Free Treasured Vows by Cathy Maxwell

something in common!” Lady Evans said. She looked over her shoulder as if searching for Mrs. Woodlac’s approval. The woman didn’t look up but stuffed the last bit of cake into her mouth.
    “Tell me, Miss Abbott, do you think about death?” Mr. Woodlac asked in an expressionless tone.
    “Breath?” Squire Blaney asked in his carrying voice. “Does Miss Babbitt need a breath? What’s the matter with her?” He turned and looked up expectantly at Sir Cecil as though he’d been about to purchase a prize hunting dog and found that it might have a defect.
    Phadra felt ready to explode. Who did Sir Cecil think he was, foisting her off on these two dregs? And Mr. Morgan! What role did he play in this folly? Her temper barely under control, she said to the two would-be suitors, “Would you excuse me? I need a moment to remove my bonnet.” And put distance between myself and Mr. Morgan before I throttle him and the Evanses, she added to herself.
    She didn’t wait for an answer but turned on her heel, left the room, and marched up the stairs, giving her anger free rein. Oh, yes, she had a word or two for Sir Cecil—and Mr. Morgan. Mr. Morgan in particular! To think she had started to believe that he held some regard, some respect, for her. Did he think she would let either of those two potential husbands touch her? Phadra gave a shiver of disgust. She knew she wasn’t a beauty, but she wasn’t a toad, either!
    She had just reached the first landing, out of sight to anyone in the hall, when she heard Mr. Morgan’s voice. “What is the meaning of this nonsense, Sir Cecil?”
    Phadra froze, straining to hear the answer.
    “What nonsense?” Sir Cecil’s voice asked.
    “Of trying to palm off those two idiots on Miss Abbott!”
    “Beatrice and I are merely trying to find her a husband. Wasn’t that the plan?”
    “The plan was,” Mr. Morgan’s voice said heatedly, “to find her a suitable husband. Blaney has to be all of seventy, and I don’t think Woodlac is old enough to have seen his majority.”
    “He’s young, I’ll admit that fact. But he’s over sixteen.”
    “What? He’s seventeen?” Morgan snorted his disbelief.
    “Those men are both suitable,” Sir Cecil objected. “True, Blaney’s a miser through and through, but he has more gold in his mattress than most people have in the bank, and that would suit our purpose—”
    “ Our purpose?” Morgan asked archly, as if to distance himself from the crime.
    “—and Lawrence Woodlac, Jules’s father, is rich beyond belief, plus he’d pay anything for an heir.” His tone turned confidential. “Actually, Lawrence is a bit worried about his son. I mean, you may have noticed the boy is a bit queer in the head and maybe not all a man should be. However, if Phadra manages to breed a brat by him, Lawrence would make her rich beyond her dreams. He wants an heir.”
    “You sound as coarse as that old goat of a squire,” Mr. Morgan answered.
    The sound of a closing door warned Phadra that someone might be coming. Silently she hurried up the last few steps as Miranda appeared at the top of the staircase. Miranda smiled like a cat lapping cream asthe two of them passed. “Tearing yourself away from two such earnest suitors so quickly?”
    “One of them seems to prefer you,” Phadra said evenly.
    “I already have a suitor,” came the smug reply. With a bounce of her curls, Miranda disappeared around the turn in the staircase.
    And you’ll make life hell for him, Phadra thought as she turned the handle of her door and entered her room.
    Practically ripping the hat off her head, Phadra threw the thing at the door.
    A knock sounded. “Come in,” Phadra called.
    In came Annie, the maid Lady Evans had assigned to her. “Miss, is everything all right?”
    It was on the tip of Phadra’s tongue to shout, “No, everything is all wrong!” but then she realized that taking out her frustration on Annie wasn’t a solution.
    There had to be an answer to