed her hands together and said, “I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking.” The words came out rehearsed, but at least her voice didn’t shake, even with the rest of her body literally humming at the nearness of him. She forced herself to get the words out in a rush before her resolve wavered. “I don’t think you will ever be the kind of husband I need or—” She paused slightly, knowing she was about to lie. “—desire.” Why did he have to stand so close? she thought. She could feel the heat of his body right through her serge uniform. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she finished in a voice so low that she was almost whispering, “And I don’t think I can be the wife you want.”
Again, the only sound in the room was that of the falling rain—and her own hammering heart.
And then he touched her. One long finger traced the line of her chin, tilting her head up. He studied her features intently, and she was certain he read the truth as plainly as if she’d written it on paper for him. His hand came down on her shoulder and followed the curve of her arm until his hand covered hers.
“Come,” was all he said, and she released the tight hold of her hands and let him curl his fingers around hers. Their fingers laced together—and he smiled. “Come.”
Phadra didn’t want to follow him. She knew she shouldn’t. But when he turned and walked to the door, she followed.
He l
ed her down the hallway toward the back stairs, moving silently on his stockinged feet. She caught herself tiptoeing, as if they didn’t want Wallace or Henny to know what they were up to. At the stairs he pulled her arm through his and shot her a glance that was so boyish in its appeal, she almost missed the step.
On the second floor he drew her down the carpeted hallway toward the bedroom, the one they had yet to share.
Phadra slowed her steps to a stop and dug her heels into the carpet. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” she said stiffly.
Grant didn’t say anything but opened the door and stepped aside, waiting patiently for her to enter.
Phadra frowned at him. “No.” If she entered that bedroom, she’d be like a Christian entering the lions’ den, and could get gobbled up just as quickly, too. But then, through the open door, she caught a flash of color that had not been there before and the fresh, full scent of…flowers.
She took a step to the door and peered in. Her breath caught in her throat in wonder. He’d transformed the bedroom into a flower garden. Marigolds, asters, roses, bluebells, gladioli, and daisies created a riot of color. The rain fell gently now, and its light breeze made the curtains billow and teased the flower heads.
Phadra walked in, her mouth open in surprise—and delight. The flowers had been arranged around a blanket laid out at the foot of the bed. On the blanket sat an orange. “What is this?” she asked, turning back to Grant.
He’d closed the door and was leaning against it, watching her. To her amazement, he looked slightly embarrassed. “A picnic. It’s a pretty poor one, but after I purchased the flowers…” His voice trailed off.
“A picnic?” She mouthed the words.
“I thought it would please you. Mrs. Shaunessy said oranges are your favorite.” He took a step to stand beside her before saying, “It does look rather silly.”
“No,” Phadra said immediately. “It doesn’t look silly.”
His eyes met hers. “It doesn’t?”
“No.” She looked away first, all too aware of his presence, of his nearness. Even over the heady scent of flowers, she could make out the clean, strong scent of his shaving soap and realized that he’d shaved. For this? For her?
Phadra shifted nervously and stepped away from him, around to the other side of the blanket. She faced him. “Grant, why are you doing this?”
He frowned slightly. “It’s only a picnic, Phadra.”
She looked around at the flowers, the blanket…the bed. She shot him a skeptical look.
Grant ignored it. Instead he stepped into the makeshift bower and sat down on the blanket, stretching his long legs out. He looked up at her standing straight-backed and proud. “Join me.”
Her eyes flashed down at him and then looked away, but in that blink of a moment he’d seen what she wouldn’t have wanted him to see: the vulnerability, the hurt. At that moment he realized what Mrs. Shaunessy had been trying to tell him. His brave, proud Phadra. Didn’t she understand? He’d honor his wedding vows. He’d never abandon her as her father had done. He always honored his word.
Grant sat up. “When I was a child, we used to have picnics every time Father came home. And if the weather was bad, Father used to order the servants to set it up in the sitting room, and we’d play and tumble over the furniture as if we were outside.” He raised his knee and leaned forward to balance his arm on it, watching her intently as he confided, “Those were my favorites, the indoor picnics on rainy days.”
“I don’t remember ever being on a picnic,” she said, her voice almost wistful. How fortunate he was to have come from a family with siblings and a father, however errant, making an appearance in his life. “Mama and I may have had them. I don’t remember.”
“Then join me.” He held his hand up to her.
Phadra wanted to take his hand. She wanted to with every beat of her heart—but she couldn’t.
“Phadra?”
Dear sweet Lord, how she loved the sound of her name on his lips. She struggled with indecision.
“Phadra, it’s only a picnic.”
No, Grant! she wanted to shout. It’s so much more. Because if I give in to you, I’ll never have that part of myself back. I’ll never be whole. Not ever.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath. “Grant, I don’t think either of us knows how to be a good husband or wife to the other.” There. She’d said it.
Phadra’s direct honesty caught him off guard—and it stung. Once he’d decided to marry, it had never occurred to him that any woman would find him lacking. He rose up on his knees. “I don’t think either of us knows the other well enough to make that judgment.”
She looked at the blanket spread out on the floor, the flowers—and the man. “And how will we get to know each other? By tumbling around on the furniture?” Immediately her cheeks grew warm at the double entendre of her words.
His eyes danced, and a slow, easy grin spread across his face. “We might.”
Her whole being responded to those words. Traitorously, her whole body suddenly felt warm. Her breathing stopped. And there, at the very core of her, she felt the very distinct singing of desire.
Outside, the rain started coming down harder, the sound mingling with the rapid beating of her heart. No other sound disturbed them. It was as if they were alone, isolated from the rest of the world.
And it would be so easy to set their differences aside.
Grant reached up to her again. Almost against her will, she placed her hand in his and felt the warm reassurance of his fingers closing over hers. He didn’t have to pull very hard to bring her down to the floor closer to him. His eyes had turned darker, smokier, and Phadra could swear she could feel his heart beating as rapidly as her own was beating at that moment. “Phadra?” He didn’t just say her name; he tasted it, savored it.
She couldn’t answer. What little of her sanity she had left warned her that this wasn’t what she wanted. That if she gave in now, she’d regret it later.
But another part of her, almost all the rest of her, wanted to whisper, “Oh, yes…” Perhaps she really had said those words aloud, because slowly, almost reverently, Grant leaned closer until his lips touched hers.
And that was all it took. In the next second she rose up to meet him. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to him, and in that moment Phadra knew that the spark she’d tried so hard to deny had a life of its own.
Chapter 19
For one brief second Grant sensed her resistance—and then felt her capitulation as she practically melted into his arms. Fierce pride surged through him, mingling with the heady, sweet need of desire. He didn’t kiss but devoured—and Phadra met him all the way.
In a sudden decision, he rose to his feet in one fluid motion, lifting her up in his arms. Her lips broke from his. “What are you doing? What about your shoulder?” Her arms tightened around his neck as he stepped over the flowers.
“My shoulder’s fine, and for this first time I want us on this bed. Our bed.” The bed ropes creaked slightly as he laid her on the lavender-scented sheets and stretched out beside her.
When her hands came up to his shoulders to hold him off, he saw the slight hesitancy, the apprehension in her eyes.
“Phadra, don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I won’t…” He let his soft promise drift off as he lowered his head and kissed the soft skin under her chin. So sweet. What did she have to fear? He was her husband…. He wanted this, and if she didn’t realize how much he wanted, needed, their joining, she was about to find out.
But then, she was Phadra. Unique, unpredictable Phadra.
And she was his. Even without the marriage ceremony, some elemental part of him knew that she was his, had always been his—maybe even from the moment when he’d first seen her standing in proud defiance in Sir Cecil’s office. Suddenly he didn’t want to wait or linger. He wanted to be inside her, claiming her, possessing her.
Again her fingers pressed into his shoulders, refusing to le
t him come closer. “Grant, are we doing the right thing?”
He wanted to groan his frustration, to push aside her resistance. But he didn’t. Instead he held himself back, his lips poised six inches over hers. Looking into her bright, clear eyes, he whispered, “Oh, Phadra, for once let’s set reason and arguments aside and just kiss.”
The resistance in her fingers relaxed; her lips parted slightly. Never had he received a sweeter invitation. He leaned closer, burying his fingers in the wild mass of her glorious hair, and kissed her—joyously, fully, wantonly—and, dear sweet God, she met him with a passion to rival his own. Her arms slipped around his head and pulled him closer to her. Why had he been such a fool and wasted time fighting with her when kissing her was so much more pleasurable, so much more fulfilling?
Slipping his fingers down into the folds of her dress, he started searching for the hooks and buttons. Releasing them would let him come so much closer. He lowered his mouth to nuzzle the underside of her chin, the curve of her jawline, the hollow behind her ear. A sound escaped from low in her throat, a feminine sound of need and the pleasure of discovery. It set off an answering response thrumming through his veins. And her hair…it smelled of sunlight and wild grass. Her skin tasted warm and rich, like honey. He wanted more, so much more—and so he practically roared with frustration when he’d undone a line of hooks and still found his way barred by heavy material.
He broke the kiss and leaned back. “This damn dress has more trappings and hidden folds than an officer’s uniform.”
Her lips, ruby red from kissing, curved into an innocently teasing smile. “And have you tried to undo many officers’ uniforms?”
He arched an eyebrow in mock challenge. “What do you think?”
“Well…,” she hedged before he wrapped his hands around her waist, pulled her up to him, and kissed her as if he could drink her soul. It felt so right. Dear God, it felt so right.
Treasured Vows Page 27