Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

P eggy’s fingers brushed the gilded edge of a portrait frame, its surface cool beneath her touch. She paused, peering at the painted faces staring back at her from the dim light of the hallway. A woman, regal and austere, with pearls wound tightly around her neck, stood beside a man whose expression seemed permanently etched in disapproval.

“Charming family,” she muttered under her breath, drawing her fingers away as if the somber expressions might rub off on her.

Her gaze wandered down the hall, taking in the brown wallpaper, its color somewhere between dried mud and despair. The curtains were drawn tight, smothering what little light the pale morning dared offer. Peggy’s chest tightened. This house, her home now, seemed determined to cling to its gloom like a miser hoarding gold.

“This won’t do,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the silence. She straightened her shoulders, resolve hardening within her. “I can’t live like this.”

Her slippers barely made a sound on the polished wood as she descended the stairs, her fingers skimming the banister for balance. The morning room beckoned, and with it, a flicker of hope. Perhaps this time, her husband might join her.

But when she entered, her optimism crumbled. The room was empty, save for the neatly laid breakfast spread that seemed to mock her solitude. A small sigh escaped her lips, her hands tightening on the folds of her skirt. She crossed to the sideboard and reached for a slice of toast, but her hand hovered over the silver tongs.

No. Not today.

Peggy turned sharply, her skirts swishing as she left the room. Determination flared anew. She did not marry to dine alone for the rest of her days.

The butler, Mr. Barrow, appeared at the far end of the hallway, his expression as impeccably composed as ever.

“Mr. Barrow,” Peggy called, quickening her steps.

“Your Grace,” he replied with a bow. “How may I be of service?”

“Where might I find the Duke?” she asked, her tone measured, though her pulse quickened.

Barrow hesitated. It was so slight Peggy might have missed it had she not been watching closely. “His Grace is in his study, attending to correspondence. Is there something I might assist you with instead, Your Grace?”

There was something in his voice—a careful edge, as though he disapproved of her plan. Peggy tilted her head slightly but dismissed the notion just as quickly.

“No, thank you, Mr. Barrow. I shall find His Grace.”

The butler cleared his throat immediately, and Peggy paused mid-step. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your Grace, we have orders not to disturb the Duke when he is in his study,” Barrow replied, his gaze lowered.

Unbelievable!

“ You have those orders, Barrow.” The Duke would see her this morning whether he liked it or not.

The butler inclined his head, his face betraying nothing, and Peggy followed his directions to the study. She stood before the heavy oak door for a moment, smoothing her skirts and gathering her courage. Then, with a decisive breath, she turned the handle and stepped inside.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Morgan sat at the desk, his dark head bent over a pile of papers. He did not look up. “Morning,” he grunted, the scratch of his quill continuing unabated.

Peggy hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the doorframe. She waited, hoping he might glance up or offer her some acknowledgment. But the silence stretched, and her hope waned.

“It’s time for breakfast,” she said at last, her voice warm but firm as she stepped further into the room.

Morgan’s quill froze mid-stroke. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his dark eyes meeting hers with a mixture of mild irritation and curiosity.

“I have plenty of timepieces to take me through my days, Margaret,” he said flatly. “I do not need a walking, breathing one too.”

Peggy’s lips twitched, her chin lifting slightly. “Oh, I am not here to tell you the time.”

“No?” he replied, arching a brow. “Then what, pray tell, is the purpose of this interruption?”

“To remind you to eat,” she said, undeterred. “After all, many people believe that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into something that might have been amusement—or irritation. “Those people clearly have nothing better to do.”

“I can hardly think of anything more important,” she countered, crossing her arms lightly over her chest.

He let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “I am not surprised.”

Peggy’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, his tone clipped, “that I am not eating.”

“Surely you do not want me to dine alone again?” she pressed, her voice softening with a note of genuine pleading.

He did not respond.

“Well then, I shall see you at luncheon,” she said, her tone as bright as she could muster, though her patience was wearing thin.

“I do not indulge in that either ,” he returned curtly, without even looking up from the ledger in his hand.

“Afternoon tea then?” Peggy tried again, tilting her head to study his impassive profile. “ Surely you do eat, do you not?”

“For God’s sake, woman, I shall see you at dinner,” he snapped, his tone brimming with irritation.

Peggy blinked at him for a moment before she felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He might have been frustrated, but she’d managed to wrest a meal and his company from him. That was nothing short of a triumph.

“Wonderful,” she replied with infuriating cheer, clasping her hands in front of her. “Dinner it is, Your Grace.”

He exhaled sharply, muttered something indecipherable, and turned back to his ledger. But Peggy wasn’t deterred; the promise of dinner left a small, victorious hum of satisfaction in her chest.

Satisfied, and with something to look forward to, Peggy retreated to the breakfast room, where she dined in solitude, her thoughts dancing with possibilities for the evening. Later, she ascended to her chambers, her mind already occupied with what to wear. The dress had to be just right—not too ostentatious, but certainly something to suggest effort.

She was in the midst of an enthusiastic rummage through her wardrobe when a familiar voice broke her focus.

“Do you need help with something, Your Grace?”

Peggy turned, startled, to find Mrs. Hallewell standing in the doorway, her hands clasped neatly before her. The housekeeper’s expression was as inscrutable as ever, her voice carrying a formality that once more seemed slightly colder than necessary.

“I was just trying to decide on what to wear for dinner later,” Peggy replied, gesturing toward the array of dresses spread across the bed. She bit her lip as she caught the way Mrs. Hallewell’s sharp gaze swept over the disarray.

The housekeeper stepped into the room without waiting for an invitation, picking up a midnight blue velvet dress with an appraising eye. “How about this one?”

Peggy frowned, her nose wrinkling as she shook her head. “Too somber.”

She wanted something lively, something to lift her spirits in this house that felt perpetually cloaked in shadows.

Mrs. Hallewell’s lips twitched slightly—perhaps the faintest hint of disapproval?—as she reached for another dress, but Peggy’s attention wavered. That familiar tension settled over the room like an unwelcome guest, heavy and oppressive. There was something about the housekeeper that made Peggy’s skin prickle, a sense of unease she couldn’t quite shake.

Something about the woman unsettled Peggy—perhaps it was the way Mrs. Hallewell’s gaze lingered a moment too long, as if she were measuring Peggy against some invisible standard and finding her wanting. Or perhaps it was the way her movements were so precise, so controlled, as though the housekeeper carried a weight of knowledge she refused to share.

Whatever it was, it left Peggy feeling as though she were an intruder in her own chambers, a mere visitor in a house that was meant to be hers.

In an attempt to break the suffocating silence between them, Peggy asked. “Where is the library? You never did get the opportunity to tell me last night.”

Mrs. Hallewell paused, her gaze flickering to the window as though seeking inspiration from the garden beyond. When she spoke, her words were deliberate, her tone neutral. “The family has never shown a particular need for a library, Your Grace.”

Peggy blinked. “Oh.” No library? What manner of household could lack such a necessity?

Her gaze dropped to her hands, her thoughts spinning. What was she to do with her days, bereft of books to occupy her? The very notion of life without their comforting presence seemed unbearable.

Mrs. Hallewell inclined her head in a gesture of polite dismissal and turned to adjust a vase of flowers on a side table. Peggy forced a tight smile. “Thank you,” she said, though her thoughts were already elsewhere, grappling with the hollow prospect of her evenings ahead.

“An excellent squash soup,” Peggy remarked, aiming for brightness as she took another delicate sip of the creamy broth. She glanced across the table, watching Morgan eat with all the enthusiasm of a man tasked with a chore.

He did not so much as glance up, his focus fixed on his plate. The silence stretched unbearably, as oppressive as the still air of the dining room.

Peggy’s fingers tapped lightly against the handle of her spoon. She could not endure it—another wordless meal, as frigid as the expressions of the staff who haunted the corners of the house. “It pairs delightfully with the sourdough, does it not?” she ventured, her tone as cheerful as she could manage.

Morgan’s gaze lifted at last, his dark eyes cool as they met hers. “Are you in the habit of engaging in such chatter during meals?” he inquired, his voice so dry it might have scorched the broth in his bowl.

Peggy straightened, her chin tilting upward a fraction. “I should think it the most natural time for conversation,” she replied, her voice steady, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly on her spoon.

“I prefer not to risk choking on my food,” he said, his words clipped and utterly unruffled.

She pursed her lips, tamping down the urge to roll her eyes—a most unladylike response. “I had not realized you suffered from so delicate a constitution,” she replied, a hint of sweetness in her words that did not quite disguise the barb.

“Accidents happen, Margaret,” he said, one brow lifting as though her reaction were entirely unwarranted. “Best be wise and let us eat in peace,” he added, returning to his meal with maddening calm.

“Well, I do not wish to choke on the suffocating silence,” she countered, her tone sharper than she intended. She set her own fork down, the sound sharper than she intended against her plate.

Morgan didn’t flinch at her words, but his movements slowed as he reached for his wine. He took a deliberate sip, his gaze now fixed on her. The weight of his scrutiny was oppressive, and Peggy found herself fidgeting, her fingers brushing against the edge of her napkin. Her spine stiffened as she willed herself to meet his gaze, refusing to look away first.

He regarded her with his usual inscrutable expression, but the prolonged silence began to erode her confidence. Her pulse quickened, her cheeks warmed, and she had to resist the urge to shift uncomfortably in her seat. She felt exposed, as though he could see through her carefully crafted exterior.

“I suggest that you become accustomed to it,” he said finally, his voice low but unyielding.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, her tone betraying the confusion that bubbled to the surface.

“This suffocation you speak of,” he clarified, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “I suggest you get used to it. Because that is the man you married.”

The room seemed to shrink at his words, the air suddenly heavier. Peggy blinked, her hands resting on the table as though to steady herself. “You speak of yourself as though you were some manner of beast,” she said, a faint snort of disbelief escaping her lips.

“A beast seems a decent way to put it,” he replied, his mouth curving into something between a smirk and a grimace. The sound that followed—a low, humorless chuckle—sent a chill down her spine.

“Morgan,” Peggy gasped, leaning forward slightly as if proximity might soften the blow of his self-condemnation. “One should never think so low of themselves,” she said firmly, her brow furrowing.

“It is not a matter of conceit , but of reality,” he countered, his tone cool as his gaze bore into hers. “This is the man you married, Margaret. This is who I am. And the sooner you snap out of this fantastical image you seem to have conjured to feed your delusions, the easier you will find your new life here.”

His words struck her like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She sat back, momentarily stunned, her hands falling to her lap. The sting of his bluntness left a lump in her throat, but it wasn’t the insult that stung the most. It was the loathing in his voice—so directed inward, so sharp—that her heart ached for him despite herself.

He despised himself. The realization was as jarring as it was painful. What manner of man carried so much darkness within him?

The remainder of their meal passed in silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Peggy’s appetite had long since vanished, but she remained seated, stubbornly picking at her food. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat.

When at last the meal ended, Peggy withdrew to her chambers, her mind spinning with the memory of his words. She changed for bed in a daze, her limbs moving mechanically. As she slid beneath the covers, the silence of the room pressed upon her, yet it did nothing to calm the storm in her chest.

Her fingers clutched the edge of the blankets as she stared at the canopy above. Giving up was not an option. She would not allow him to wither beneath the weight of his own despair. She would draw him out, soften the edges of his bitterness, and perhaps—just perhaps—help him see himself anew.

After all, as his wife, she was the only family he had left. Surely, it was her duty to save him, even if it meant saving him from himself.

“Tomorrow is another day,” she whispered, pulling the covers over her head. Another battle. If her gallant knight did not exist, she would fight for herself.