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Authors: Cathy Maxwell
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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 herbonnet 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
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 herbonnet 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
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