neat and well-turned-out, she was in fact far less elegant. She wore the same few dresses—all ones she had owned before their wedding—and she ignored the stock of jewelry with which he’d supplied her.
Probably, he thought, she would like him to believe that on the nights they dined alone she was in the habit of simply seizing the first thing she touched in her closet, without even noticing what it was. In fact, he thought it was more likely that she deliberately planned what she wore, and how often, in the hope of annoying him.
Not that her campaign of irritation would succeed. It didn’t matter to Sloan if she wanted to wear the same dinner dress for the next thirty years—especially if it was this particular dress, which hugged her figure with its deceptively demure shape and enticed despite an innocently high-cut neckline. He suspected if Morganna had any idea precisely how attractive he found that dress, she’d have donated it to the thrift shop long ago.
“That old thing again?” he murmured as she came within arm’s length. He took her hand and drew her closer, till his lips brushed across her cheek. “Your wardrobe is becoming incredibly boring, my dear.”
She said under her breath, “I’ll keep your objections in mind.”
“Meaning that you intend to go right on wearing the same old clothes. Perhaps I should mention the problem to your mother.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t push me.” He laid the velvet box across her palm and let a husky note creep into his voice. “Happy anniversary, darling.”
He saw the flash of irritation in her eyes, but obediently Morganna unsnapped the box and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of black satin, lay a river of fire—a bracelet of diamonds too numerous to count, perfectly matched and set into a braided chain of platinum that had made him think of her pale blond hair.
Irritation had given way to dismay, he saw as she raised her gaze to meet his. Her eyes were stormy blue-gray, and one crystal tear clung to her dark lashes. “Stop this,” she whispered. “Stop torturing me.”
He bent closer. “It’s a gift, Morganna.”
“It’s a ball and chain, and you know it.”
He lifted the bracelet from the box. “Would you rather put it on or explain to your mother why you don’t want to wear it?” He watched her swallow hard before she held out her hand. He fastened the bracelet, then raised her wrist so he could press his lips against the pulse point. Deliberately he pitched his voice just above a murmur—suggestively low, but just loud enough for the two onlookers to hear. “I’ll wait to get my real thank-you later, when we’re alone. Now, I think Selby is making signals about dinner. Shall we go in?”
The bracelet seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and every time Morganna raised her fork, the diamonds on her wrist caught the light from the chandelier and shattered it into knife points that hurt her eyes.
Six months, she thought. It would be six months next week since the wedding. Since the first and most ostentatious of the gifts.
She had been taken completely off guard at the wedding breakfast, when Sloan, after giving Abigail her check, had handed Morganna an envelope containing the deed to the Georgian-style mansion—a legal document detailing that the property now belonged jointly to Sloan Montgomery and Morganna Ashworth Montgomery. Husband and wife.
“Just a little wedding gift,” he’d said, and Abigail had exclaimed in delight at the idea that her daughter’s childhood home and the multitude of treasures it contained were now Morganna’s to keep.
Morganna herself had shuddered at the thought—not because she didn’t want the house, for she had shed tears over the thought of losing it, but because the image of debt piling upon debt made her stomach churn. Only then did she realize that somewhere in the back of her mind she had cherished the vague hope of being able one day to pay back the money he had provided for her mother, so she could be free of Sloan Montgomery. But how could she ever be free if she, too, took from his bounty?
Under her breath, without looking at Sloan, she’d said, “I didn’t ask for anything from you. And I won’t take anything from you.”
Sloan had leaned across her to top off her already-full champagne glass. “That’s your tough luck, Morganna, because I’ll give you anything I damned well want to.”
In startled silence, she had turned to stare at him.
“I understand quite well that you’d prefer being a martyr to accepting my gifts. Living in a cardboard box and eating cat food—wasn’t that what you told me you’d sooner do than marry me?”
Morganna’s voice was taut. “Don’t expect me to believe you did this out of fondness for me. You only put my name on this deed to impress my mother. If you’d been doing it for me, you’d have made the house mine entirely.”
“I could have wiped out your father’s debts outright, too, instead of promising to pay them off over the next couple of years. But do you think I’m such a fool that I’d hand you everything you want at a swoop in return for nothing but a promise? We made a deal, Morganna. Now that you’re my wife, you have an image to maintain, and part of your performance is to graciously accept the generous gifts of your seemingly smitten husband. Get used to it.”
She’d had six months to become accustomed to Sloan’s way of doing things, but it hadn’t made a difference. Six years wouldn’t change things, either, she thought wearily, if—God forbid—it came to that.
It wasn’t that his gifts were garish or ill-chosen. Showy as the diamond bracelet was, it was in perfect taste; the quality of the stones was what made the bracelet so attention-getting, not a flashy setting. It was the motivation behind the gifts that Morganna found so hard to swallow, and the fact that her wishes didn’t enter into his plans at all.
And why should she expect him to consult her, she wondered bitterly. It would be silly to ask a department-store dummy what she wanted to wear; a plastic mannequin had no opinion. And, it was all too clear to Morganna, that was precisely how her husband viewed her. She was nothing more than a prop in his magic show—a bit of stage dressing to help convince the audience how stupendous her husband was.
So Morganna did what she had to do. In public she was the perfect trophy, smiling and happy, wearing diamonds Sloan had chosen and designer clothes purchased with his money. In private, she wore what she liked. And if he was tired of seeing her hunter-green dinner dress, that was just his tough luck, because she intended to wear it till it was threadbare. Fortunately it was one of her favorites; if she’d hated the dress she might not have been as eager to annoy him with it.
After dinner the men excused themselves to finish their business discussion, while Morganna and Abigail returned to the drawing room to sit beside a freshly stoked fire. Morganna hardly noticed the passage of time or the drift of the conversation until her mother said, “I expected by now you would have redecorated the drawing room, Morganna.”
“I think it’s fine the way it is, Mother.” And to redecorate would simply add one more item to the list of things I owe Sloan.
“Don’t be silly, child,” Abigail said flatly. “I know for a fact that you’ve always disliked the dark hangings that I put in here. And I have to admit, at this time of year and with winter closing in, it’s a gloomy sort of room—not at all the cozy feeling I was trying to achieve. Perhaps the depressing atmosphere in here is why you seem to be drooping tonight.”
Morganna seized the excuse. Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll be able to handle this. But not tonight. “I was hoping it didn’t show—but I am tired, Mother. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go on up to bed.”
“I don’t mind at all, dear. I’ll just walk up with you and get my book.”
At the foot of the stairs, Abigail paused. “Aren’t you going to say good-night to your husband?”
The very question startled Morganna, and she had to stop and think about how a normal married