Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

M argaret.

For the first time in his life, Morgan found himself too distracted to work. Her name wove itself through his thoughts, impossible to banish. No matter how he attempted to refocus on the ledgers before him, her face—bright, stubborn, and perpetually cheerful—lingered in his mind like a persistent melody.

How does she manage it? he wondered, leaning back in his chair, one hand rubbing at his temple. How does one woman carry so much cheerfulness in her? It’s exhausting simply to observe.

As if summoned by his musings, a knock sounded at the door, and before he could respond, the door opened to reveal her. Margaret.

“Oh, I hope I am not interrupting something,” she said sweetly, though her actions proved otherwise as she stepped inside without hesitation.

Of course, she didn’t wait for an invitation. He watched as she crossed the room with easy confidence, skirts swishing softly as she made her way to the sofa near the fireplace. She carried a book in her hand, which she opened with an air of determination before settling herself comfortably.

Morgan waited, expecting her to speak, perhaps to launch into one of her persistent observations or requests. Yet she remained silent, her eyes ostensibly on the page before her.

“What are you doing?” he asked finally, breaking the silence that hung between them.

Margaret glanced up briefly, her expression entirely untroubled. “Why, I do not see the need to heat the entire castle just for two people,” she replied, her voice light and matter-of-fact. “I only require a space to read. Carry on with your work. I shan’t be a distraction.”

He nearly laughed at the audacity of her statement. Her very presence is a distraction, he thought, suppressing a sigh. Even her absence is a distraction.

Morgan studied her, noting the way she seemed perfectly at ease despite the imposing coldness of the house. It fascinated him—that unflagging brightness of spirit. It was as though she carried an unending reservoir of cheer, the kind that illuminated all it touched but dared not reach him.

How does one sustain such indefatigable lightness? It was baffling, even slightly enviable, though he would never admit it. For himself, he was far too fixed in his ways, his edges too sharp to absorb it.

A flicker of amusement stirred within him as she turned another page, her expression serene, though he doubted she was truly engrossed in her reading.

Margaret looked up suddenly, catching him mid-thought. “You’re smiling,” she observed, her tone startled, as though the very idea was inconceivable.

Morgan blinked, startled himself, and hastily schooled his features. Yet her surprise only seemed to embolden her.

“See? It’s not that difficult, is it?” she said smugly, her own lips curving in triumph.

He cleared his throat, forcing his amusement into submission. “You promised you wouldn’t be a distraction, Margaret.”

“Oh, come now,” she replied, waving a dismissive hand. “Not that scowl again.”

Her defiance, though maddening, was curiously invigorating. He crossed his arms, his tone measured but firm. “You did promise.”

“Right,” she sighed with theatrical resignation and turned back to her book, though the faintest flicker of victory lingered in her expression.

For a time, the room settled into a fragile peace. She read—or so it appeared—and he resumed his work, though his quill hovered over the paper without leaving a mark. He found his gaze wandering to her, alighting on the soft curve of her cheek, the delicate movements of her fingers as she turned a page.

The silence, though tenuous, felt strangely bearable.

Until she closed her book with an audible thump, breaking the moment entirely. She leaned back against the sofa with a dramatic sigh, her voice ringing with indignation.

“What manner of castle this grand has no library?” she demanded, as though the lack of one was the gravest offense imaginable.

Morgan was taken aback as he wondered how she had come to such a conclusion. The conviction with which Margaret had declared the lack of a library in the house was almost amusing.

Perhaps it’s better this way, he reasoned. Keeping certain truths out of her reach was no less than a kindness. The fewer pieces she uncovered about his past and his home, the safer she would be from the shadows that loomed within them.

“Do you not read?” she asked suddenly, her voice bright and inquisitive.

“Of course I do,” he replied evenly. “I read the ledgers and account books every day.”

The crestfallen expression that overtook her face made him pause. Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, her lips pursing as though she had tasted something sour.

“You are such a bore,” she huffed, crossing her arms with a petulant pout that would have been infuriating if it weren’t so unexpectedly endearing.

A chuckle rumbled low in his chest, and before he could stop himself, he smiled again. Damnation, he thought wryly. She was far too adept at coaxing such responses from him.

“You have finally made an accurate observation about me, at least,” he said, his tone dry.

She rolled her eyes with dramatic flair, clearly unimpressed with his agreement, before returning her attention to her book. This time, however, she refrained from speaking further. Morgan returned to his desk, glancing at her periodically as the room grew quiet save for the faint crackle of the fire.

It wasn’t long before she reclined on the sofa, the book slipping from her hands as she lay back. With a soft sigh, she placed it atop her face, the spine rising like a makeshift barrier. Her breathing soon evened out, signaling that she had drifted into slumber.

Morgan stood, curiosity drawing him to her side. He stopped beside the sofa, gazing down at her slumbering form. She had covered her face entirely, the open book obscuring her delicate features.

Another smile tugged at his lips despite himself. What an odd creature she is, he thought as he shook his head and removed the book with care, setting it on the table. Her face, serene and unguarded in sleep, drew his attention like a magnet.

Reaching for the blanket draped over a nearby armchair—his usual companion during nights spent working late—he covered her gently. His movements were deliberate, as though sudden noise might disturb the fragile peace she brought to the room.

Instead of returning to his desk, Morgan bent beside her, unable to look away. In sleep, Margaret was undeniably beautiful. The playful spark that often animated her features was absent now, leaving behind a softer, more vulnerable expression.

Without thinking, he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary, grazing the soft skin of her cheek. His hand fell lower, stopping just short of her lips, and something unexpected stirred within him—a warmth, an ache he couldn’t quite name.

He felt his head lower, the space between them narrowing as though some unseen force compelled him toward her. But just as quickly, he recoiled, rising to his feet with a sharp breath.

What is wrong with me? The thought cut through the haze, jolting him back to himself. He turned abruptly, striding toward the door. She deserved her privacy, and he desperately needed distance from the unfamiliar feelings that gripped him.

He found himself in the hallway moments later, the cool air offering little relief. His jaw tightened as he resolved to stay clear of her, at least for tonight.

“Here’s your tea, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hallewell’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he turned to see the housekeeper setting a small tray on the side table beside him.

“I never asked for—” he began, his brows furrowing.

“You didn’t, of course,” she said briskly, cutting him off with a knowing look. “But you need it.”

Morgan glanced at the tray, its presence a quiet reprimand. It was well past midnight, and his body betrayed no signs of impending rest. The thought of a sleepless night stretched before him like an unwelcome specter, but perhaps the tea might dull its edges.

“You haven’t slept a wink since your arrival. This is the third night in a row,” Mrs. Hallewell observed. “You could have another episode if this carries on, Your Grace,” she continued , her tone carrying a note of gentle reproach.

Morgan’s jaw tightened, but he knew her words to be true. Since that night— that cursed night —peaceful slumber had become a luxury he no longer allowed himself. When the sleeplessness accumulated, the price was always the same: searing, incapacitating headaches that robbed him of reason and strength.

His gaze dropped to the steaming cup of tea before him. Mrs. Hallewell’s concoction was effective, yes, but vile in taste. He only resorted to it when necessity left him no other choice. The thought of enduring another sleepless night was grim, and with no small amount of reluctance, he wrapped his hand around the porcelain and pulled the cup toward him.

The housekeeper’s expression softened, satisfaction evident in the slight incline of her head.

“How is the Duchess faring in her new home?” Morgan asked, more to delay the inevitable than out of genuine curiosity. He studied the swirl of dark liquid in the cup as though it held some answer.

Mrs. Hallewell clasped her hands before her, her response measured. “Oh, she seems to have made her peace with the lack of a library. I think she will be just fine,” she replied. After a pause, she added, “In time.”

Morgan’s brow lifted slightly. “Were you the one who told her there is no library?” he asked, surprise coloring his voice.

“She seems to have drawn her conclusions from our conversations, Your Grace,” Mrs. Hallewell said, her tone carefully neutral.

Morgan sat back, considering this. So, this was the source of Margaret’s resigned acceptance. He was both relieved and grateful to the housekeeper for her discretion.

The library must remain locked, he thought with resolve. It was more than a collection of books—it was a vault for memories, crimes, and regrets best left undisturbed. The horrors born within its walls still haunted his nights, threatening to unravel the careful control he clung to daily.

“I trust you to continue looking after the Duchess, Mrs. Hallewell,” Morgan said, his tone steady but his gaze pointed as it locked onto the older woman’s.

Mrs. Hallewell inclined her head, her hands clasped firmly in front of her. “Indeed I will, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice calm yet resolute.

Morgan exhaled quietly, leaning back in his chair. Margaret was proving to be... a challenge. That much was certain. Spirited, persistent, and with a knack for disrupting his carefully ordered solitude, she was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Yet, to his dismay, a small part of him—the part he wished he could silence—yearned for her company all the same.

Shaking the thought aside, he reached for the teacup and finally took a sip. The bitter concoction coated his tongue, and he fought the urge to grimace. This thing grows fouler with each passing night, he thought grimly, though he knew its potency was not to be questioned.

Mrs. Hallewell’s sharp eyes seemed to soften as she observed him. Satisfied, she dipped into a small curtsy. “Goodnight, Your Grace.”

Morgan gave a curt nod, watching as she exited the study with her usual efficient grace. The door closed softly behind her, leaving him alone once more.

The silence was immediate and oppressive, and he sat motionless in the flickering firelight. He should have felt relief, perhaps even gratitude, at the reprieve from conversation, yet the quiet gnawed at him, amplifying the restlessness coiled in his chest.

His gaze drifted unbidden toward the far end of the study, where shadows pooled near the closed door to the hallway beyond.

No, Margaret must never have access to it. Never. For her own sake, the library must remain untouched .