of yours.”
“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 handthe 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. Iwill 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
“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 handthe 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. Iwill 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
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